by Anthology
“What’s this for?” I hold up the key I find in the compartment.
“Would you do me the honor of moving in with me? You spend most nights there anyway. You seem to love reading and writing there. I would love you being there whenever I come home.”
Am I ready for this? Are we ready for this?
“Yes. I think that would be good. Although I’m scared that it's moving fast, I know in my heart that this is the right thing to do.”
“Thank you for making me a happy man. I love you, beautiful.”
“I love you too and thank you for being the man I need.”’
Leaning into him I give him a sweet kiss and lay my head against his chest. This night is full of celebration.
About the Author
Heather was born and raised in the Pacific NW. If she could live on the beach she would. It's one of her favorite places to go. She's a wife and mother of three children. They keep her busy with all their activities. She loves spending time with her family, reading, hanging out with friends and taking her kids on adventures. The zoo is one of their favorite places to go.
She didn't become a book lover until her twenties. She's happy that she found the book world. It has been a great way to release stress. Also a way to fill her nights of insomnia.
She loves to chat with fellow book lovers. You can connect with her via email [email protected]
Or Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Heather-Carver-1607002566188671/?fref=ts
Love at First Crepe – Heidi Renee Mason
Born into the wealthy Simpson family, free-spirited, accident-prone Willow is determined to make her own way in life. Her greatest joy is her food truck, The Dancing Crêpe. Cooking is her one true love, and she is content to keep it that way. If she could only get rid of her young, beautiful, gold-digging stepmother, her life would be perfect. Unfortunately, it seems that someone wants to get rid of Willow. One crazy night changes everything, and Willow’s life is turned upside down. Will she be able to stay alive long enough to figure out who wants to kill her?
I plodded through the rain, trying my best to avoid the vast array of puddles decorating the grey streets in front of me. I gathered my rain coat closely to my body, adjusting the hood. Like most Portlanders, I believed that umbrellas were unnecessary. Only tourists used them, and I could spot an outsider from a mile away.
A lot of locals grew tired of the seemingly constant drizzle which was characteristic of our Pacific Northwest climate. I wasn’t one of them. I had rain water running through my veins. Having lived here my entire life, it was part of me. My current step-mother, Elizabeth, often complained of the rain. I’m sure it was because it wreaked havoc on her perfectly blown-out blonde hair. In contrast, my wild, natural red curls were unaffected by the moisture. That was just one difference between me and my step-mother; one of many.
Elizabeth was the third step-mother I’d had the displeasure of knowing since the death of my mother when I was only five years old. Elizabeth, only six years my senior, was by far the worst. She and Barringer, my father, had been married only a year. My dad was blind to her ambitions, but I knew a gold digger when I saw one. I’d tried to convince my billionaire father not to marry Elizabeth; a lot of good that had done. As the ruler of a Portland coffee empire, Barringer Simpson was a hot commodity and ideal Sugar Daddy material. He attracted the young and money-hungry socialites that I detested and was determined not to become.
Elizabeth was a smooth operator, for sure. She had her French manicured nails deep inside my Dad, and there was nothing I could do about it except stand by and watch the soap opera unfold. The string of wives trailing behind my father was the main reason I believed that true love was nothing but a fairy tale. From what I had seen in life, love didn’t make the world go ‘round. Money did.
Arriving at the area fondly known as Cartlandia, I fished in my purse for the keys to my food truck. The empty lot housed a vast array of trailers touting cuisine from all around the world. It was a foodie’s paradise. Unlocking the door, I slipped inside out of the rain. Shaking the water off of my coat, I turned on my small space heater before flipping on the lights inside my restaurant-on-wheels.
I had been the proud owner of The Dancing Crêpe for six months now, but coming to work each day still gave me a thrill. The Dancing Crêpe was named in honor of my love affair with ballet. Growing up, my father insisted that a girl of my social standing should be well-versed in the arts. I was chauffeured to piano lessons, voice lessons, and art lessons. I was an abysmal failure at all of it.
I also took ballet lessons from the time I was five. Admittedly, I was too clumsy to be any good, but I developed a life-long love for dance. I still took a class every week to stay in shape. The crêpes on my menu had ballet names, such as the Grand Jeté and the Piqué. It was my clever way of incorporating dance into my daily life.
Much to my father’s dismay, I decided against a career in the family coffee business. Always the rebel, I insisted upon following the entrepreneurial idea of owning my own restaurant. For as long as I could remember, I had spent my days in the kitchen with the estate’s cooks, learning the tricks of the trade. I could make a fluffy soufflé at the age of nine, a feat that often took cooks years to perfect. While other girls my age were hanging out at the country club, I was honing my craft.
“Willow Simpson, you need to get out of the kitchen and do something that girls your age should be doing. Go shopping, hang out with your friends,” Dad would desperately plead with me. Cooking was my passion, and the kitchen was the only place I really felt at home. After college graduation, I took my Business degree and my trust fund money and purchased the necessary start-up items to make The Dancing Crêpe a reality. My father disapproved, telling me that it was beneath my status to own a food truck. He even offered to start a restaurant and hand it over to me, if that’s what I wanted. Growing up surrounded by money, I had a strong desire to make my own way in life. I was determined to pursue my business without the assistance of my father.
So far, The Dancing Crêpe was doing well. If business kept booming, within five years, I would be financially stable enough to open a brick-and-mortar restaurant. My dream was within reach. I wouldn’t let anyone, not even my father, get in my way.
Dad often told me that I took after my mother, Fern. Although I had few memories of her, it always warmed my heart to hear it. My mother was a free-spirited young woman who grew up in a commune. A self-proclaimed hippie, she traveled to the Pacific Northwest from Iowa to explore and find herself. She landed in Portland with nothing but her guitar and ten dollars to her name. According to Dad, on Mama’s first day in the city, she was daydreaming and stepped into the busy street right in front of an oncoming car. My father, who was walking behind her at the time, saw the impending accident and whisked her to safety. The two were inseparable from that moment, and were married only two months later. Mama was the shining light and center of Dad’s world. A few blissful years later, I was born. Our family lived a nearly picture-perfect existence for the next five years, until Mama was taken by cancer. I couldn’t remember her very well, but I remember that she loved me very much.
Marrying Mama was the last good decision Dad ever made. He often told me that Mama was his soul mate, and there would never be another true love for him in this lifetime. I was convinced that’s why he chose to marry women who were beautiful, but to whom he had no real connection. He knew that Mama was his one great love, so he wasn’t even trying to find another one.
Growing up in a house in which the marriages I witnessed were based only on money and social status cemented my belief that love didn’t exist anymore. That’s why I didn’t date. Knowing that most relationships were based on superficiality told me that was something I could do without. I was far too passionate for mediocre companionship, and I’d never met a man who could handle my fiery personality. Not to mention the fact that I’d never encountered a guy who could hold my attention for more than five minutes. Cook
ing was my one true love, and I didn’t need any distractions.
Mixing up the batter for the day’s crêpes, I composed a mental checklist of all that I needed to accomplish. It was Friday, which meant that it would be busier than usual with customers, and that made me happy. I’d agreed to dinner that evening with my father and Elizabeth, and was kicking myself for saying I would go. I decided that it was still early, and I had all day to come up with an excuse to cancel. Dinner with Elizabeth was about as appetizing as swallowing nails, even though I would enjoy some time with my father. Unfortunately, the two came as a set.
I unlocked the customer window and turned on my “Open” sign. It wasn’t long before the line began to form, snaking its way down the sidewalk. I never would have guessed six months ago that so many people would enjoy my food. The Dancing Crêpe’s success ignited a fire inside of me, and I couldn’t wait to take things to the next level.
I whipped up crêpes as quickly as people ordered, smiling at new faces and making small talk with my regular customers. I became completely immersed in my work, just as I always did when I was cooking. Some people didn’t understand my passion for food, but I actually viewed it as a calling. I loved how food could comfort and console on a bad day, and could make a good day even better. To me, it wasn’t just food; it was love.
I handed Pirouettes and Relevés (my two best sellers) out my window all day long. Portlanders loved all things eccentric, and my ballet-themed crêpes were a hit. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already six o’clock in the evening. I didn’t have a set closing time, and basically finished up when I felt like it. Sometimes I quit because I’d run out of ingredients; those were the best days.
I reached outside and turned off the “Open” sign. After taking a few minutes to tidy the cart and prepare for tomorrow morning, I reached for my phone. Rolling my eyes, I saw that there were six missed calls and two new voicemails. I hit speakerphone and listened to my step-mother’s voice, which gave me the exact same sensation as fingernails being raked down a chalkboard.
“Willow, dear, your father is anxious to see you tonight. I hope you will think twice if you’re planning to cancel as usual. You’ll break his heart. Ciao, love.” I growled in exasperation as I deleted the message. I clicked Play on the next voicemail and heard my father’s booming voice through the speaker.
“Darling, Elizabeth tells me you’re screening your calls and refuse to answer. I hope you are planning to show up for dinner tonight. Elizabeth has gone to a lot of trouble with the reservations.”
I deleted that message as well, trying to tamp down the anger that threatened to bubble to the surface. I was quite certain that Elizabeth never went to any “trouble” for anyone besides herself. Seeing my father and Elizabeth together was almost more than I could handle. Of course I’d planned to cancel. That was a given. Somehow, in the hustle and bustle of the day, I’d forgotten to come up with a good excuse. Now, it was too late. I was scheduled to meet them in twenty minutes, exactly the amount of time it would take me to hop on a bus and get there.
As much as I would rather lay my naked flesh on the hot griddle I was cleaning, I knew there was no getting out of it now. To make matters worse, I wouldn’t even have time to run home and change into appropriate dinner attire. I could only imagine the scathing look Elizabeth would send my way when I showed up at the fancy restaurant in my leggings, oversized sweater, and leopard-print rain boots. At this point, there was nothing I could do about it. If they were so anxious to see me, they would take me the way I was.
I locked up The Dancing Crêpe and stepped outside into the pouring rain. I pulled my large hood over my head and arrived at the bus stop exactly the same time as the bus. Climbing inside, I smiled at the driver, whose familiar face was part of my daily routine. The bus sped down the busy streets. Rather than continue on to my apartment like I really wanted to do, I got off at the stop nearest The Eatery, one of Portland’s nicest restaurants.
The Eatery was the kind of place that was always busy. Unless you had connections, it was nearly impossible to get a table. I learned early in life that the last name of Simpson opened doors that would otherwise be slammed in one’s face. It was something that I had come to accept, even though it made me uncomfortable.
I stepped inside and scanned the crowd for my father and Elizabeth. It didn’t take long to spot them. Elizabeth’s shrill voice floated above the din of the crowd, like a foghorn signaling to a ship. I cringed and prayed that I could keep my temper in check through dinner. Snaking my way through the tables, I reached the dreaded destination.
Dad was looking robust and dapper in his suit and tie. Elizabeth, whose slender hand clutched my father’s possessively, was dressed to perfection in a little black number that probably cost more than I made in a year. It was adorned perfectly with a sparkling diamond necklace the size of a golf ball. I was surprised that Elizabeth’s tiny frame could support such a rock without toppling over. I imagined that the total carat weight of the necklace and ostentatious wedding ring my father gave her weighed collectively more than Elizabeth herself.
“Daddy, hello,” I leaned in to kiss my father on the cheek before seating myself across the table from him.
“Hello, Pumpkin; so glad you could make it,” Dad said as I settled in. “Aren’t you going to greet Elizabeth?”
“I was just getting to that. It’s good to see you, Elizabeth,” I pasted a fake smile on my face and tried not to choke on the words. “That necklace is positively dazzling.”
“Thank you, Willow. Your father just gave it to me this afternoon; for absolutely no reason. Can you believe what a sweetheart he is?” Elizabeth turned her perfect face and fluttered her eyelashes at my father. Dad patted Elizabeth’s hand the way a parent pats a small child. I felt like I might vomit from all of the fake sweetness spewing from Elizabeth’s mouth. It was like a saccharine overdose. Instead of voicing the sarcastic remark that was just begging to be set free, I smiled and said, “That’s so nice.”
“And just look at you, Willow. You look so…so…comfortable this evening. Did you come here straight from work?” Elizabeth practically spat the last word out, as if working for a living was more than she could stomach.
“I did, and it was a great day. Working for a living is quite fulfilling. Not that you would know anything about that,” I smiled back at Elizabeth, refusing to allow the horrible woman to demean my occupation. I was just about to say something even worse when I was interrupted by my father.
“Willow, why don’t you take a look at the menu? We’ve already decided what we’re having.” Dad handed the leather-bound notebook to me, a look of warning in his blue eyes.
I took the menu, scanning the delicious choices before finally settling on the Columbia River steelhead. As a cook, I knew that locally procured ingredients were always the best, and the fish was sure to be fresh. When the server approached, we each ordered in turn. I rolled my eyes and inwardly groaned when Elizabeth asked for the small salad with no dressing. She would probably nibble on one piece of lettuce and then announce that she was stuffed. The woman made my blood boil. What my father saw in an empty-headed idiot like her was beyond me.
An awkward silence settled over the table as we waited for our meals to arrive. I thought of a million things I would like to say, but every one of them was a slam on Elizabeth. I thought it best if I held my tongue unless spoken to. That might be easier said than done.
“So, honey, how is your little stand going?” Dad flicked his blue eyes in my direction. My hazel ones, exactly like my mother’s, met his.
“My little stand, as you put it, is doing extremely well. If sales continue the way they’re going, I will have my restaurant in the next few years.” I smiled. It was the first real one since I’d sat down.
“That’s fantastic, Willow. You know, if you would just let me help you that would happen so much sooner,” Dad said indulgently.
“I don’t want your help, Dad,” I snapped, my voi
ce sounding much more abrasive than I intended. Taking a deep breath and trying again, I continued, “I mean this is really something I want to do on my own. You understand, right?”
“No, but I’ll respect your wishes. You know, there’s nothing wrong with taking help from your father. No one else seems to have a problem taking what I’m willing to give.” Dad’s eyes glanced in Elizabeth’s direction quickly. I detected some animosity behind his words. Was there trouble in Paradise already?
“I know, Dad, but really, I want to do this alone. I appreciate the offer, but please, let’s change the subject. What have you two been doing?” I attempted to bring Elizabeth into the conversation. I deserved an award for how kind I was being to her. Unfortunately, she didn’t notice. She was staring off into the distance, a concerned look on her face.
“Elizabeth?” Dad spoke loudly to his wife, and she jumped at the sound of his voice.
“What? Oh…sorry…were you talking to me?” Elizabeth stammered.
“Yes, dear; Willow asked what we’ve been up to lately,” Dad prompted his frazzled young wife.
“Oh…well…you know…just the usual. I’ve been spending some time at the Country Club, shopping, lunch, things like that. Nothing new,” Elizabeth tapped her manicured fingernail on the table, her agitation apparent.
“Elizabeth, are you all right?” I was certain that something was not quite right with her.
“Of course; why wouldn’t I be?” Her voice raised an octave.
If Dad noticed his wife’s strange behavior, he didn’t comment. He was busy glancing at his cell phone, probably checking on Simpson Coffee’s stocks. As usual, he was oblivious. It was the story of my life.
Thankfully, our food arrived. I was glad to have something to do with my hands, as well as a good excuse not to talk. I just wanted to finish this agonizing meal and go home. As uncomfortable as I was with my dinner companions, I was nevertheless blown away by The Eatery’s food. A true artist had created these meals. I ate my steelhead with admiration, savoring each delectable bite.
