Chapter 5 - The Smell of Cinnamon
The drive back to the diner took forty minutes, but it felt like the blink of an eye. The heavy, oppressive weight that had sat on my chest for the last two years—ever since Hannah had packed her bags for that limestone fortress—was completely gone.
When I pushed open the glass door of Carter’s Table, the bell chimed with a bright, welcoming sound. The air was thick with the scent of roasted coffee, melting butter, and the sharp, sweet bite of Frank’s famous cinnamon rolls.
Hannah was standing behind the counter, wiping down the laminate surface with a rag. She looked up, her eyes wide and anxious.
"Mom?" she whispered, dropping the rag. "Did he..."
"It's done," I said, walking over and pulling her into a tight embrace. "He signed the papers. The state inspectors are pulling his inventory right now. He can never touch you, or this place, ever again."
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Hannah buried her face in my shoulder, letting out a long, shuddering breath that sounded like a sob breaking into a laugh.
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Frank poked his head out from the kitchen window, his flour-dusted face breaking into a massive grin. "Order up, Eve!" he shouted. "We got a diner to run!"
