Sample Chapters

PART ONE

Chapter 1 – Everything Broke

2019

In the kitchen, Jen Dutch gave Mike a longer than normal kiss that day as he handed her fresh-roasted coffee in a to-go cup. It was a perfect morning. They had sat on the back patio with coffee, watched the birds, and chatted about their plans. Since it was an unseasonably warm day for September in North Georgia, she wore a floral dress with her hair in a chignon.

“You’ve got your meeting with the bosses next week, right?” she asked as she grabbed her handbag and walked to the front door.

“The big one.” He escorted her to the door.

“Promotion?”

“Who knows. It’s always something. Org changes every year, it seems.”

“Zero’s for lunch?”

“I don’t know. I have to see how the schedule looks for the team today.”

“Well, I love you,” she said while she leaned in for another goodbye kiss, this time a quick peck. “Don’t forget to send me a kiss emoji or something to remind me you’re thinking of me.” She winked.

As she walked to her car, she glanced back and blew Mike a kiss.

#

As Jen turned left on Main, she heard a loud whirring, screeching, and then a blast. Glass shards filled the car, piercing her face and hands. Her stomach burned. Smoke darkened her view, and she gasped for air among the fumes. Bowing her head, she saw metal—a steel beam running through her torso, all in an instant. She couldn’t feel her legs. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Her vision turned gray.

Airbags had deployed before Jen knew there was a problem. Now they lay deflated like sagging white balloons, spattered with blood. She needed help. But where was her phone? She needed to call Mike. She reached her hand toward something green, a grassy field. She was outside in the sun, holding a glass of iced tea with a slice of lemon. Mike remembered the lemon this time. As she sat, basking in the sun, sirens wailed in the distance. There was a drop of blood on the rim of her glass. She lifted her hand to her lower lip. Now her hand was covered in blood. She snapped back; she hadn’t left the oven of her car, the smoke, the fumes. She just wanted to lie down, but she needed to call Mike first. Where was her phone? Her head throbbed, pounded. Maybe it fell to the floorboard, or … everything went black.

#

Jen hadn’t responded to Mike’s texts. They could’ve met at Zero’s, but instead he came home for lunch. Traffic had delayed him. Now he didn’t have time for something more extravagant, so he made a turkey sandwich with mustard and lettuce. The doorbell rang. That only happened when someone broke the no-solicitation rules and invaded the neighborhood anyway. Probably a roofer claiming hail damage. He carried his plate with the sandwich on it. Maybe he’d just give it to the poor soul; he probably needed it more anyway.

As he approached the door, he could see blue lights reflecting through the windows. Two police officers stood outside. When he opened it, they both had their hats in their hands.

“What can I do for you, Officers?”

“Are you Michael Dutch?” asked the tall one.

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” said the shorter one. Mike focused on his breathing as the words floated around him. “That’s what we think happened.”

The plate shattered on the hardwood floor, and pieces of sandwich and mustard sprayed over Mike’s shoes. He fell to his knees.

 

Chapter 2 – Soundcheck

2022

Mike

I found my table in the listening room. Jen had died almost three years ago, and every time I sat there, the empty seat stared back at me. The whole show. At least I wasn’t alone; I’d found a place for connection where some folks knew my name. It was far away from the rat race of yesteryear when I was kicked out of corporate life—no retirement party, no speech, just a severance package and a pension that finally kicked in.

“I love this place,” I told the server as she handed me a menu. “Zero’s has the best live music in Georgia.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re back, Mike,” she replied. “I’ll be taking care of you today. I see you already have a glass of wine from the bar.” She tapped her point-of-sale device and cursed. “Sorry. It’s a new system, and I hate this thing. Do you know what you want?”

I swirled the glass. “It has good legs,” I said.

She smirked and cocked her head. “And?”

“I guess I’ll take my usual, Becky: the mesquite grilled chicken dish and another Chianti.” I raised my glass.

She gave me a half-smile with a nod and walked off.

I rubbed my thumb along the ridges of the Zero’s logo etched in my glass. It would be great to own a place like this. All mine. Maybe the kids would be proud.

“Here you go,” said Becky as she put another Chianti on my table. “The food’ll be here soon. If you don’t mind me saying, Mike, you’re always here in the listening room. Have you tried the patio before it gets too hot?”

“Yeah, but… pollen, and I can barely hear the music out there,” I said.

Zero’s was known for its cuisine, atmosphere, and live music. With its dark wooden tables, glistening glasses, and premium sound, it was a chic piece of heaven. It was my oasis, a refuge from the silence of my house. I pretended the friendly faces were friends. I was tired of hearing echoes of my past. Her ghost. My memories. Time to move on. But to whom or what?

A guitar player tuned. Red and yellow spotlights clicked on and off as a production assistant tested them. Strands of Edison bulbs swooped from the center of the stage to the edge. A drummer hit the snare, single pops for the soundperson’s levels. Forks and knives scraped plates while diners talked over the soundcheck, reminding me how alone I was at my table for two. The conversations kept going; soundcheck was never quiet.

I loved the live music at Zero’s, mainly the jazz acts. Stellar musicians from all over the country graced the stage under those Edison bulbs, their instruments reflecting a gold glow from above. It was sacred ground for me.

That night, some things had changed, but I shrugged them off: an empty table near the stage, Becky’s distracted glances toward the kitchen, an argument at the bar. It was a crack in my idyllic vision of the place, but I drowned it in the music and my wine.

A food runner brought my dinner. They got it wrong. A fried chicken sandwich wasn’t the same as the grilled mesquite chicken dish, but I was hungry. Becky came back to check on me.

“Did everything turn out right?” she asked.

“Well, I’m hungry, so I’ll take it.” I motioned to the sandwich.

“Oh, no. I must’ve hit the wrong chicken dish in the system.”

“It’s fine. Whatever.” I took another bite and let out an “mmmm.”

Becky reminded me of my oldest daughter, Sara. She was the one who always worried about me. She hated that I was alone, especially when the kids rarely visited beyond holidays. I had caved to her pleas, tried online dating, but I definitely wasn’t ready. I resolved to be alone. No one came close to Jen, my best friend, my strength. I can still hear her say, “Mike Dutch, you were meant for more.” When she died, the world went from crumpled over laughing to sitting alone, expressionless.

Jen and I once dreamed of owning a little coffee shop—a wooden sign with a steaming cup on it. Now, at 59, I was going it alone, the sign in my mind swinging aimlessly. Zero’s wasn’t a coffee shop, but it was special. I’d even learned the names of some regulars, exchanging pleasantries, even with the obnoxious and drunk ones.

I overheard Becky talking with another server. She said she might need a second job to cover her bills and that the busyness of recent months was gone. She probably didn’t mean for me to hear, but I let it dissolve in the bottom of my wine glass. If I owned Zero’s, this wouldn’t happen. Maybe I could turn things around.

“Are you Mike?” asked a brunette woman with poodle curls.

I nodded.

“I’m one of the leads here; my name is Margaret,” she said, beaming. “We comped your sandwich.” Becky stood behind her, smiling.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Just keep coming back.”

Oh, I was definitely coming back. Zero’s was my new purpose, an uncharted territory to conquer. I had money in my pocket, and Zero’s was my bet.

 

Chapter 3 – A New Platform

Later that summer, on a warm evening, I parked and walked to the front entrance of Zero’s. I could’ve entered the listening room directly from the street, but I wanted to walk through the whole restaurant. I was stalking it.

Light cascaded from the windows, lying on the sidewalk like a silk sheet. I shuffled past the lit sign out front, the Zero’s logo with restaurant and music venue in bold, clearly legible from the street.

The bar area was a professional’s haven. Friends clinked glasses, told stories, and laughed about good times. It was a classy place, but not ridiculously so. For families, it was more for special occasions, not just a break from cooking.

I motioned to the host as I beelined to the listening room entrance near the bar. He tried to get my attention, but I kept walking. I wasn’t about to wait for my table. I probably should’ve carved my name in it. The restaurant and bar had the elegant feel of the listening room, with a few couches in spots, and a hint of americana décor—occasional flag paintings lit from rustic frames or track lights.

As I approached the listening room doors, a server carried a steak by me. The sizzle made me look. A smoky scent filled the room like the Fourth. My stomach rumbled, a reflex of a body in primal motion; it craved the spoils of the hunt.

I made my way to my table off to the right side of the sound booth, waved down a server, and ordered. The band kicked in, jazz played just the way I liked it.

July was too hot for the staff to open the street-side doors to the listening room. In the time I had been going to Zero’s, they would often prop them open whenever the weather permitted. The music would permeate the streets like a fragrant aroma, breathing new life into the local economy and causing pedestrians out front to smile and tap their feet. Everyone was in a better mood; I was sure of it.

Besides the music heard throughout the rest of the building at different volumes—low in the bar, lower in the restaurant, lowest in the quiet room—the air would fill with the din of silverware and dishes clanking, voices—some loud and deep, some cackling and high—and laughing; there was always laughing.

“Isn’t this band great?” I asked someone at the table next to me.

He smiled uncomfortably.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

The food runner brought my order, just in time for the first song. All the members were on stage, a five-piece band with a saxophonist out front. Gold light shined from the bell as the melody came in low, rose in a crescendo, and the rest of the band joined, a wave hitting the room. The raspy tone of the sax lifted my chest. I shut my eyes pleading for a clear picture of her face… Jen.

When she was alive, I pursued the shimmer of independence, kicking against the moments with her. Now that they were gone, all I wanted was her touch, her fingertips down the smooth of my back. I gazed at my wine. Drinking only leads to thirst.

I settled my bill and headed out, a little tipsy. I exited the listening room through the main dining room as usual, and some patrons weren’t happy with my condition. Maybe I was more than a little tipsy. I made it home that night. Thank God.

#

The next afternoon, I had nothing better to do than go walking—that and taking Tylenol. I parked at Zero’s. I would often stroll the streets nearby and exchange small talk with anyone.

Zero’s sat on the corner of Jester and Sage, like there was nothing between the fool and the wise man. Its neighbors included Shenanigans Books and Music, some boutiques, and quick-service restaurants. I wrote food reviews on the side and had targeted a few of those places.

The streets were clean and safe. People looked out for each other—the elderly helped, the merchants were busy, and Sage Street Church was packed with worshippers. The bustling city block quenched my itch for company, and the nexus was Zero’s.

I paused near a street musician. His tattered long-sleeve shirt needed a good washing, but his beaded necklace, obscured by his long brown hair, rounded out his style. I threw a dollar in his open guitar case. He wasn’t half-bad. He gripped the guitar pick and plucked the strings with precision. As he tapped the neck of the instrument, he’d bend a string and add a twang to the sound. I nodded with the rhythm, and I wasn’t the only one. A small group of us gathered. If I owned Zero’s, I’d book him to play. Maybe I will.

I kept walking. I had tried to keep a toe in the chilly waters of exercise, and it had been another way for me to get in some steps. I stopped at a crosswalk. The city smells of trails of white smoke from a passing truck’s burning oil, and the random body odors of strangers walking by or waiting next to me made my destination all the more desirable… a coffee shop.

“Hey, Mike. Any good bands playing at Zero’s?” asked Annie Cartwright, one of the locals. She worked at a travel agency in town. She had come up behind me at the crosswalk. Unlike the others, she smelled like a bar of soap. Nice.

“Pretty much all of them. Tin Roof Sunday is coming this weekend.”

“What kind of music?”

“Blues.”

“Maybe we’ll see you there.”

It was a common exchange. People in the town spotted me from a distance as one of the fixtures in Zero’s, someone to ask about good music and food.

I crossed the street and walked to Shenanigans Books and Music for an iced latte. As I entered, the air-conditioned breeze and the scent of roasted coffee engulfed me. I got in line. The store featured every title under the sun, a variety of book-related art on the walls, and new and used vinyl. The coffee shop had a dozen tables, metal chairs, mugs, and bean art.

“Back again?” asked the barista over the sound of the milk she was steaming.

“I’m a creature of habit,” I replied.

I picked up a magazine on cooking convincing myself I was getting ready for the next phase of my life; its glossy pages filled me with childlike excitement. My curiosity, however, gave way to reason. Let the cooks do the cooking. Zero’s must have had a great chef in the back, someone hailing from an esteemed culinary school in New York, who championed only the best recipes and taught us Georgians how to do it.

I walked through the store with my drink, avoiding the scorching heat outside. My New Year’s resolution to lose weight and get in shape had lasted more than six months, but now my commitment had faded. I was conflicted. My focus was on the future and owning a business, maybe Zero’s.

That was the moment my impulse turned into a hot pursuit. I needed books about owning a restaurant. What started as a casual perusal, gliding my fingers along the spines on the shelf, turned into an hours-long reading session in the coffee shop, stacks of books on my table. Just like always, I became obsessed, wired on more espresso than I’d had in ages.

“You should own stock in the place,” said the barista. “You’ve paid my wages today.”

I laughed as I looked over at her. “What would you do if you had enough money to buy a restaurant?”

“If I had enough money to buy a restaurant?” she said. “I wouldn’t. I’d do something else with my money. Travel. I don’t know.”

I let the thought linger as I put the books back on the shelf. On the way home, I looked forward to the weekend—to the Tin Roof Sunday show.