“We were just going to bond some more over cigars, talk shop, swap embarrassing stories of my little girl, Anna-Sophia,” Dad said, giving my shoulders a squeeze.
“Dad,” I groaned. “Please, no.”
“Don’t worry, Soph,” Brandon said, joining in the half-circle. He ran a hand along the side of his mocha-colored hair, a few loose, shaggy strands put back into place. “There can’t possibly be any embarrassing stories about someone so perfect.”
Mom made an adoring face, Dad looked on with a surprised and pleased grin, and I just rolled my eyes, finished drying the last of the plates, and said, “See, Mom and Dad, whatever would you have to worry about? I’ve obviously found myself a charming man.”
I looked at Brandon and gave a strong, tight-lipped smile. A keeper, I thought as I looked into his eyes.
I listened to the dishwater drain from the sink as Mom proclaimed, with a note of relief, that we were finally finished. I then watched as Dad clapped Brandon on the back and led him into the den.
A real keeper.
Chapter Five
I rub the sleep out of the corners of my eyes—the second batch of sleep I’ve had to remove since I got up at a quarter past three this morning. I tossed and turned all night, yet still somehow achieved that deep, dream-mode state of sleep, however briefly. The combination of bad sleep and dragging myself out of bed at an unusually early hour has left me utterly exhausted—not to mention in a sour mood.
Unable to catch another wink of sleep in the wee morning hours, I eventually relegated myself to the living room sofa and curled up with a blanket and a warm mug of herbal tea. I was left with a run-through of my dreams, and that’s when I got to thinking. I thought all about Brandon and how that relationship—the longest relationship I’ve had to date at three years—managed to fizzle out and die.
That horrible spring I’d found out he and Robin had had a one night stand, and for months afterward I blamed myself, I blamed Brandon, I blamed Robin—the whole lurid incident—for the demise of my relationship. Very few couples can overcome the pain and betrayal that infidelity can cause and remain in a relationship. I was among the many who turned their back on the betrayer and moved on.
Very few friendships can endure and overcome the pain, as well, yet Robin and I were willing over time to repair the damage that’d been done to the friendship we both valued so dearly. Peculiar, you may think, but one day it dawned on me (in the midst of our rather bitchy silent treatment) that the love I had for Robin was more meaningful and more profound and more worth fighting for than the love I had—I thought I had—for Brandon.
The truth of the matter is, I had blamed every Tom, Dick, and Jane for my split with Brandon. I avoided the real reason things fell by the wayside. Brandon and I had been going through rough times before we’d broken up, even before he and Robin fell into bed together. For some time we had been, as clichéd as it may sound, falling out of love.
I swore up and down once we’d broken up that I was madly in love with Brandon, but once the fiery desperation and the burning agony of loss turned from a bonfire to embers, I was, at last, able to let go.
I couldn’t kid myself anymore. Brandon was never “the keeper” I’d thought he’d been. You could’ve fooled me, because we’d been together for so long and things were so good for such a long while. Then, one day, it all came crashing down. Well, correction: The breaking apart that had been occurring over a deal of time paved the way for things to come crashing down all in one heartbreaking day.
I don’t find myself missing Brandon; I loathe him. But he’s part of my past, he’s Rose’s father, and, unfortunately, he’s one of my heftiest pieces of baggage.
Whenever I’m down on my love life it’s only natural my thoughts flash to Brandon. We were in love, for a time, and there were many pleasant experiences we shared, many wonderful feelings I had. Naturally I want all of that (and more) with the man I’m supposed to fall madly and deeply in love with…some day.
I suppose, with loneliness gnawing at me and a growing desire to share my life with someone, I’m just trying to figure out where I’ve gone wrong in love, and how I can start making it right. Taking trips down memory lane (or carrying on with dreams that make you go bump in the night) facilitate that, make me feel like I’m on to something. If I could persevere through the difficult and breaking relationships, if I could manage the lengthy healing time afterward, then I sure as hell could practice the same patience and endurance as I wait for true love.
“Time for coffee,” I assert, plodding to the front of my dark café. I’ve been running down memory lane all morning long, and I’ve got to get my thoughts under control and face the day’s long list of to-dos.
Flipping on the large, silver espresso machine just behind the front counter, I give a thunderous yawn, stretching one arm overhead.
I glance at my watch. 6:35, it reads, about an hour and a half before I open up shop.
Evelyn should be here any moment, which will help get my lazy butt in gear.
I briskly fill the filter basket with a deep-roast espresso blend. I pour out for myself my usual five-point-two ounces of organic whole milk and begin to steam.
I bob my head to the whistling, whining, and bubbling of the steaming milk as if it’s a deep beat to a good tune on the radio.
“Going to be an awesome day,” I sing convincingly to myself. “Not going to think one more minute about Brandon and failed love.”
Bob-bob-bob, goes my head as I slowly decrease the steam pressure.
“You’ll find Mr. Right soon enough.” I whistle. “That’s right, Sophie. That’s right!” I begin to raise my voice, watching intently as the needle of the milk thermometer approaches the green “stop steaming” zone.
I’m about to belt out in no particularly good tone another cheerful piece of pep when my cell phone rings.
“Claire,” I bellow into the phone, cradling it in the crook of my shoulder. I quickly kill the steamer and begin to brew my double shots of espresso.
“Morning, sunshine,” she sings in that familiar peppy tone of hers. I love that we’ve started these ritual early morning calls to raise each other’s lonely spirits.
“Morning to you, too.”
“You already baking like a fiend?”
“Totally should be,” I say, tone flat.
“Okay, well before you go and tell me of all the delectable treats that are on the baking list, please just spare me.”
I snicker as I pour the milk, followed by two strong and aromatic espresso shots, into a pink rose teacup, one of the many chic vintage teacups I use for warm beverages at The Cup and the Cake.
My entire café is done up in a vintage-chic style, with bright, cheerful, and feminine colors of pink, yellow, teal, and cream. Pink and white cane-webbed chairs, and small wooden café tables, each topped with a white milk glass vase holding a single fresh flower, fill the open front room that gets lots of luxurious afternoon sunshine.
Magazines, newspapers, and, per Gatz’s sappy, romantic, and very clever suggestion, books of poetry and even a few classics and short story collections, are available for customers’ perusal in a small bookshelf nailed up on the far wall.
To top the charming and chic atmosphere, a large, glittering chandelier, inspired by one I’d seen at the hair salon I frequented in Paris when I was studying there a couple years back, hangs from the center of the ceiling. The café is everything I dreamed it’d be.
Claire and I haven’t even been chatting for ten minutes before Evelyn arrives.
“Hey,” I say to Claire. “Sorry to make this a short one, but I’ve got to run.”
“Time to open up shop already?”
“Not yet, but Evelyn’s arrived, and I’ve got to talk with her and really get my day started. The menu’s another big one.”
“You hop to it, then.”
“And, Claire,” I add just as Evelyn unlocks and swings the front door open. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”
The quick conversation with my BFF this morning was pleasantly positive. A realization that there had been a mistake in paperwork when she began her new job at the hospital had given Claire plenty of reason to be peppier than usual this morning. Turns out she was set up to be paid a whole tier too low, and only yesterday did the hospital realize that Claire should be expecting a fine adjustment to her paycheck.
We sign off with our cheesy profession of “love you”s and “miss you”s as I hear Evelyn re-lock the front door behind her.
“Good morning,” my ever-cheerful employee sings as she waltzes over.
“Morning!”
Evelyn holds up some cloth grocery bags and says, “Let me put these things away and get suited up, then I’ll be up here. Could so use a morning pick-me-up coffee.”
I lick the foam from my upper lip. “Espresso macchiato, as always?”
“Double,” she calls out.
“Totally hear you.”
Though we both need some double-shot help to get going this morning, I’m put at ease because today’s one of the rare mornings Evelyn can come in and open up with me. Usually she works mid-day or in the evening due to her class schedule at the University of Washington.
I hired Evelyn Platt this summer in preparation for Emily and Gatz leaving for Australia back in July. Having her on board also made it that much more possible for me to actually take the vacation to London and Paris that my mom and dad gifted to me in celebration of the one-year anniversary of The Cup and the Cake last June. Evelyn’s been a great help these past few months, and she really kicked butt in the summer, working full-time and picking up all the slack left behind in Em’s and Gatz’s absence.
Now that school’s back in session, though, she’s unfortunately only working part-time. It’s overwhelming mornings like today when I wish she was full-time. It’s days like these when I wish Em and Gatz were still around, too, or when I actually consider how nice it was to have Chad around on the occasional Sunday or late night to lend a hand.
I’ve been fortunate to have so many friends volunteer to help me out with my café. Obviously with a small start-up I don’t have the budget to hire on oodles of help. It was a big deal when I could hire on Gatz, then Evelyn. Hopefully, though, I’ll be able to hire a full-time set of hands soon. I may not have the bankroll right now, but The Cup and the Cake is a successful and growing business, and, in time, it will get the proper staffing it demands.
Whenever I’m feeling dismayed, I have to remind myself that I can pay the bills, I can pay Evelyn, and I even have some leftover cash for a guilt-free shoe-shopping-splurge or drinks at a favorite bar every once in a while. That’s more than many can say of a small start-up.
It’s hard to believe that it’s been nearly a year and a half since I first opened its doors—when I stood back and admired the café’s large front room window, the cherry-topped cupcake covering it with pink lettering displaying the name of the café I’d always wanted to open.
I credit a large portion of my success to my schooling in Paris. Three summers ago, during one of my trips to visit my brother John in London while he worked on some big international law deal, I saw an advertisement for a summer baking school in Paris. I cast caution to the wind—full-on Emily Saunders style—and decided I really had nothing to lose.
I then spent the most splendid and indulgent (and highly informative) four months of my life in the City of Light. (City of Love? That’s another story.) The special techniques I learned for how to get a croissant to retain its flakiness, yet also its moistness, have proven to be invaluable. The difficult task of creating macarons has not been championed, but I’m at least no dummy to what’s behind the Ladurée and Hermé delicacies.
The Parisienne-taught patience and attentiveness to each and every single ingredient used, temperature set, and pan, form, and sheet chosen have all helped make The Cup and the Cake the best café/bakery in all of Capitol Hill!
All right, I’ll admit that’s a self-given title, but I could round up quite the handful of loyal customers who wouldn’t argue.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Evelyn says as she takes her highly caffeinated beverage from me.
She’s wearing the usual teal apron, the café’s name across the breast in pink stitching, over a pair of black skinny jeans that fit her slim frame ideally. She has on a red-and-black plaid blouse with sleeves casually rolled three-quarters. Comfortable but cute, her style.
She follows me into the kitchen when I wave her on back. “Got a ton to do this morning,” I say before I take another sip of my coffee.
“Yeah, sorry I was running late.”
“Market packed?” I gesture to the wooden bowl freshly filled with lightly bruised and bird-pecked quinces.
“No, I was just running late.” She pulls a guilty face.
I pick up one of the bright yellow fruits and hold it out to her. “These are beautiful. They aren’t local, are they?”
“Yeah, actually.” She picks one up for herself and casually tosses it into the air. “Chad’s parents have these neighbors who have a huge garden. Organic, too.”
“Oh,” I say indifferently. I set the fruit, a very rare find in the Pacific Northwest climate, back into the bowl.
“His parents gave them to him when we were up at their place this past weekend.” She walks over to the chalkboard to consult the day’s menu. “You know they have the most dreamy house, over in Green Lake?”
“You don’t say?” My voice is still, monotone.
“We had such an awesome time together. So fun and romantic!” She flutters her lashes just like a Disney princess. “Ahh, he’s great.”
It kind of makes me nauseated, seeing Evelyn all in love. And with Chad of all people! It doesn’t seem possible that that playboy could have ended up in a real relationship, and with such a nice and wholesome girl.
“His parents’ home is so amazing, Sophie,” Evelyn prattles on. “Dominates the whole neighborhood. They are, like, ridiculously wealthy.”
“Yeah, well.” My indifferent tone is even heavier.
Even though Chad can be aggravating at times, and even though I kind of fired him from the café, he is a friend of mine, a friend of more than a decade. I don’t need Evelyn to tell me that his parents have one of the more impressive homes up in Green Lake. The neighbors bearing quinces is news to me; Chad Harris is not.
And, furthermore, I certainly don’t need her to gush on and on about how romantic her weekend was and how great Chad is with her. It’s not that I’m jealous of what they have—God, no. It’s just irrelevant information that a single girl doesn’t really care to hear.
“We thought about taking out the jet skis,” Evelyn drones dreamily, “but instead we took the boat out. We stayed out on the boat, at night, under the stars together…”
She looks back at me. “What would you like for me to work on first? Croissants?” She points at the board.
“Sounds good,” I say vacantly through a solid gulp of coffee.
“Anyway, it was such a great time, and his parents are so nice. They totally didn’t mind us crashing their place and hanging out, like teenagers!” She giggles.
“Chad is a big child.” I brush my bangs back and begin to pull out the necessary ingredients to get to work on the dozens of croissants we need to make.
Evelyn ignores my comment and continues to babble on about her weekend. “It was kind of cold and windy to be out on the lake in the boat,” she says, setting out the knives, rolling pins, and various tools we’ll be needing. “Not exactly summer weather; autumn is definitely here, but Chad kept me warm.” She titters, and I can’t help myself.
“Evelyn.”
“Hmm?” She looks at me with imploring eyes.
I consider telling her that I really rather not talk about her love life (with Chad, of all people) so early in the morning (or ever), but one look at her sweet face I can’t bring myself to be so harsh. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s not doing it on purpo
se. She’s enamored with her new boyfriend, and, like any girl who’s a few months into a new and exciting relationship, she’s giddy and can’t help but share her enthusiasm for how grand her life is right now. I remember the feeling…a zillion and one ages ago.
“Yeah?” she repeats, lightly crinkling her freckled nose. She smoothes back a flyaway of silky chestnut-colored hair that’s pulled into a tight ponytail tied off with a thick, black scrunchie.
I inhale deeply and look at the bowl of quinces. “I was thinking,” I say, ignoring my negative impulse and just opting for a whole topic change. “What are we going to do with all these quinces? They’re too astringent to use for a tart or cake.”
She shrugs with ease. “Chad said you could have them. The neighbors only get them every few years. He figured you’d probably make jam or something with them.”
“Ah,” I say with a nod of the head. “Well, I guess we could do that.”
“Maybe a jam for a scone filling? Or a pudding?” she offers kindly.
“Just what I was going to say,” is what I want to say, thinking of that clever idea one second too late. But instead I just smile, hand Evelyn a stick of butter to unwrap, and thank her for bringing the quinces by.
Chapter Six
“Oh, Lara, I’m losing my mind!” I cry to one of my best girlfriends—the older, wiser, and more experienced among my circle—the next night over drinks at a long-time fave bar called Vogue. “The poor thing so did not deserve my grade-A bitch fest.”
“Slow down there, Rambo,” Lara says. She tucks her dark brown, highlighted, nearly shoulder-length hair behind her ears, which are sparkling with the half-carat diamond studs she bought herself after her last promotion at the advertising agency where she works. “You’re not losing your mind; you’re just overreacting.”
“Is that not the same thing?”
Though Emily’s usually the one with spot-on sage advice and oodles of experience to back her up, ever-maternal Lara also comes through with flying colors. She’s a great listener (fab when needing to vent), tries to take a rational approach to issues (fab when you’ve got a flair for the melodramatic from time to time), and is a get-down-to-business kind of woman (fab because her no-bullshit attitude is just what a girl needs sometimes).
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 5
