North to You

by Tif Marcelo

  My heart, my body, my entire being is overwhelmed. It’s taken over with joy and love, with the excitement of the unknown.

  This is what Drew has given to me—trust in the unknown, trust in him. Trust in us.

  The answer is easy. To him alone, I say, “The truck has wheels, doesn’t it? Yes. A million times, yes.”

  He slips the ring on my finger, a simple square diamond on a gold band, beautiful and perfect. We are both swept up into the crowd, in the clapping. Drew and I keep our hands clasped together as we are pulled into selfies. Soon my heart rate comes back down to normal and I nod at Drew. We have a horde to feed, and I’ve got a truckload of food waiting to be served.

  Drew gives Jasmine a signal and she shakes a cowbell until the crowd dies down. She announces the menu, her voice echoing through the city street, the sound of crashing waves in the distance. Drew and I climb into the truck and he takes his assigned spot.

  I snap a picture of the front counter, the crowd waving at the camera. I post it, my first for this season.

  @Lucianna: Best first day back. If you’re not here, you should be. #PaniniSF

  * * *

  “How can I help you?” Drew says to our first customer of the day.

  “I was hoping to chat with the chef.”

  The voice is familiar, ingrained into a part of my brain I thought I’d forgotten. I show myself, remembering I am better than who I was seven months ago, when I crumbled into pieces. I keep my chin up.

  It’s Kaya Banks. “I wanted to make sure we connected. I reviewed you once, and I admit now that I wasn’t really as fair as I could have been.”

  Of course I haven’t forgotten about that blog post, and I am in a position to not serve her at all.

  Drew watches, waiting for my cue.

  But what did Nonna say? Let your food do the convincing. So I face this girl and say with my kindest picture-friendly smile, “Welcome back to Lucianna.”

  Chicken Afritada

  My favorite dish, a family recipe by my mother, Lita.

  Ingredients

  8 pieces cut-up chicken, about 2 to 3 pounds

  2 teaspoons garlic salt or 1½ teaspoons regular salt

  1 teaspoon ground black pepper

  1 tablespoon olive oil, or any preferred cooking oil

  1 medium-sized onion, chopped

  1 bay leaf (optional)

  1 tablespoon garlic, minced

  2 tomatoes, chopped

  1 tablespoon or 1 cube chicken-flavored bouillon

  1 large potato, cut into medium-sized cubes

  2 carrots, sliced thick

  1/2 cup tomato sauce

  1 tablespoon brown or white sugar (optional)

  1 teaspoon crushed red pepper (optional)

  1 red bell pepper, chopped

  1 tablespoon minced parsley for garnish (optional)

  steamed rice

  Method

  Season the chicken with garlic salt and pepper. Heat the olive oil in a 7 or 8 quart pot, and add the chicken pieces, browning on all sides, about 2 minutes per side. Add the onions and stir to mix well. Add the bay leaf (optional). Cook 2 minutes, until the onions are translucent.

  Add the garlic, tomatoes, and chicken-flavored bouillon to the pot and stir to mix well. Bring to a boil in the juices rendered in the cooking process, then cover the pot and simmer on medium-low heat for 35 minutes.

  Add the potato, carrots, and tomato sauce. Stir to mix well. Cover the pot and continue cooking for another 20 minutes.

  Taste the sauce, and add salt and black pepper to taste. Add the sugar (optional) and crushed red pepper (optional). Add the red bell pepper. Stir to mix well. Cook for another 5 minutes or until all vegetables are cooked.

  Garnish with chopped parsley, if desired. Serve hot, with steamed rice.

  Serves 6

  Acknowledgments

  This moment! I’m bottling it up.

  Deepest thanks to Kate Dresser, my editor. Your vision perfectly lined up with my dreams for this book. Thank you for having faith in this debut author, and for giving me a voice! To my incomparable agent, Rachel Brooks, who plucked me from a Twitter-stream of hopeful authors and saw the potential in Cami and Drew’s story. You. Are. Amazing! To Molly Gregory, Christine Masters, Faren Bachelis, and the rest of the Pocket Star and Simon & Schuster team who had a hand in bringing this story to fruition—I’m indebted to you!

  My brilliant #girlswritenight crew: Sidney Halston, Rachel Lacey, Annie Rains, and April Hunt. Your generosity and friendship brought this book to life from our plotting sessions to Sidney’s “come to Earth” moment. To Rich Knight, for pointing out years ago that I shouldn’t be neglecting to write what I know. Thanks to readers Rowena Curva, Jerlynn Ordaz, Mae O’Donnell, and Kathleen Reburiano, who gave feedback on our shared Fil-Am and/or San Franciscan experience. To the dedicated #5amwritersclub crew: I raise my coffee cup to you! To Karen Wolter: I haven’t forgotten about our agreed exchange for the foosball table. Enjoy Matt!

  To my two critique partners, Stephanie Winkelhake and April Hunt, who have read every single word I’ve written: I’m the luckiest writer to have two CPs who bring such talent to the table. Stephanie, for taking me under your wing, and for your example of perseverance. April, fellow nurse, for nurturing the romantic side of my stories and making me laugh daily. Heart you two so much! This is as much your book as it is mine.

  To my mama, Lita, who kept me underfoot while she ran her restaurants in the Philippines. Everything I know about food, love, and faith, I learned from you. My dad, Bobby, who is the first to give me straight talk about grit and hard work. Thirty-three years ago, both of you sacrificed everything when we immigrated to the United States. You wanted my dreams to come true, and they have! My coolest brothers JR and Racky: you are the epitome of the kind, humble, and honorable men heroes are made of. My sisters Connie and Aimee, and my mom Cheri: you’re family by marriage, loved fiercely by choice.

  My dearest friends, my village and FRamily: you raised me up! Thank you for being the best cheerleaders. To my children, my fantastic four, who never minded my long hours and who revel in my passion: you are first and foremost my proudest work. Finally, to Greg, my greatest love. I will never be able to write a meet-cute nearly as cheesy and awesome as ours. You clipped my wings, and I am forever yours.

  And finally, finally . . . to the city of San Francisco. You are the city of my heart, of my childhood and young adulthood. I love you! Mahal kita!

  Can’t wait for the next delicious romance from Tif Marcelo? Keep reading for a sneak peek at

  EAST IN PARADISE

  Volume 2 in the Journey to the Heart Series

  Available in September 2017 from Pocket Star!

  1

  MITCHELL

  Coffee is life, but these days, grabbing a cup in town is enough to kill me. Gone are the days when I could breeze into Golden Cafe, order my usual extra-large cup to wake the dead, and be out in two minutes, tops. When the most I’d give were the customary greetings polite enough to satisfy the etiquette Granny drilled into my thick skull. And yeah, I’d smile, too, because that was easy enough.

  Now, everything is a production: the predictable turn of faces when I walk through the glass front door. The good-old-neighbor greeting when the customers take me in, and then . . . then comes the announcement.

  “And here’s our hero: Captain Mitchell Dunford.” Mr. Cornelius’s voice booms as I take my second step onto the retro black-and-white checkerboard tile.

  My entire body winces as the cafe comes to a screeching halt at the declaration. Utensils clatter to a stop. The whir of the cappuccino-machine frother ceases. Tourists huddled over their cups of hot cocoa, wearing Gold Country hats and T-shirts, raise their eyebrows as if I were the leprechaun himself.

  And Granny asks why I don’t head into town oft
en . . . it’s because of this. It’s because of the whirlwind my presence stirs. From the second I came back home two weeks ago, it’s been a fiasco.

  I’m reminded each time I head into town that I’m not the same person who left for the Army almost nine years ago.

  But I suck it up, square my shoulders anyway, and casually salute. It earns me a round of applause. I’ve realized the more affable and cool I am, the faster I can get my coffee and get on with my day.

  Plus, Mr. Cornelius is like family and a Golden original. His dad opened the cafe decades ago. The man gave me my first taste of coffee when I was twelve. Granny would kill me for being rude, and crossing that eighty-something-year-old woman is not something I ever intend to do. She’s tougher than a drill sergeant.

  “Extra-large coffee for you, Mitch.” A cup slides in front of me, steam spiraling from the dark liquid. The aroma hits my nostrils, and my blood pressure rises to living status. Yes. Yes. Yes. Just enough oomph to get me to smile.

  “Thanks, Jaime.” I nod to the little girl behind the counter. Or, not so little anymore. The years have put what looks like four feet on her, and braces and the coffee shop apron have replaced the pigtails and overalls she used to wear.

  Her eyes examine me. “No cream or sugar, just how you like it. Want a banana muffin to go?”

  Shaking my head, I snap the cover on the cup. “No thanks, just coffee.”

  “Did you know eating a big breakfast is key to a healthy diet and a good mood?” The silver of her braces gleam against the overhead light.

  “Jaime Lynn,” her mother warns from the back. Eliza Cornelius has one hand on the cappuccino machine and the other on her hip, eyes trained on her daughter.

  “I was just repeating what you say all the time, momma. Mitch has to eat because he’s too skinny”—she turns to me—“because you’re all by yourself in that big house. And she told Grandma Cornelius what you need is a woman.”

  “Jaime!” Eliza hisses and comes to stand at her daughter’s side. “I’m sorry, Mitchell. Just . . . just ignore her. She’s eleven. The things kids say.”

  “It’s fine, Liz.” I shrug off the comment. “Don’t worry about me, Jai. I’ve got King Lear up there keeping me company.” King Lear is a legend, a sixteen-year-old vineyard cat that adopted my family, known for his lion’s mane and mammoth paws and because he likes to announce visitors like Simba.

  It works as a distraction, and Jaime’s face lights up. She starts on about felines and how she wishes she could get a cat. It sets off an avalanche of chatter from her parents, and just like that, I’m off the hook, hopefully occupying the locals who love to make up stories about my return.

  Poor Mitchell Dunford.

  He had a rough go at it overseas.

  How is he ever going to get that vineyard up and running?

  He doesn’t know anything about the business.

  Yep, I’ve heard it all. From the rumors that have circulated since I came home. From Granny, who isn’t afraid to smother me with the reality that the vineyard is going to be a challenge to reopen. She’s of the mind-set that if I know what I’m up against, I’ll be more prepared to fight. Little does she know I share her doubts, and it’s going to take more than awareness to make a success out of a business that’s hanging by the last of its roots.

  Thankful for the diversion Jaime’s created, I stick my hand out, a quarter on my palm. The girl slaps me five, swiping the coin, beaming.

  Spinning on my heels, I march to the front door, but just before walking out of the cafe, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. It doesn’t matter that it’s June in the Sierra Foothills, the sun is high in the cloudless sky, and the weather’s holding steady at eighty degrees. Or that I’ve grown my hair out so I don’t feel the wind as briskly as I used to.

  The interaction at the cafe was about enough talk to last me the whole day. Except I’ve got an afternoon to kill while my Realtor, Rocío, is showing Lavenderhill, the parcel of land I’m having leased at the vineyard. She suggested I hide out while potential renters are touring the place, and with my truck on the fritz again, I couldn’t go farther than into town. Besides, the instacup coffeemaker with the pods I have up at the house is shitty on the best of days, and it hasn’t been giving me the brain power to figure out a way to break the news to my brothers that strangers are going to be living on our land.

  Main Street greets me with the usual noise of a tourist town, of a manicured facade of the grand old days when gold ran hot and everyone wanted a piece of it. Vintage brick and old siding, windowsills painted in teal and red. Galvanized iron cornices with intricate patterns. Cashing in on tourists, Golden got smart in the last decade and renovated Main Street, using historical records to bring it all back to its previous glory. Now, tour companies have put our little town on their maps, sending buses to flood our brick-lined streets with smog. They bring tourists with selfie sticks by the droves, and steady business to our Gold Rush Museum and local establishments.

  Nice for cash flow, but Golden no longer feels like home. Me and my brothers used to take Main Street by storm on our skateboards and scooters on Sunday mornings when it was quieter than a ghost town. There were so few residents we’d fly down the street and have enough time to get out of the way of the solitary car that’d pass. Now there’s a yellow line painted down the middle of the street.

  Tucking my chin into my chest, I trek to the city square. While rounding the corner quickly, with the comfort of a park bench in mind, I hear a pop in the distance. My heart rate rockets as my eyes dart to the left, and I glimpse a car with a flat tire pulling off to the side . . .

  . . . Just before I barrel into a person coming around the corner.

  Crushing the cardboard cup against my hand.

  Spilling coffee down the person’s white shirt.

  “Oh, fuck!” The woman shrieks, pulling her shirt away from her body. She bends over at the waist and a waterfall of my daily wake-up pours onto the sidewalk.

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” I’m on full auto, already peeling off my sweatshirt. Leaning into the woman, I pat the front of her shirt with mine.

  “Hey, watch it.” She jumps back. Though probably a good foot shorter than me, she rises up to some kind of a ready stance, like she’s going on the offensive. With her long black hair draped over one shoulder and covering half her face, she appraises me suspiciously.

  “Sorry, I . . . my bad. Did I burn you?”

  “No . . . crap . . . I’m not burned. Just fucking wet, and late.”

  “I wasn’t looking.”

  “Obviously.” Backing down, she sweeps her hair into a bun. At the sight of her face fully exposed, I’m stuck in my tracks. The woman is gorgeous and ferocious. Mahogany eyes, golden brown skin, a flower tattoo that starts behind her ear and snakes down her neck. She’s got four piercings in one ear; in the other, three. Another tattoo peeks out of her shirtsleeve at her wrist. “Great. I can’t damn well go to a meeting like this.”

  Red lips that happen to cuss as much as mine do.

  “What are you smiling at?” Those red lips curl into a snarl.

  “Nothing.” I clear my throat. Shit. I really need to work on my poker face.

  “This is funny to you?”

  Here’s the thing with tempers. I might have my own but I’m a master at defusing them. Though I find this woman intriguing and am tempted to ask what kind of business she has in Golden, first things first. I’ve got to fix this.

  “No. I’m stone-cold serious, and I’m sorry. Really, I am. Lemme get you a shirt.” I point to the shop across the street.

  She looks at the storefront with T-shirts plastered in the window. With ones that say I Heart Golden and California Girl and I Left My Heart in San Francisco, which, ironically, is a three-hour drive from here. Her face twists into a frown and her eyes bounce to me, then back behind her. “No thanks. I
just need to go.”

  “Then take my sweatshirt.”

  “You’re huge. I mean”—she shakes her head as if catching herself—“I’ll swim in your shirt.”

  “Okay.” I can’t help but notice how her cheeks pink and how her voice softens. “But the nearest clothing store is a half mile down the road.”

  Her teeth rake her bottom lip. She flips her wrist and looks at her watch, then, as if making a decision, heaves a sigh. “Okay, fine.”

  This woman is on a mission, and she doesn’t look back as we cross the street to the tourist shop. A buzzer sounds when we walk into the place, and we’re greeted by floor-to-ceiling Day-Glo T-shirts with every joke slogan imaginable shoved in our faces.

  The woman approaches the first rack, sifts through a couple of hangers, and shoves a shirt into my hand. “Here.”

  I can’t offer a suggestion because the shirt is . . . not really what I assume is her style, so I bring it to the counter. She waits for me near the front door. Silas Rau, first-generation Golden, tips his head at the glowering woman while he rings me up. “Date’s not going well, I see.”

  I sigh. “Not a date, Silas.”

  “Well, duh, especially if you take her to buy a T-shirt. Ice cream’s a better option. Dinner even.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” I push a credit card across the counter, moving the transaction along. Rau’s much like the shirts he peddles: he’s got something to say about everything, and worse, he’s a gossip. Granny’s going to know about this incident by tonight. When he’s done swiping, I say, “No need for a bag or receipt. Thanks.”

  When she sees me coming toward her, the woman exits the shop, and stops at the corner of Main and First. It’s only then I take in the full view of the damage. Her shirt is sopping wet, from the collar down to its hem.

  My insides twist. Damn.

  She’s shifting feet, looking like she wants to run. And I don’t blame her.