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fluttering like butterfly wings. “What were you hoping to talk to me about later?”
    He searched for a way to explain away Mayor Ford’s premature words. This was no way to approach Robin about her café—on a Sunday, outside of church, of all places. But she would not be distracted. She rested her hand on her son’s shoulder and met his eyes directly. The other men stared too.
    “I was going to speak with you about buying your café.”
    Her face went slack. “Buying my café?”
    “For the condominiums we talked about last night.”
    Robin looked at each of the men, all of whom were fidgeting—Mayor Ford worst of all—and her expression turned suspicious. “Why didn’t you mention any of this then?”
    “I was—”
    “You were what? Spying?”
    “No, I wasn’t spying.” What a ridiculous idea. What was there to spy on?
    “Well, I’m afraid I can’t give you what you want. I’m not interested in selling.”
    “I’ll make sure you profit from the transaction.”
    She raised her chin. “I don’t care about profit.”
    Ian turned to Evan. Perhaps her husband would be more rational. “You might want to reconsider.”
    Evan’s forehead broke into wrinkles, so Ian pounced on his uncertainty. “I won’t argue with you. Willow Tree Café is a fine establishment. I can tell you’ve taken great care of it over the years, but you’ve got a family to think about.”
    “I think you’re mixed up about—”
    “Trust me, Mr. Price, I’m not wrong. I’ve seen plenty of businesses like Willow Tree. Owners hold on too long and end up with outstanding debt. I’d hate for this to happen to you guys. I’m not sure what—”
    “You can stop right there, Mr. McKay.” Robin’s words came out firm, confident. Gone was the vulnerable woman behind the piano. “My business is not about money.”
    Ian took her in—the stiffness of her posture, the subtle jut of her jaw, the fierce protectiveness burning in her eyes—and his competitive juices started to flow. He wouldn’t let this woman cost a bunch of people their jobs. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Maybe not, Mrs. Price, but it’s kind of hard to run one if you don’t have any.”

EIGHT
    How’d we do?” Robin unrolled the napkin from her silverware while Caleb bounced beside her in one of the booths at Val’s Diner, making growling noises as two plastic dinosaurs waged war in his hands. The ghost of his toy combine haunted the fun. He had abandoned it on his nightstand this morning, something he hadn’t done since he unwrapped the gift for his third birthday last July. Robin rested her chin on her hand and leaned forward. “I have a good feeling about this month.”
    Amanda tapped papers against the tabletop. “You say that every month.”
    “Yes, but this month I feel it in my gut.”
    “You know what I wish you felt in your gut? The desire to keep better track of your inventory. Because it’s impossible to keep an accurate tally when your records are about as organized as a junk drawer.”
    Robin held up three fingers in a Girl Scout’s pledge. “I promise to do a better job. I’ll make it my personal goal. Now lay it on me. How did we do?”
    “Pretty much the same as last month.”
    A thin layer of disappointment settled over her spirit. Thanks to her mother’s inheritance and Micah’s insurance policy, Robin didn’t pay much attention to numbers. Her café was about community and fellowship, none of which could be measured by a profit and loss report. Still, Ian’s ominous warning outside Grace Assembly hovered fresh in her mind.
    “Why the frown?” Amanda asked.
    “If this keeps happening, I’m going to run out of money.”
    “That’s the beauty of Roy, right?”
    Robin exhaled. Amanda was right. And smart. Per her request, Robinhad taken out a line of credit from Roy Hodges, her banker, a year after opening the café. It prevented her from dipping into her savings account when a dry spell hit.
    “And just be