Chapter 8 Rain and Recognition (Doris Vale POV)
The rain starts before dawn, a soft patter against the window that pulls me from sleep. I lie there, listening to the rhythm, my mind already spiraling. Do I go back to Bean & Bone today? Or is that too obvious, too eager?
I check the time—7:23 AM. Too early to be awake, too late to fall back asleep.
I get up, shower, take longer than usual picking out clothes. Jeans again, but a different sweater—navy blue, soft, something Sarah once said looked good on me. I catch myself in the mirror and freeze. Why am I trying? I shake my head, pulling my hair into a loose ponytail.
"You're going for coffee," I mutter to my reflection. "That's it. Just coffee."
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
By the time I leave the apartment, the rain has settled into a steady drizzle. I grab my umbrella and walk the familiar two blocks, my boots splashing through puddles. The town is quiet, most people still inside, waiting for the weather to clear.
I push open the door to Bean & Bone, the bell chiming. The warmth hits me first, then the smell—coffee, cinnamon, something baking. I lower my umbrella, shaking off the drops.
And there he is.
Don, sitting at a table near the window, a newspaper spread out in front of him, a mug steaming beside it. He looks up when the bell rings, and his face shifts when he sees me. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Morning, Vegas."
I can't help it, I smile back, walking toward him. "You're going to keep calling me that?"
"Until you tell me your real name." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Coffee first?"
"Yeah. Give me a second."
I go to the counter, where Claire is pulling shots of espresso. She grins when she sees me.
"Back again! You're becoming a regular."
"Good coffee," I say, my cheeks warming.
"Uh-huh." She glances over at Donald, then back at me, her grin widening. "Medium latte?"
"Please."
"Coming right up."
I pay and wait, my fingers drumming on the counter. Claire works quickly, steaming milk, pouring shots. She hands me the cup with a knowing look that I choose to ignore.
"Thanks."
"Enjoy."
I walk back to Donald's table and sit, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. He folds the newspaper, pushing it aside.
"So," he says, leaning back in his chair. "You brave the rain just for coffee?"
"Seemed like a good morning for it."
"Can't argue with that." He takes a sip from his mug. "Though I'm surprised you're up this early. You don't strike me as a morning person."
"I'm not. But the rain woke me up."
He nods, his eyes studying me. "You sleep okay? New place and all."
"Mostly. You?"
He shrugs. "Haven't slept well in years. Comes with the job."
"That bad?"
"Some nights." He pauses, then changes the subject. "So, Vegas. You gonna tell me your name, or do I have to keep guessing?"
I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the mug. I should tell him the truth, Doris. But something stops me. Maybe it's the weight of everything I'm carrying, the blood money in my past, the guilt clawing at my chest. Or maybe I just want to be someone else for a little while longer.
"Dora," I say, the lie slipping out like muscle memory. It's close enough to the truth, but far enough to feel safe.
He repeats it, testing the sound. "Dora. I like it. Suits you better than Vegas, anyway."
"Thanks, I think."
He laughs, low and rough. "So, Dora from London. What brings you to Millbrook on a rainy Tuesday morning?"
"Could ask you the same thing."
"Fair. I'm here because I live three blocks away and this place has the best coffee in town."
"Only coffee in town," I counter.
"Exactly. So it's the best by default."
I laugh, surprising myself. It's a real laugh, not the polite kind you give to strangers. The sound feels foreign in my throat, like I've forgotten how.
He grins, and something in his expression softens. "There it is. Was wondering if you could still do that."
"Do what?"
"Laugh. You looked so serious yesterday."
"I am serious."
"Yeah, I got that." He leans forward, his elbows on the table. "But you're allowed to not be. Sometimes."
I don't know what to say to that, so I take a sip of my latte. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. He goes back to his coffee, and I glance out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass.
"How do you take your coffee?" I ask, breaking the quiet.
"Black."
"No sugar? No cream?"
"Nope. Life's bitter enough already. Might as well embrace it."
I snort, shaking my head. "That's depressing."
"Or realistic." He raises his mug in a mock toast. "To realism."
I clink my mug against his. "To realism."
We talk for another twenty minutes, the conversation flowing easier now. He tells me about Millbrook—how nothing ever happens, how everyone knows everyone, how the biggest crime in the past year was someone stealing lawn gnomes. I tell him about London, the gray skies, the way the Tube smells like metal and rain.
"You miss it?" he asks.
"Sometimes. But it was time to leave."
He doesn't push, and I'm grateful. Instead, he asks about my work, and I give him the sanitized version—financial consulting, remote contracts, boring spreadsheets. He listens, nodding in the right places, and I realize I'm enjoying this. Just talking. No weight, no secrets. Just two people sitting in a café on a rainy morning.
Claire brings over a plate of pastries, setting it between us. "On the house. You two look like you need it."
"Thanks, Claire," Don says.
She winks at me, then heads back to the counter. I grab a croissant, tearing off a piece.
"She's nice," I say.
"She's a busybody," Don corrects, but there's affection in his voice. "Known her for years. She means well."
"How long have you lived here?"
"My whole life. Born here, grew up here, never left. Exciting, right?"
"Sounds stable."
"That's one word for it." He finishes his coffee, setting the mug down. "What about you? You planning to stay, or is this just a pit stop?"
"I don't know yet. Depends on how things go."
He nods, and I see something flicker in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or understanding. He doesn't ask what I mean, and I'm glad.
His phone buzzes on the table, and he glances at it, his expression shifting. "Damn. I gotta go. Shift starts in twenty."
"Right. Of course."
He stands, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. Then he pauses, looking down at me. "Can I get your number? You know, in case I need a coffee buddy again."
My heart skips, but I keep my voice steady. "Sure."
I pull out my phone, and he does the same. We exchange numbers, his contact saved as "Don" with a coffee cup emoji. I save mine as "Dora."
"I'll text you," he says.
"Okay."
He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, then just smiles. "See you around, Dora."
"See you, Don."
He walks to the door, pulling his jacket on. I watch through the window as he steps outside, the rain soaking into his shoulders as he jogs to his car. He doesn't look back, but I keep watching until he drives away.
Claire appears at my table, refilling my mug without asking. "He's a good one, that Donald."
I glance up at her. "What?"
"Don't play dumb with me." She grins. "I've known him since he was a young man. He doesn't smile like that for just anyone."
My cheeks burn. "We're just… talking."
"Uh-huh. Sure." She pats my shoulder. "Enjoy your coffee, Dora."
She walks away, and I sit there, staring at my phone. No messages yet. I set it face-down on the table, but my eyes keep drifting back to it.
Stop it, Doris.
I finish my latte, gather my things, and leave. The rain has eased to a mist, the air cool and damp. I walk slowly, my umbrella tucked under my arm, my thoughts spinning.
Back at the apartment, I drop my purse on the couch and stand in front of the bathroom mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes brighter than they've been in weeks. I lean closer, staring at my reflection.
"You're not supposed to like him," I say out loud.
My reflection stares back, silent and accusing.
I turn away, going to the kitchen to make tea. My phone sits on the counter, and I check it—once, twice, three times. No messages. I set it down, then pick it up again. Nothing.
"Stop," I mutter. "Just stop."
But I can't. Every time I hear a notification, my heart jumps. Every time I glance at the screen, I'm hoping to see his name.
By evening, I've checked my phone at least twenty times. I eat dinner standing up, reheating leftover pasta, barely tasting it. I try to work on the Boston client file, but the numbers blur together. I close the laptop and grab my journal, flipping to a blank page.
But I don't write. I just stare at the empty lines, my mind replaying the morning—his smile, his laugh, the way he said my name. My fake name.
I toss the journal aside and crawl into bed, even though it's only nine. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, my phone on the nightstand beside me.
What are the odds? Of all the towns, all the cafés, all the people in the world—he's here. The stranger from Vegas. The man who made me feel alive for one night. And now he's… what? A friend? Something more?
What are the odds?