Ohio, Minnesota, North Dakota, Wyoming; we wend our way across these states. The grandeur of the vast plains and wide-open sky are foreign and beguiling to me, so different from the stingy strips of heaven visible beyond the skyscrapers in New York. I stop at as many rest stops and scenic view points as I can. I clip on Lou-Lou’s leash and together we explore the undulating grass, both sniffing new smells in the air.
After a week of ambling across the country, I have had my fill of roadside diner burgers and small town America. I am now in Montana. Seattle is only a fourteen-hour drive away and I’m ready to be there.
The wide vistas and jagged peaks of Montana and Idaho soon give way to the dusty valley of Spokane. The arid high dessert scrub along the Columbia River makes the air smell like sage and freedom. One more climb over the Cascade Range and we will have arrived.
The landscape switches to green and verdant when I crest Snoqualmie Pass. Lanky straight-laced pine trees give way to voluptuous asymmetrical Douglas firs. There is an abundance of water everywhere. Moss weeps off tree branches. Rivulets of snow-melt run along the freeway. Ahead of me is the silver expanse of Lake Washington, and beyond, the glittering Puget Sound.
I turn to Lou-Lou and tell her we’re here. She twitches her whiskers, as if to say she’s not too impressed.
Finally, I maneuver my way along narrow streets and find myself in front of the tiny one bedroom brick cottage I have rented near the university. There is a view of Lake Union from one of the windows, while the other side of the house is shadowed by the freeway overpass. A camellia bush blooming by the front door tosses pink confetti petals in welcome. I am home.
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth
Settling in Seattle
Somehow, we’ve managed to fit all four of us—three sisters, plus mom—into a three-bedroom house near the airport south of downtown Seattle. Dad is no longer living with us. He’s in a full-time care facility nearby, and Mom rides the bus every day to visit him.
We’ve moved into an old Craftsman-style house. The entryway is made from oak paneling stained and scuffed by years of muddy shoes and clacking heels. There’s a chipped brick fireplace in the living room, which happily still works. Narrow stairs lead to two bedrooms and the single bathroom on the second floor. Above in the attic, a sliver of a bedroom has been carved out, a space I’ve claimed for my own.
My room has a tiny window overlooking the playing field of the junior high school next door. I spend many hours staring at kids running around in their soccer kits without really seeing them. This is the closest I can get to living alone now; I miss my solitude and quiet. I have to find my own place as soon as I can.
Jane, working as a manager at a restaurant in the city, is rarely home. Charlie has transferred his territory to be near her. They’re officially dating and in love. I think they will get married soon. Mom is already planning the wedding!
Lydia is adjusting to her new high school and is on the cheer squad. She spends too many hours after school texting with the quarterback of the football team, meaning too little time with her school books and homework. If she manages to graduate with a C average, it will be a miracle. With Mom busy visiting Dad in his nursing home, once again attention to Lydia’s discipline falls to the wayside.
I’ve taken a position as a barista in the bustling café where Charlotte works, The Dark Notes. I’m tired and burned out after years managing restaurant kitchens. All I want to do is follow instructions and work somewhere providing me with health insurance and maybe a retirement plan. I guess at some point in time, I’ll be in charge of a kitchen again but for now, I’m happy being a cog in the wheel.
Besides insurance and low stress, my new job helps me afford an apartment of my own. Next month, I’m moving into a tiny mother-in-law apartment in West Seattle. Dido and I will be happy to be away from Mom’s constant complaints about us.
The Dark Notes is a funky independent coffee house that manages to thrive in the Land of Starbucks. It’s located catty-corner to Seattle’s opera house serving a lively clientele of musicians and business people. It’s open only on weekdays and during performance hours, which means I find myself with many free weekends and evenings. I like this schedule, one that seems luxurious after working nights, weekends and holidays for so many years.
For once in my life, I’m content. I’m not searching for a new inspiration, I don’t have the pressure to write new menus or meet budget goals. No one is calling me thirty minutes before their shift starts to let me know they’re sick, or even better, not showing up at all. I actually sleep peacefully and don’t dream about the monster ticket machine!
I use my free time to fill blank notebooks with florid phrases as I practice my writing skills. I splash words across the pages with abandon and then let them marinate in their potency for a few days. I go back and trim, refine and de-clunk ruthlessly. I layer sentences with punctuation marks like ingredients in a new recipe, trying to find the perfect combination. In the end, I erase most of what I’ve written, keeping only a few well-seasoned gems. Writing for me is so much like cooking.
At work, I take pride in making the perfect milk foam, relishing the fragrance of espresso shots. The regulars are getting to know me and I have their orders memorized. I never thought I would be happy to be out from behind the stove, and yet here I am.
As it happens, Charlotte and I make a formidable team at the Dark Notes Café, pulling shots in rapid succession, thunking out old coffee grounds with abandon, all the while singing Journey and Lizzo at the top of our lungs. Every now and then, we do the disco hip bump, and then cha cha our way behind the gleaming espresso machines. Our regulars laugh at our antics, many leaving extra tips for our “dance revue.”
Overall, life after the Ocean Breeze is surprisingly good. I may have been forced onto this new path, but I can’t say I regret it.
Chapter Sixteen
Darcy
That’s MISTER to You
It’s been three weeks since I have arrived in Seattle. I am still on East Coast time, and wake at five in the morning without an alarm. I take a run around the lake, and then closet myself in my office/bedroom for the next twelve hours. I proceed to torture my keyboard and myself with slow-flowing words and phrases that bump their way onto the screen. At the end of most days, I want to take my laptop and hurl it into the lake. The impatient New Yorker in me is struggling to slide into the slower Seattle pace I now live in.
On my daily run, I decide to take a different route and go through the city. I dodge pedestrians, buses, and commuters. I find myself near the opera house. I know the William Endowment lists the local opera company here as one of its beneficiaries. Curiosity and tired legs get the best of me, making me stop to go in, but the doors are locked. I look around me in frustration.
Across the street is a coffee shop, and I decide maybe what I need today for inspiration is a well-made Italian-style macchiato, not the sweet whipped cream-topped travesties served here in the States. I jog over, enter the shop and approach the counter, taking out my earbuds as I walk up to order.
A petite Asian woman looks up at me expectantly. She is pretty in an unconventional way. I think it is the way she carries herself with such confidence. A flash of recognition lights in her eyes, but she just smiles and waits for me to speak. My memory nudges me, telling me I know this woman, but I cannot recall meeting her. I shake the feeling and ask for a double macchiato.
She asks my name for my order, and I tell her “Mr. Fitzwillaim Peter Darcy.” without thinking. It does not dawn on me how pompous this sounds here in egalitarian Seattle.
Hearing this, she looks at me with one raised eyebrow, smiles slightly, and then turns to start my drink. The other barista also looks over at me with a shocked expression, though I am positive she is a stranger to me. Both baristas quickly glance at each other, and then the barista helping me nods once to her friend.
In a few minutes, she calls my name to let me know my macchiato is ready, e
nunciating mister with emphasis. As I reach for it, she says to me quite cheekily, “I hope your drink is tolerable enough for you, Sir!” I start at her words, because they are my words being spit back at me. I look down at her name-tag, and read “Elizabeth M.”
Shit. Is this her, Elizabeth Murasaki? Is this why she looks so familiar, because I have seen pictures of her when I Googled the Ocean Breeze restaurant? I lean over the counter to ask her why she would use those particular words.
She, this imp of a woman, flashes me a big smile and says, “Because Mister Darcy, we all know how fastidious and elevated your tastes are, judging by your reviews. I would hate for you to find not only the food in Washington lacking, but the coffee as well, especially when made by a female.” She gives me a mock curtsy, and then turns to help the next customer in line.
Shit shit shit. It is her. Why she is working as a barista? Why Fate has brought me to this coffee shop, face to face with her, is beyond my comprehension. I grab my espresso cup and walk with as much dignity as I can muster in my sweaty running garb, slinking into a seat farthest from the counter.
I look at her again once I am seated. She works on, unperturbed by my presence. The other barista walks up to her. They exchange a fist bump, and then start singing something about a hair toss, nail check and feeling good as hell. I chug my scalding coffee as quickly as I can, and then dart out the door. The rest of my run goes by in a blur, as if I am trying to outdistance this pert woman and her clever put down.
Does she not know who I am? I correct myself. Yes, apparently she does. She simply does not care. For once, the words of the powerful and influential Fitzwilliam Peter Darcy, fall on deaf ears. I am mortified, embarrassed and, I confess, intrigued at the same time. I flush red as I replay her words in my mind; I feel like I’m thirteen again at my first dance, awkwardly shrinking along the walls at the sight of pretty girls.
Chapter Seventeen
Darcy
Turning Tables
“Please, please, answer,” I plead to Richard as his phone rings and rings. Finally, just before I’m about to be buried in his voicemail graveyard, he answers. I am reluctant to ask for his guidance, but desperate times call for drastic measures.
“Peter! To what do I owe this great pleasure?”
“Richard, I need help!” I tell him seriously.
“Is it Emily?!” I can hear the panic in my cousin’s voice.
“What? Emily? No, no, she’s fine. It’s me, Richard, I need your help! I, uh, well, shit, do you remember the review I wrote about the restaurant on the Washington coast, the Ocean Breeze?”
“Yep, I sure do, Cousin. How could I forget? Your editor received lots of letters from angry women because of it, right? You really stepped in it that time. Not your most graceful moment.” Richard chuckles at the memory.
“Yes, yes, but that’s not why I’m calling. Not about the letters. I’m calling about her. I met her. Just now. What do I do?”
“Slow down, Buddy. Met who?”
“Richard, I thought I made it clear! Pay attention! I met Elizabeth Murasaki! The chef of the Ocean Breeze! She was the barista at this coffee shop I stopped in at this morning. Why, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know why she’s serving as a barista. She recognized me when I gave her my name for my coffee. Then, she recited my exact words from my review back at me, putting me in my place in front of all the other guests standing in line! What do I do?”
“Pete, calm down! You’re losing your ability to speak coherently. What do you mean, what do you do? When have you ever cared about what a victim of your pen thinks? You never have before. You never cared about what women think of you. You ignore them!
"Oh! Okay, she must be cute… Is that it? You like her? You must like her! But right now she thinks you’re a jerk and you’re panicking because you want to make a better impression on her. Am I right? Ha! Of course, I’m right!”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Richard? This is precisely why I did not want to call you. But I do not know what to do, or even why I care so much about what she thinks of me. Please, help me! And for the love of God, do not tell Emily about this call!
“Mother would have loved her! Father would not, not at first, but he would have come around. I think Emily will adore her and…. oh God, I can’t stop thinking about her! She nothing like any of those society women in New York. In fact, I don’t think she even likes me! What am I saying?! Why do I care?? What am I going to do? You have to help me!”
“Fine, Cousin, easy now! You're already imagining what your family will think of her? Wow! You must be smitten. You’re jumpier than a kangaroo! I’ll try to help as best as I can. Now, tell me in detail s-l-o-w-l-y what happened. Sorry, but this is hilarious! You are actually trying to get a woman to notice you, after all these years of fending them off! Oh, I am so going to enjoy this! Remind me to thank Elizabeth Murasaki at your wedding!
“Now, listen closely Pete, this is what you need to do….”
Chapter Eighteen
Darcy
Try and Try Again
Three days later, I find myself, at Richard’s prodding, returning to The Dark Notes Café. This time, I have donned my very best bespoke gray suit and a fuchsia power tie, the combination that makes the women in New York go crazy. I am armored against that little dragon, Miss Murasaki. I scoff at myself, thinking how I have to fortify myself against this tiny slip of a woman. So why do I find myself suddenly nervous as I reach the counter, and she looks up, staring at me with her bottomless deep dark-brown eyes?
I find myself falling into their depths, seeing me and my suddenly ridiculous suit reflected in them. I forget every line I have practiced in the bathroom mirror. All those hours I spent pacing in front of my reflection in imaginary conversation with her are useless. I feel like I am standing alone on the high board, about to do a spectacular cannonball into the swimming pool, even though I’ve practiced swan-diving relentlessly. She blinks, and I recover myself, feeling sheepish I have been caught day-dreaming.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy. Would you like another macchiato, or is there something else you would like to give consequence to this morning?” she asks me.
I gulp. Damn, again, with no effort, she has managed to easily eviscerate me with my own words. I mumble something about another one of those fine macchiati. Then, I gather up my courage and say, “I beg your pardon, but you seem to have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, and yet I do not know who you are.”
She pauses for a split second, then sticks her hand out at me and cheekily says, “Oh, but you do! My name is Elizabeth Murasaki, sir, and you wrote quite the review about my family’s restaurant, the Ocean Breeze, earlier this year. I’m glad to finally meet you face to face.”
I shake her hand awkwardly. I have written hundreds of reviews, some good assessments, many bad, and never have felt any remorse about it. Now, why do I want the floor to open up right underneath my feet and swallow me? Despite my layers of wool and silk, I feel naked in front of her.
“My apologies, Miss Elizabeth, that was poorly done on my part,” I hear myself saying. “Perhaps, if you might give me a few moments of your time, I could better atone for my mistake and explain to you why I behaved so badly?”
I don’t know who this man is who is saying all these ridiculous things, but I am certain it is not me. Still, I feel my lips moving, and hear the words coming out of my mouth. I feel like this woman has bewitched me, body and soul. I want to slap myself out of the spell she has cast on me.
Elizabeth quirks one eyebrow at me, and says, “Mr. Darcy, are you asking me out on a date? Here, in front of all these witnesses?” I look around, and sure enough, there is a line of ten or so customers behind me, waiting patiently, all of them grinning at me like I’m some love struck teen asking his crush out to the prom.
“Uh, I gather that I am. So, will you end my agony and give me an answer?” I say.
I want to kick myself. My agony?!? Could I give this woman any mor
e power over me? How does she have any sort of hold over me in the first place? How is this happening to me, the steady objective, and cold-blooded Fitzwilliam Peter Darcy? I am the epitome of self-control, am I not? I think I must have fixed my tie too tightly around my neck because it feels like a noose constricting all logical thoughts and oxygen from my brain. This must be the reason for my ridiculous behavior.
“Well, Mr. Darcy, since you seem to be holding up the good people of Seattle who need their coffee this morning, I’ll accept. Text me the deets and I’ll see if I can make it.” And with that, she slips me a piece of register paper with her phone number scribbled on the back.
Chapter Nineteen
Elizabeth
Love in the Time of Texting
I must have the cheek of the devil. Why else would I agree to go out with the grand Mr. Darcy and give him my phone number? Maybe I’m sleep deprived? It doesn’t matter. I’m committed now.
I could just ghost him, but honestly, I want to see him squirm a little longer, and find out why he wrote such horrible things about the Ocean Breeze. I want him to know how much he screwed things up for us, and what my family now has to do to survive. I really want to hear why he thinks the best chefs are men, and then educate him about the reality for women working in kitchens. Okay, fine, I think he’s pretty freaking hot. I mean, tall, dark and handsome? Check. Deep baritone voice? Check check. Great body? Triple check. Too bad his personality score is less than a hundred… But then again, we can’t all be perfect.
My phone starts singing Bad Guy, indicating an incoming text. I look down, and see it’s from a New York number I don’t recognize. The text reads:
“Miss Elizabeth, this is Peter Darcy. If you were still interested in meeting me for perhaps a drink, would this Friday at six in the evening suit you? I am located quite close to the downtown area and would be happy to meet you in the city, if you prefer. Shall we meet at the little Caribbean rum bar by the Market, or would you like to venture up to the Capitol Hill area? I believe there are several excellent restaurants there, including a Japanese saké bar. I eagerly await your response.”
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