"Prep station along the back wall. Pass-through window for library access. Display case catches the morning light — that's the selling point. People walk in, first thing they see is pastry."
He sketches something, crosses it out, sketches it again. Chews on the pencil eraser. His phone buzzes and he ignores it, which might be a first.
I go back to the bike I'm working on. Let him have his concentration. Some things you protect by not interrupting them.
My phone buzzes an hour later. Toby:Margaret made it official. Library board approved the café. Tell Robin I'm on my way.
I set down my wrench. Wipe my hands. Walk to the bar.
Robin's head is bent over a new napkin — this one has what looks like a menu draft, items listed in two columns with prices crossed out and rewritten. His pencil is behind his ear. His tongue is between his teeth.
"Robin."
"Hmm?"
"Toby's coming. The library board approved the café."
His pencil stops. He looks up. "Approved it. Like, officially?"
"Officially."
He doesn't move for a long moment. His hand — the healing one — flattens on the bar. Pressing down. Steadying himself against something that isn't a tremor.
"Vaughn."
"Yeah."
"I think I need to sit down."
"You are sitting down."
"Then I need to sit down more."
The front door bangs open. Toby. His face is doing the thing where every emotion he's ever had is happening simultaneously.
"IT'S OFFICIAL!" He nearly vaults the bar. "Two hundred a month, first six months. Food service permits are already on file from when the old café operated. Library handles the insurance umbrella. All you need is equipment, supplies, and a business license."
Robin is staring at him. "Margaret really—"
"Margaret said — and I quote — 'Tell that boy if he says no, I'm personally dragging him behind that counter by his apron strings.'"
"Margaret said that?"
"In a more terrifying voice, but yes."
Robin looks down at his napkin sketches. His war room of plans that were hypothetical ten seconds ago and are now real.His hand is shaking again — not fear, not cold. The vibration of something enormous trying to fit inside a human body.
Knox comes in from the office. He's been listening — of course he has, the man hears everything — but he waited for Toby to have his moment. That's Knox. He lets the people who care most go first.
"Two hundred a month is fair," Knox says. "More than fair."
"The equipment—" Robin starts.
"Used restaurant supply," Jason says, coming around from behind the bar. He's been looking into this — I know because he asked me about commercial gas lines last week, and Jason doesn't ask questions he doesn't already half-know the answer to. "Place in Riverside is closing down. Commercial oven, proof box, display case. Twelve thousand for everything. I went and looked. Good condition."
"You went and looked?"
"Ash drove me last Wednesday." Jason shrugs like this is nothing. "I know kitchens. The oven's solid. Five years old, maybe. The proof box needs a new seal but that's forty bucks and an afternoon."