by Kim Barnouin
“Actually, no. I broke up with my last girlfriend. Because I’m in love with someone I can’t have.”
Everyone turned to stare at Gunnar, who never said stuff like that.
And Keira had gotten it out of him. She might not know a parsnip from a head of garlic, but she had some skills, and I liked how oddly brash she could be at the right time. She wasn’t such a bad egg.
“So who is this unattainable woman?” Keira asked. “Wannabe model? Actress?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said quickly. I couldn’t help but notice that Gunnar’s usual pale complexion, such a contrast against his blue-black mop of hair, had two reddish circles, as though talking about this caused him serious grief. “I don’t have time for a relationship anyway. Any free time I have I want to spend with my daughter.” His expression changed and his voice lowered. “And lately things with Violet have been kind of—”
The waiters came in the kitchen with the evening’s first orders, so Gunnar was cut off. Usually the moment a waiter entered, I snapped to attention. But even I stared after Gunnar for a bit, wishing he could have gotten out the rest of what he’d been about to say.
Lately things with his daughter had been kind of what? The serious nine-year-old, with her long dark hair and huge green eyes, popped into my mind. The last time she’d been at the restaurant, she’d addressed me very seriously as chef, and Gunnar had smiled at me, clearly proud that she’d remembered what to call the kitchen’s big cheese. But the two of them seemed a little . . . formal with each other, not that I had any clue about how kids acted with parents. I wondered if Gunnar had friends to talk to. He never talked about anyone except his daughter, and only in the most superficial ways. Until tonight’s almost-start.
But talk time was over. Chatty chefs were distracted chefs. We had to forget Gunnar’s personal life and get the soups bubbling, the harvest pizzas in the oven, and the lasagnas assembled. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about Alanna and Gunnar and Sara, how confusing their relationships seemed.
Add mine in. Lately, even I didn’t know for sure where I stood with Zach. He didn’t call at all last night. And when I tried his cell, it didn’t go straight to voice mail. Which meant his phone was on and he’d ignored my call.
Why?
“Um, chef?” Alanna said, glancing into the saucepan at my station. “You might want to add the almond meal and herbs and get that stirred fast.” I looked down at my pan, chickpea flour for the lasagna’s béchamel sauce beginning to burn in the oil.
Bloody hell, as my friend Alexander would say. Now I was distracted. Wasn’t I supposed to be on hyperfocus, making sure the restaurant ran perfectly?
The stupid mini-devil materialized on my shoulder. Told you, he whispered in my ear with a jab of the pitchfork.
13
By the time I walked through the front door of my apartment building, I was exhausted and smelled like a mixture of garlic and one of tonight’s special desserts, key lime pie, which had sold even better than I’d expected. The little dog from apartment 1D came bounding over to me on her way out for her late walk, sniffing me like crazy. I wanted to beam myself up the stairs, take a long, hot shower, and crawl under the covers.
And not wonder why Zach hadn’t called once today. Not a text. Not a check-in. Nothing.
Was this the old cold feet? Was he just crazed at work? Had he run into the ex-girlfriend he’d proposed to five years ago and fallen madly back in love with her? Had his mother made him see how wrong I was for him?
Okay, I could scratch that last one. Zach might be trying to rebuild his relationship with his mother, but she was hardly a confidante of his. And no way could he be manipulated. He was just busy. I’d call him in the morning and ask him outright what was going on.
Inside the apartment, Sara sat at the kitchen table, staring—glumly—at one of the bridal magazines.
She realized she couldn’t marry Joe because she didn’t love him?
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I’ve morphed into a bridezilla. I’m making myself sick. Somehow, I love twenty dresses and want them all. I’ve dog-eared practically every page of every one of these mags. I love everything. Well, except this hideous thing.” She pointed at a dress on the next page. “Lots of puff and bows.”
“My eyes!” I said, trying to make her smile—and it worked, briefly. “But what’s the big whoop about liking so many dresses?”
She slapped the magazine closed. “Turns out Joe wants to elope to Vegas. I used to think that’s exactly what I’d want. I used to think big weddings with bands and videographers and five-foot wedding cakes and ten bridesmaids were ridiculous. But suddenly, I don’t know. I want a real wedding, the whole thing, you know?”
Okay, I couldn’t help but wonder, did she want the wedding more than she wanted the particular groom? If she was crazy in love with Joe, wouldn’t she want to elope? If I could jet off to Vegas and marry Zach, I’d do it in a heartbeat, tacky wedding chapel, plastic flowers, and all. Not that I had any idea what a Vegas wedding was really like.
Then again, what did I know about what Sara wanted and why? Sometimes you didn’t know what you wanted until it was time to make a decision. Maybe underneath all that good snark was a Sara who wanted a traditional wedding now that she was engaged. Nothing wrong with that.
I went to the fridge and took out the leftover chocolate/peanut-butter pie from last night and the pitcher of iced tea I’d made this morning. “Did you tell Joe that?”
She dug into the pie and nodded. “He said we don’t need all that crazy bullshit, that we just need him and me and a justice of the peace, maybe an Elvis impersonator for the kitsch factor. I used to love kitsch. Suddenly I want some traditional wedding I would have made fun of last week?”
“Maybe it took really thinking about what you want to know what you want—or don’t want.”
“But Joe is totally against a big wedding. And that’s what I want. Shouldn’t the bride rule?”
“I hear you. As you know, my own wedding planner is against what I want.”
She smiled. “I’m boring myself. I’m going to eat this pie and forget about anything to do with the ‘w’ word for the next two minutes at least.”
“Ditto.” I glanced at the pile of mail on the table, the usual stack of bills—and an oddly shaped, brown-wrapped package. It was addressed to me. “What’s this?”
She shrugged. “It was in the mailbox. Who’s JJA?”
“No idea.” I looked at the return address. JJA, 2061 Dogwood Drive, Woodland Hills. I ripped open the brown wrapping paper to find a card, the front also imprinted with the initials JJA, and a small velvet jewelry box—much like the one I’d found in Zach’s jacket, except this one was a dark red fabric. I opened it—gorgeous diamond stud earrings. At least two carats each. “Someone I don’t know just sent me these incredible earrings.”
Sara glanced at the card. “JJA. Who is that?”
I opened the card. Inside was a folded-up piece of white paper. “It’s signed Aunt Jocelyn. Remember her? She was at our table at Jolie’s wedding—Zach’s great-aunt.” Jocelyn Jeffries Ahern. I put the folded paper on the table and read aloud the note written on the card.
My dear Clementine,
At eighty-six-years-old, I don’t know how much longer I have. I hope to dance at your wedding, but just in case my number is called before then, I wanted to make sure you had these. Something borrowed. Something old too. My grandmother gave me these earrings for my wedding and they brought me sixty-four years of (mostly) good luck.
I so enjoyed meeting you, Clementine. I think you’re wonderful for Zachary. I also adored your friend Sara, who made me hoot with laughter at our table at Jolie’s wedding.
I’ve been going through keepsakes and I found this old list I made right after Frederick proposed to me. All the things I wanted to accomplish and be sure of before I married. I’m embarrassed to say that I never got to check any off. Maybe you’ll find the list useful. Now
adays, they call this a bucket list—well, a bucket list for getting married, maybe. I do wish I’d checked off everything on the list. I would have been more sure of myself. Some things got away from me the way things do once your life changes forever.
All my good wishes,
Aunt Jocelyn
“I loved Aunt Jocelyn!” Sara said. “She was so funny at the wedding. Joe kept telling stories about what an ass he is on TV, she didn’t bat an eye. Even when he dropped an F-bomb or two. Or three.”
“Ha. I remember. She’s awesome.” I took out my own little enamel cupcake earrings and put in the diamond studs. “Are they me?”
“Well, they do match your big honking ring. I wish I had a fairy god-aunt. Maybe Joe does. So what’s on the list?”
I folded open the paper, handwritten in black pen on thin white paper, and read aloud.
1. Be sure you love him.
2. Close all doors to the past by revisiting (mentally or for real) any former beaus you’ve never been able to forget. Say good-bye once and for all—if you can.
3. Take a weekend adventure with a girlfriend who’ll tell you the truth.
4. Make sure that you are the captain of your own ship—even though you and your husband will be steering together. He’ll be captain of his too.
5. Make a list of all the things you love about him and all the things you don’t. Figure out how you’ll deal with what you don’t love. (Don’t put this off by waiting to cross the bridge when you come to it.)
6. What do you expect married life to really be like? Does it match his expectations?
7. Ask him why he loves you and then jot the reasons down on paper. Reread when you’re arguing.
8. Are you expecting him to change once you’re married? If so, return the ring or you’ll be sorry.
9. Go on an adventure together. A real adventure.
10. Be sure you want to marry him.
“Wow,” Sara said. “That’s pretty intense.”
“Yeah. It kind of makes dresses and ice sculptures seem pretty insignificant.”
Sara stabbed a piece of pie. “Well, Jocelyn didn’t cross off any of these ten things and she was married for sixty-four years. So I think we’ll both be okay if we just focus on which of our old friends don’t get to be bridesmaids.”
I scanned the list again and wondered what these ten things had meant to Jocelyn. I tried to picture her at twenty years old, dancing with then fiancé Frederick Ahern at some country club and asking herself, Am I sure I love him? Am I sure I want to marry him? The him underlined, no less. And maybe she hadn’t had an honest girlfriend to go away with for a weekend adventure.
What do you expect married life to really be like? Does it match his expectations? Well, shit. I’d kind of rationalized my expectations because I wanted to marry Zach. I could be engaged and deal with distractions of parties and plans and still run my restaurant—and run it well. But a week after getting engaged, Zach was suddenly distant and off on his own. And making me crazy.
I poked at my slice of pie, my appetite gone. “Her letter sounds like it’s full of regrets. And according to Zach, Great-Uncle Frederick was a real drag. Obsessed with his work and too serious.”
“I can’t see that funny, kick-ass woman married to a drag,” Sara said. “That’s not right.”
“Maybe he changed? Or maybe she married him for his good qualities and thought she could overlook the bad—or change him. Maybe that’s why she didn’t get to check anything off.”
I took off the earrings and put them back in the velvet case, snapping it closed. Something borrowed and something old. I felt as if I owed it to Jocelyn to check off everything on the list.
“Be sure you love him,” I repeated. “I’m sure I love Zach. Madly, in fact.”
“How do you know? Yeah, yeah, you just know, you feel it. But tell me how.”
I could feel the stupid grin starting on my face. Sometimes, when I thought about Zach Jeffries, the goofiest, mushy-gushy warmth would start in my toes and travel to every spot in my body, the ba-bump heartbeat the constant.
“Well, yeah, I just know. But if I had to write down a top ten list, I’d start with how he makes me feel—from crazy happy to on fire to a total gush head sometimes. When I’m with him, I feel even more me, if that makes sense. I feel even stronger, maybe because I know he has my back, no matter what. And whenever I go over to his house for dinner, he makes vegan food for us both. He calls my dad every few weeks to ask how he’s feeling. He rubs my back after a long night at the restaurant. He tries with his mother, even though she’s . . . Dominique. He’s smart about people and business. He makes me think and laugh and wonder about things that never crossed my mind before. He’s patient when I’d be screaming my head off. He lets me blast the Bee Gees in the car. He gives Charlie bones stuffed with peanut butter. He hired my cousin Harry when there wasn’t an opening. And every time we take a walk on the beach and we’re holding hands and looking out at the water, I feel complete.”
“You complete me!” she emoted in her best imitation of the Jerry Maguire movie. “And let’s not forget the guy eats cheeseburgers and has at least four leather jackets. If Clementine Cooper’s marrying a dude who owns a steak house, she’s gotta love him bad.”
I did. And thanks for making me think about all that, Jocelyn. If Zach didn’t call all day, instead of my wondering what was up, I’d think about those walks on the beach or how he stuffed natural peanut butter in Kongs for Charlie. I loved him. He loved me.
Next time I saw him, I’d ask him to tell me how he knew he loved me.
“I can skip number two,” Sara said, ignoring number one entirely, I noticed. “Revisiting boyfriends past. Luckily for me, I don’t have any old boyfriends to revisit.” She cut another bite of pie, but then set down her fork. “Oh, shitburgers. Do I really love Joe?”
Thank you again, Jocelyn’s sixty-four-year-old list. “Do you?”
She glanced at her ring. “Well, yeah, I do. The guy has a good side—a really good side. And if I thought about it, I could come up with a lot of reasons why I do. But sometimes I wonder if I’m supposed to feel . . . more. Nah. Love is love, right?”
“Well, there’s friend love. And then there’s romantic love.”
She pushed her plate away, her appetite obviously gone too. “Could I romantically love a guy who’d pass a teenager on the street and tell him he had a giant booger dangling from his nose? Joe did that yesterday. The kid turned bright red.”
Typical Joe “Steak” Johansson. Off camera, too. “Maybe we should both go over the list. One by one.”
“I’m kind of busy,” Sara said. “Doing anything else.”
“Me too.” I chucked the piece of paper on the table. “I guess it’s a bad sign that we’re both scared of a list.”
“Or a good sign. It means we can mentally check most things off.”
“Or it means we should go over the list very carefully.”
“Sometimes, Clem, you’re no fun at all. Are you gonna make Zach do it?”
Definitely number one, since who wouldn’t want someone to run down the reasons he loved you. But number two: revisiting old girlfriends. Did I really want to have him thinking deeply about a hot French magazine editor named Vivienne?
“I’ll show it to him and see what he thinks.”
“Maybe I’ll do the same with Joe.” She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of the list. “I’m not eloping to Las Vegas and getting married by an Elvis impersonator. I’m the captain of my own ship. Even if we’re steering together.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
I had no idea where this list would take either of us.
At ten the next morning, Dominique and I sat at a round table at Julia’s, one of my favorite coffee shops. She’d called a couple of hours ago to say she had a full plan for the wedding at the farm and would love a “quick meeting” to show me the designs she’d had a graphic artist draw up.
“Now, of course you can make
any small changes you like,” she said, then took a sip of her iced Americano. “But let’s keep changes to a minimum so that we don’t upset the overall balance.”
I didn’t want to see her plans for my wedding. With Jocelyn’s list on my mind, I wanted to ask her why she’d married Zach’s father. Why she’d married her second husband. What went wrong the first time.
I wanted to ask her what came between her and Aunt Jocelyn.
She pulled out her iPad and put it between us on the table. All I saw was a scanned-in sketch of a huge, white rectangle. “The tent is three thousand square feet and has—”
“The tent?” The point of having the wedding at the farm was to appreciate the backdrop of nature, of the acres of crops. Not white fabric.
And three thousand square feet?
“My assistant has researched the best-quality tents, and—”
“Dominique, I’m not really into the tent idea. A canopy here and there would be fine. But a tent isn’t what I had in mind.”
She stared at me. “You’re not expecting people to sit out in the open and look at a barn and a bunch of dirty carrots coming up out of the ground?”
Fuck yeah, I do. “The farm is the backdrop.”
She sipped her iced coffee and took a long moment before putting it down on the table. “Clementine, darling, you have a restaurant to run. Staff to manage. Recipes to create. Add in a handsome fiancé and a wedding to fuss over and you’ll be stretched so thin you won’t know your middle name. You’re so busy. Just let me handle the wedding plans and you just concentrate on your restaurant.”
Talk about manipulation. “I appreciate that, I really do. But my wedding day is more important to me than I realized. My parents’ farm isn’t just some beautiful piece of country to me, and it’s not just where I grew up.” I saw the flicker of confusion on her face at the word beautiful. How had this woman lived on a ranch, albeit a manicured one, for so many years? “Dominique, I mentioned to you that my father has stage-three cancer. I don’t know how long he has left. Do you understand what I mean?”
