up everything she owned and moved herself and all of her not-so-worldly possessions to her parents’ house in Haven, Nevada.
At least she hadn’t had to move back into her childhood bedroom, instead taking up residence in the in-law suite downstairs. The apartment was originally designed for her maternal grandmother, so that Shirley Haskell could live independently but close to family, and she’d occupied the space for almost six years before her dementia advanced to a stage where she needed round-the-clock nursing care. After that, Bev and Norm had occasionally offered the apartment for rent, most recently to Reid Davidson, who’d come to town to finish out Jed Traynor’s term when the former sheriff retired. Almost two years later, most people still referred to Reid as the new sheriff—and would likely do so until he was ready to retire.
The apartment had remained vacant for a long time after the sheriff moved out, and Macy suspected it was because the rooms were in dire need of redecorating. The sofa and chairs in the living room were covered in bold floral fabrics that attested to their outdatedness, and the coffee table, end tables and lamps all bore witness to the tole painting class Bev had taken while her mother was in residence.
When Macy moved in, the first thing she did was buy covers for the furniture and strip away all evidence of cabbage roses and daisies and tulips. If Beverly was disappointed that her art wasn’t appreciated by her daughter, she never said so. Instead, she focused her energy on getting ready for the arrival of three new grandbabies.
For the first few months after Ava, Max and Sam were born, Macy had done nothing but learn how to be a mother. It was a bigger adjustment than she’d anticipated. With three babies, she felt as if she was constantly feeding, burping, changing, bathing or rocking one or more of them. Bev helped as much as she could, and Macy knew there was no way she would have made it through those early days without her mother.
Norm had done his part, too. Although he occasionally made excuses to avoid diaper duty—not unlike Liam Gilmore had attempted to do earlier that afternoon—Macy’s dad was the first to volunteer to take the babies for a walk in their stroller or rock a restless infant to sleep. And he never once complained about the fact that the presence of his only daughter and her three children had completely upended his life—as she knew they had done.
Life was busy but good, so Macy had been a little surprised when, shortly before the triplets’ six-month birthday, Beverly suggested that her daughter think about getting a job. Macy had assured her mom that she had savings and could increase the amount of rent she paid—because she’d refused to move into their home without contributing at least something to the cost of the roof over her head.
Of course, they’d argued about that, with her parents recommending that her savings should remain that, as there was no way to know what unexpected expenses might arise in the future. But Macy had insisted, and her parents had finally relented—then promptly started education savings plans for Ava, Max and Sam with the money Macy paid to them.
“We don’t need you to pay more rent,” Bev had assured her. “But you need a reason to get out of the house and interact with other people.”
“I do get out of the house.”
“Taking Ava, Max and Sam to the pediatrician doesn’t count.”
“But…if I got a job—who would look after the kids?”
“Oh, well.” Bev tapped a finger against her chin, as if searching for an answer to a particularly difficult question. “Hmm…that is a tough one.”
“I can’t ask you to do it,” Macy explained. “You already do so much for us.”
“You don’t have to ask, I’m offering. In fact, I’m insisting.”
And that was how Macy found herself replying to the Help Wanted ad in the window at Diggers’ Bar & Grill.
At first she’d only worked the lunch shift two days a week. But after a couple of weeks on the job, Duke had added dinner shifts to her schedule—and dinner occasionally extended to late night. Usually she worked the restaurant side, but she was sometimes tagged to help out in the bar when it was particularly busy.
Tonight she was scheduled to work 6 p.m. to midnight in the bar. It was six-oh-seven when she parked her car and six-oh-eight when Duke found her in the staff lounge—really not much more than a closet where employees hung their coats and stashed their personal belongings—tying her apron around her waist.
Her boss folded his beefy arms over his chest and pinned her with his gaze. “You’re late.”
“I’m sorry.” Macy’s apology was automatic but sincere. “Max was fussing and I wanted to help settle him down before I left.”
“I’ve got kids,” Duke said. “Of course, mine are grown now, but I remember the early days and can empathize with your situation. However, your customers don’t care if Sam’s cutting teeth or Ava’s got a fever—they just want to order food and drink from a waitress who’s on time.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” she said again.
“You were bussing tables here while you were still in high school. We both know you’re overqualified for this job, but as long as you’re working here, I need you to do the job you were hired to do.”
She nodded.
“Of course, if you were to get another job more suited to your interests, then I could hire someone who is more interested in waiting tables,” he remarked.
“I had an interview with Liam Gilmore today,” she told him.
“Good. Because I interviewed Courtney Morgan for your job here.”
“Hey,” she said, because she felt compelled to make at least a token protest. Though it wasn’t her lifelong dream to wait tables, she usually enjoyed working at Diggers’—the hub of most social activity in Haven. Of course, the town only boasted two other restaurants: the Sunnyside Diner and Jo’s Pizzeria, so if residents wanted anything other than all-day breakfast or pizza, they inevitably headed to Diggers’.
Early in the week, business wasn’t nearly as brisk as it was on weekends, but Macy didn’t mind the slower pace because it meant that she had more time to chat with the customers she served.
“Somebody was hungry,” she commented, as she picked up the now-empty plate that had contained a six-ounce bison burger on a pretzel bun, a scoop of creamy coleslaw and a mountain of curly fries when she’d delivered it to Connor Neal.
“Yeah, me and the sheriff got caught up with a case and worked right through lunch,” the deputy told her.
Macy hadn’t really known Connor while she was growing up in Haven. He was a few years younger than she was and, even as a kid, he’d been known around town as “that no-good Neal boy.”
She’d never been sure if he’d earned his bad-boy reputation or simply had the misfortune of living on the wrong side of the tracks with his unwed mother and younger half brother, but notwithstanding this difficult start, he’d managed to turn his life around. Not only was he a deputy in the sheriff’s office now, he’d recently married Regan Channing, whose family had made their substantial fortune in mining.
“Do you want dessert?” Macy asked him now.
“No, thanks. But I do need an order to go.” He scrolled through the messages in his phone, then read aloud: “Buffalo chicken wrap with extra hot sauce, fries and onion rings, and one of those big pickles.”
“It sounds like your wife might have worked through lunch, too,” she noted. “Or it might just be that she’s eating for two.”
“Three actually,” Connor confided.
“Three?” Macy echoed.
The deputy nodded. “She’s having twins. We’re having twins,” he hastily amended.
“I hadn’t heard,” she said. “That’s wonderful news—congratulations.”