He yells for Dane to bring towels as he tries to help with the napkins that fell from their laps. She reaches down and grabs her handbag. “This bag costs more than your business, Larry. You’re going to pay for it if it’s ruined.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bensimone.” Larry scrambles to pat it dry but also glances at me. “Don’t just stand there. Help.” He keeps profusely apologizing, but I can’t bring myself to do it. They’re awful people and don’t deserve an ounce of my respect.

The worst of the two women points and starts yelling at me. “Why are you standing there like an idiot? This bag is worth more than your life.”

Through the chaos of the cleanup, I look at the turquoise bag, the one that’s apparently worth more than my life. I can’t be around these people. Not caring a damn anymore, I walk away.

Larry says, “Where are you going? Get back here.”

I walk toward Dane, who’s walking, not bothering to run, with his arms full of towels. Our eyes connect, and I may be wrong, but I detect a note of respect. Just as we pass each other, under his breath, he says, “Way to stick it to ’em.” After our conversation earlier, I’ll take it.

Untying my apron, I then push through the service door of the conservatory. Larry says, “You’re fired,” but his words are cut off when the door swings back. I pull my phone from the pocket and dump the apron on an empty rack in the kitchen, never breaking my stride as I head through the service entrance to the delivery area.

Remorse doesn’t hit, and neither does fear.

I have a right to be treated with respect even if I screw up. And whether I technically screwed up remains to be seen. I take a deep breath. Although the days are chilly, there’s still sunshine. I soak it in and start walking. It’s only a handful of miles to the edge of town. I can take the trail sandwiched between the lake and the highway and use the walk to clear my head.

Wearing tights and still heated from offense, I’m not worried about getting cold.

By the third mile, I didn’t take my work shoes into consideration. They’re great when you’re standing around all day, but they’re not made for hiking. I come to a favored spot of daredevils, and others who just like a great view. I’ve been to Devil’s Edge a few times over the years, but I’ve never gotten close enough to the edge to verify if the legends are true—do the gray walls of the cliff sparkle like diamonds in the sun?

Since I’ll probably never be in a boat to know, I decide to rest closer to the edge and hope to find out.

With my legs dangling over the side of a jagged cliff, I take my shoes off and rub my feet. I should be more worried about paying my bills and how I’m going to get by. But the names I was called and the gossip about the Westcotts are still spinning in my mind. I can’t believe those women. They’re callous at best and hate-filled at worst.