“I knew you’d like it,” Lucy says after I’ve finished a few more bites. “I’ve never known anyone who doesn’t once they try it.”
“This is so good—you should sell it.”
Lucy’s mom opens the screen door and makes her way inside, going to a pot on the stove. She looks at me, at my bowl. “It’s a secret recipe,” she says. “From my family.”
“Not really secret,” Lucy clarifies. “But the broth is a special mix. It’s not just water.”
“A stock?” I ask. I take another taste, trying to pinpoint the flavors infusing the rice. “Seafood?” And there’s a slight spice there, one I’ve had before. “And ginger?”
Lucy’s mom smiles approvingly at me. “You know your food. I thought so, after last night. I make a special stock, and we always use it for congee. It’s Lucy’s favorite. Mine too.”
“We should sell it,” Lucy says, “but doing breakfast at a restaurant is a lot of work.”
“A restaurant?” Lucy’s mom raises a brow. “When are you opening a restaurant?”
“We aren’t,” I say.
“Not yet,” Lucy adds. Our gazes meet, and we smile. Our secret idea, our secret plan. Well, maybe not so secret. It hovers there between us, a shimmering possibility.
“Breakfast is hard,” Lucy’s mom agrees. “Too many things to choose from, too much to do. But lunch, perhaps, or dinner.” She looks directly at me. “You could be the chef. You have enough skill for it.”
She does up a bowl of congee for herself, adding the green onions. She doesn’t add any egg but instead puts a bit of something else on it, something I don’t recognize. “Dried shrimp,” she says when she sees me looking. She takes her bowl back out to the porch, leaving us alone in the kitchen.
“You really want to do it?” I ask.
Lucy takes a bite of her congee, savors it, thinking.
“I do. We should do it.”
“But how?”
Lucy shrugs. “From the beginning.”
Chapter Eleven
I really don’t want Kitty to go.
It blows my mind because she’s honestly the first woman I’ve been with who I haven’t wanted to say good-bye to. All the others I could leave easily, or they could, and I didn’t feel it like I’m feeling it now. It’s so soon, and I should be thinking more reasonably, but I just can’t. She’s the first one I’ve really clicked with, who gets me. I get her. She loves food, and she fit in perfectly with Mama and Alice and even Adam. It’s a feeling of contentment I’ve never known before.
After breakfast and a bit more talking about restaurants—it’s pie in the sky right now, but it seems like we might really be able to do this—I walk her to her car. It’s still early, barely eight, but she gave me a glance at her phone, and I’ve seen all the emails. She works so hard. But I’m comforted that we’ll talk later, and glad my little cat sculpture is going home with her, and the rest of the blackberries. I like to think that it’s a little piece of me that will look after her while I’m not there, and the fruit to remind her of where she’s been.
“Want to come into the city to meet me for dinner on Wednesday?” Kitty asks, leaning on her open door. She pulls me to her, hooking her fingers in my belt loops. I’m sure Mama’s watching from the window, but I don’t mind.
“Of course.”
Kitty grins and pulls me in for a kiss. When we part, I feel a bit breathless.
“Six o’clock?” she asks. “I’ll text you my address.”
“Absolutely.”
I kiss her once more before she gets into the car, a sweet yet passionate kiss, one I feel to my toes. I’m still tingling as she backs down the driveway and heads down the road. The dust rises in her wake, and I track her until she’s out of sight, over the hill.
These few days are going to feel like a year. I miss her already now that she’s gone, her enthusiasm, her warmth. More than I expect.
* * *
My chest is aching as I drive away from the farm. But I’m a bit giddy too, deliciously overwhelmed in body and mind. Lucy. A restaurant. The food. Oh, the food. And Lucy. Sweet, beautiful, amazing Lucy.
I know Cindy will be dying for an update. She’s emailed, but it’s been work stuff, not personal. I’ll call her soon. She deserves to know what she’s started. And I know I should get her something as a thank-you, something incredible.
There’s movement at the side of the road, a flash of brown and white.
I slam on the brakes, my heart pounding as the car fishtails a bit on the gravel road. The deer keeps moving across the road and into the ditch on the other side. I rest my head on the steering wheel and try to control my breathing.
I need to get my head out of the clouds.
Once home, I carry the cat and the blackberries to the elevator, heading to the fifth floor and my cozy one-bedroom apartment. It’s a high-rise in the center of the city, perfectly convenient for all my needs. Or at least, all my needs before this weekend. When I open the door, playing a balancing act with the cat and punnets, I start to wonder what Lucy will think of this place. It’s pretty minimalist, an open-plan kitchen-living room with white walls, gray flooring, and dark blue cupboards. That blue is the only splash of color, but it’s not much. The sofas are the same dark blue, angled toward a small flat-screen television I barely watch, and the sliding glass balcony doors. The sun streams in, brightening the space, bringing a warmth to it. Sort of. After Lucy’s farm, its easy feel, its rugs and comfortably worn furniture, this place feels a bit sterile.
I look at the cat under my arm. She—for I’ve decided it is a she—will bring this place some personality. And I’m going to have to work on it. I place the cat on my kitchen bar, where she can survey the space like the queen she is. And I put the blackberries in the fridge where they belong. They’ll be my evening treat, with ice cream, while I put my feet up.
As for now…my phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I pull it out. More email, this one from a fellow associate, Joel. He’s newer than I am at the firm, just barely out of articling. I feel for the guy, as he’s a bit on the shy side, a bit intimidated by the partners.
The email is panicky. I read it over twice, making certain of what he’s saying, sure he’s making a bigger deal out of this than he needs to. I remember what it was like, questioning my every move once I had my call to the bar, sure that I was going to be found out as a fraud, a kid who shouldn’t even be a lawyer.
I kick off my shoes and move toward my laptop sitting on the coffee table. I know I can solve this. This is what I do.
* * *
After talking with Joel, walking him through his problem, I am glued to my laptop for far too long, answering emails, reading research, and catching up. I only notice the time when my stomach growls. It’s nearly two in the afternoon, and I’ve been working solidly since ten thirty.
I glance at my phone. Did I text Lucy?
Crap.
I grab my phone, text her my address and a short message. Work buried me.
She replies a minute later. Was worried you didn’t get home safe.
Just fine. Cat’s looking after me.
I think she needs a name.
What should it be?
I glance at the cat sitting on the kitchen bar, overseeing the apartment. A name doesn’t come to me immediately. I’m not sure what she looks like, what would suit her.
Heimei. Then two Chinese characters.
I stare at my phone, puzzled. What do you mean?
Blackberry. In simplified Chinese. :)
Heimei. I try the word out, not sure if I’m pronouncing it right. I take a long look at the cat. I know it’s silly, but she seems to brighten somehow, to appear more lifelike.
Heimei it is.
It’s perfect.
Of course. Now go eat some.
I will. :)
I get off the sofa, stretching up as if I could touch the ceiling, working out the kinks in my back. I really should get a proper desk, but that’d make it seem too much like th
e office. I head to the kitchen and take a punnet of blackberries out of the fridge, rinsing them in a colander under the tap. I pop one into my mouth, and the flavor bursts on my tongue, just like it did the first time. I eat another. Close my eyes. Savor it.
When I open my eyes, I’m disappointed to be at home in my own kitchen, not at the farm with Lucy, surrounded by all that real life, that easy comfort. My kitchen seems cold, though I still loved it just yesterday.
With a sigh, I shake the colander, then let it sit in the sink while I grab a bowl and the vanilla ice cream. I scoop out a healthy portion, then let the blackberries fall into the bowl on top of it. It’s really more blackberries than ice cream, but I don’t mind at all.
I take the bowl and my phone back into the living room, but I don’t sit back down on the sofa. I slide my phone into my back pocket and head out to the balcony. It’s warm, and the sun is still shining. I stand at the rail, looking out at the city, or at least, what I can see of it. My apartment faces south, but there are more high-rises going up all around my building, and my view is slowly being choked off. I can see all the way to Mount Royal, but I have a feeling I won’t be able to for much longer. I try not to look down. It’s only five stories, but that’s still a bit nausea-inducing for me. Mostly I try not to think about it, and I’m glad I didn’t buy any higher.
What I really wanted was one of those tiny inner-city houses, a cute arts and crafts–style place older than my parents. Trouble is, even the fixer-uppers are worth a small fortune. But one day, maybe. I can picture myself putting window boxes full of flowers along the front, having a vegetable garden in the back. Maybe even a little greenhouse.
Lucy flashes in my mind, standing in her greenhouse next to the bushes of raspberries and blackberries. I try to imagine her here, but my imagination can’t reach that far. The image of the old house is becoming a bit hazy, but I can picture a farmhouse much like Lucy’s, she and I there, puttering about.
I take the last spoonful of my dessert-slash-late lunch and head back inside, leaving the balcony door open. The last juicy berry drenches my tongue. I set the bowl in the sink, then rest my hand briefly on Heimei’s head.
The Cat’s Paw.
Not a bad idea for a restaurant name, right?
I text Lucy. Time to do some research of my own now. Work can wait.
* * *
I get back to the house after an afternoon of weeding the back garden, one of the ones we have that isn’t in the greenhouse. There’s something about vegetables grown outdoors that makes them so flavorful. Our potatoes and carrots grow back there and our other root vegetables. I remember pulling out baby-sized carrots when I was barely of talking age, rubbing the dirt off on my overalls, and taking a bite. There was nothing quite like it then, to my baby taste buds. This time, though, the smaller carrots in my hand get put under the tap at the side of the house first. I’m a little more sophisticated than I used to be.
I shake the excess water off the carrots and head inside, toeing off my muddy shoes in the entryway. As I come through to the kitchen, Mama comes out of the half bathroom nearby.
“Your phone has been busy,” she says, pointing to where it sits on the kitchen table. Just then, it vibrates against the Formica, rattling the salt and pepper shakers in their holder.
“Who?”
Mama shrugs. “I don’t read your messages, but I did see Kitty’s name.” She smiles. “Such a nice girl. She can come visit anytime.”
I know I’m blushing, can feel the heat in my cheeks.
“I’m going over to visit Alice,” Mama says. She smiles at me and pulls a shawl down from the hook by the porch door. It’s fairly warm out today, but she often gets chilly. “Be back later.”
I wait until she leaves before I go to scoop up my phone, scanning Kitty’s messages.
She wants to do the restaurant.
She has an idea for the name.
The Cat’s Paw.
I like it. I really do, but there’s something missing somehow. The name makes me think of one of those old-style hanging signs along a boardwalk, carved and square, and painted. Old-fashioned, Western. But not as old-fashioned as the shops at Heritage Park in Calgary. No way I’m wearing some ankle-length dress and a bonnet.
I try to imagine the restaurant as a Chinese restaurant, but I can’t really picture myself cooking and serving there, either. The ones I remember, at least the ones that weren’t Chinese and Western food, were usually dark wood, with booths along the edges, and quiet. Or very basic, with mismatched chairs and sticky tables.
I want bright, friendly. Simple but elegant, and a bit down-home. Something that can be cozy yet still have that bit of a modern feel. I’m not even sure how to describe it to Kitty. I don’t want lace curtains and gingham, but neither do I want stark minimalism. I text Kitty back, because I do like the name. It connects to the farm’s name somewhat, and to Kitty herself.
Just thinking of Kitty makes me miss her. It’s only been a few hours. I set my phone down and go to the fridge for a Coke, and my phone buzzes again. I don’t crack the can until I get back to the kitchen table, and this time I sit down and pick up my phone. Kitty’s message is lengthy this time, like she did a huge copy and paste from a website. But it has information on restaurant licensing. Not the most interesting subject.
You’re going to put me to sleep here.
Long story short, we can do this! she texts back.
What we need now is money.
Working on it!
What is she going to do?
Chapter Twelve
I finally had to put my phone down last night and charge it, after promising Lucy that I’d look into things. Starting a restaurant is expensive, that’s what I know from yesterday’s research. I’m feeling pretty disheartened, but I don’t want to let Lucy down. Not if I can help it. That’s top of my mind as I head into work, stopping at the coffee shop at the bottom of the office tower before I head upstairs. The latte is a double today. I’m going to need that caffeine for sure. I pick up Cindy’s usual too, a cappuccino with extra foam. I know she’ll know what’s up when she sees me. She says I can’t hide anything from her. I have no idea how I manage to keep a poker face with clients, but not with her. I try, you know. But it never seems to work. She has that uncanny sense.
When I reach my office, Cindy is nowhere in sight. I leave her cappuccino on her desk right by her keyboard. In my own office, I drop my purse into one of the large bottom drawers of my desk, then pull up my chair. I kick my shoes off under the desk where they’ll be hidden from view and flex my toes in their nylons against the commercial carpet.
There’s a stack of folders on my desk, and a note on top from Cindy. Today’s! it says.
I resist the urge to rub my eyes and smudge my makeup. It’s going to be a long day. I log on to my computer and open up my calendar, and quickly arrange the folders for review. I’m relieved I came in early to get started. If I’d showed up at my usual time, I’d have been an hour behind schedule already.
Cindy pops her head in a few minutes later, holding up her coffee.
“Thanks for the coffee, boss,” she says, drawing out the last word. I’ve never had a good comeback for that, but it makes me laugh every time.
“Double just the way you like it,” I quip.
Cindy lets herself into my office and closes the door behind her. She slips into a visitor’s chair, pulling it close to my desk. She puts down her coffee and props her chin in her hand. “Tell me all about it.”
“About what?” I try to play it cool. I don’t know why I bother. Cindy laughs.
“You can’t play innocent with me,” Cindy says. “I know you too well. And I know that Lucy’s been here, and you’ve been chatting. So how was it? How was your date?”
I shuffle a folder over, trying to think of what to say. “It wasn’t a date.”
Cindy raises an eyebrow, a substantial talent of hers. It says so much without saying a word. She waits.
“It wasn’t meant to be a date,” I clarify.
“Are you sure, counselor?” That eyebrow again. It’s waiting, all-knowing.
I laugh, lower my gaze, shake my head. “It was better than a date. Way better.” I’d been thinking of, expecting, a one-night stand, but this was much more.
“You didn’t even check your email a million times a night, I bet,” Cindy observes. She has access to my email as my assistant, and sometimes it really helps me keep on track. She’s worth her weight in gold and then some.
“I didn’t. I had stuff to do.”
“Stuff?”
“Yes. Stuff.” I know I’m blushing, but I meet her gaze once more. “Do you know what you’ve started?”
Cindy grins, wide and gleeful, as she rises. “I don’t, but I can guess. I know you need to catch up, so I’ll let you get to work. Your nine o’clock had to reschedule, so you have a bit more time with these. And the boss man had to push back your briefing until three. One of his special clients demanded his time.”
I glance at my calendar. There’s a nice gap around one o’clock. I might actually get to have a real lunch today.
“Lunch at one?” I ask.
“You’re asking?” Cindy says. I nod. “Absolutely. Vietnamese? Italian? Sushi? Let me know where, and I can make a reservation.”
“Pick one.”
“Oooh, I like you when you’ve gotten laid. I promise I won’t break your bank account for lunch. At least not today.” She gives me a jaunty wave and steps out, closing my door behind her.
My face hurts from smiling. This is a good day. It was a good weekend. I look over at the pile of folders, the never-ending work. My smile fades a little, but I know I can do this. This is what I signed up for. Every file taken care of is one more step.
* * *
At lunch, I sketch out our basic plan to Cindy. She squeals and grabs my hand. “That is brilliant! I’d pay a small fortune to have a meal made from Country Mouse. Chinese food, Western food, whatever. And something sweet and fruity for dessert.” She closes her eyes and makes a small moaning sound, even though we’ve finished our main meals and are waiting on coffee. You’d think she wouldn’t even be hungry or thinking about food after the platefuls of pasta we’ve inhaled.
City Kitty and Country Mouse Page 8
