When I arrived home I considered giving Claire a call to shoot the breeze, or seeing if Lara or Jackie were up for sushi or something, but I opted for a quiet night in instead.
Lara probably had a date with Worth…or the office, Jackie something similar, and I didn’t want to get in the way. Claire and I had already chatted this morning when I was neck-deep in brownie batter. We’d caught up on all the usual stuff: She and a college senior interning at the hospital named Stacey were becoming friends—Claire swore she’d never replace me, but that she was really glad to chip away at her loneliness. She also said Conner’s still doing well at work. He’s making a great impression on his boss, and Conner assures Claire that their move to Spokane was a wise, though difficult, decision.
I inhale the feminine scent of the bath oil—rosemary mixed in with the slightest hint of cinnamon. I slip the bookmark, a handmade one from Randy’s, in between the pages of my latest read, An Unfinished Life, a JFK biography that’s been on my want-to-read Goodreads list for at least two years.
As I slither down in my hot and steaming bath, gently swishing the water about with my fingertips, I finally begin to feel calm, at peace. Exhaustion has set in.
There are no more memories left of Brandon or Henri I wish to consider, no more reflections of that summer night with Chad. It’s just me, the warmth of the bath, and the peace of the still air.
Chasing love is tiring; finding it seems impossible. But I have my work, I have my friends, and dear god help me I have plenty of past experiences to remind me that searching for love is not always flowers and rainbows.
And, though I really didn’t care too much, I still have that date I promised Jackie and Lara I’d make with Dean. I know that will go nowhere, but I’ll give it a shot. You never know what can happen when you decide to break your rules, let go of a bit of control, and do what your girlfriends think is best.
***
“Omigod! Omigod!” Jackie cries, prancing up to me behind the counter of the café. “Can you believe Em’s going to be here in five days?” She grabs me by the arm and tugs at it. “Aren’t you freaking out?”
“Yes,” I say through a throaty laugh. “I’m freaking out.”
“And Claire in just a week! Agh! This is so exciting! All the girls back together. I mean all! It has been Way. Too. Long.” Jackie sets one hand on her slim hip and shakes her head in astonishment. “It’s almost too good to be true!”
I kick the lower oven door closed with the heel of my charcoal-grey ballet flat and carry the banana bread loaf to the center island table. “You have no idea how pumped I am about this, Jack.”
“Well you’re not freaking out here.” Jackie motions a hand my way, running it up and down. “Look at you. So composed. Where is the freak-out mode?”
“Jackie,” I titter, “you are a lively ball of joy, good heavens. Caffeine much this morning?”
“Working on the third cup.” She shrugs.
“Trust me, I’m thrilled. I just have a million and one things to do at work.”
“Yeah.” She pans around the kitchen, lips pursed to the side. “Well, speaking of work, I should head out, too. Thanks again for letting me drop more fliers and cards by.” She pulls a refill stack from her flashy designer handbag. “I swear these things are flying off the shelf here! And Andrew said some of his colleagues’ wives are even interested in my services. How fab is that, right?”
“Super fab.” I grab a knife from the drawer. “Rich clients equal super fab.”
I’m about to test the center of the loaf when I realize the thing’s not even baked through.
“What the hell?” I gasp. I touch the side of the pan quickly, careful not to burn myself. “Wha—?” I press my fingers to the metallic side for a long while. “The thing’s freakin’ cold!”
“Uhh, I’m dodging this crisis.” Jackie begins to scamper towards the exit on high heels. “Thanks again for letting me refill.”
I charge over to the oven and yank open the door. “Oh, no,” I groan when I realize the should-be-piping-hot oven is as cold as the banana bread batter.
“Jack,” I shout, slamming the oven door closed.
“Yeah?” She looks fearful of what I’ll ask as she slowly turns around. “I don’t know how to fix ovens,” she splutters, “but I can totally recommend high-end designer replacements.”
She clicks over to me, rifling through her bag. “I’m always begging clients to let me redo their kitchens, because there are so many fabulous ovens and appliances and gadgets out there.”
“Jack.” I rub at my forehead, then glance at my watch. I still have another hour before Evelyn arrives. I’ve got a café full of customers up front, and now I’m down one oven. “One quick favor,” I plead of her.
“Yeah?” Her face still has fear written all over it.
“Can you be a doll and just dial the appliance repairman on my cell? Book an appointment with him for the soonest available date.” I rinse my hands clean of the residual oil from the pan. “Please. I’m swamped, and if you could do me this little favor—ASAP appointment—I’ll love you forever.”
“All right,” she says glumly. She retrieves my cell phone from the counter. “But only because I love you.”
I thank her and charge towards the front.
“Wait!” Jackie calls out.
I give her an impatient look, tapping my toes.
“Have you asked out that law student yet? Dean? You know that’s the second part of why I came over today?” She gives me a quick and flirty wink. “You told Lara and me that you were going to finally do something about your love life and—”
“Jackie, please!” I hold up a halting hand. “Not right now. I’ve got half a functioning kitchen all of a sudden and a sea full of customers. Oh, and no help.”
“I’m helping,” she says in a whining tone. “And I can help even more.” She returns to searching her bag. “I just picked up this magazine, in fact, that has a full display of top-of-the-line kitchen appliances. I can leave the magazine with you—”
“Jackie, I can’t afford one of those fancy ovens.” I wipe at my brow again and heave a heavy sigh.
“And Dean?” she dares to ask.
I glare at her and she immediately clamps her mouth shut. “I’ll make the call,” she says with a wrinkled nose.
“Thank you,” I say through meditative breaths, slow and steady, beckoning a calm as I make my way back out to the front.
Then, speaking of the devil, guess who decides to waltz on in to the café right this instant?
That’s right: Dean. I meant to ask him out last week when he was here, honest, but I totally lost my nerve. Now that he’s here, and now that Jackie’s goading me, I can’t lose my nerve again. Jackie will never let me live it down if I don’t pull through.
“Hi, Sophie,” Dean greets, his lips parting into a half-grin. “How’s things?”
I dramatically blow a puff of air up at my bangs. “Fantastic.” My tone couldn’t get any more sarcastic.
“Sounds bad.” He grips the strap of the messenger bag that stretches across his chest.
“Kitchen chaos. Nothing that hasn’t happened before,” I mumble. I slide open the refrigerated display case and move the lone remaining Cuppa Cancun cupcake to the plate filled with Banana Split Delight cupcakes.
I put one hand on my hip and force a merry, customer service tone. “What can I get for you today?” I ask Dean.
“Some of your delicious almond biscotti, if you’ve got some.”
“Sure do.” I reach into the large glass cookie jar with a pair of tongs. “For here, I presume?”
“Yup, and a double shot espresso.”
“Double shot it is. Anything else, Dean?” I ask right as Jackie click-clacks from the kitchen, my iPhone in her raised hand.
“For the biscotti-baker to join me,” he says coyly. “If she has time and the kitchen chaos isn’t anything she can’t handle.”
“Well, uhh…” I stammer, sett
ing the biscotti onto a saucer. I begin to absentmindedly sweep away the crumbs I trailed onto the counter when Jackie comes stomping over.
“Can’t blame a guy for being persistent,” Dean says. He walks away for a brief moment as I stand there, silent. He puts his messenger bag on one of the few free tables near the entrance of the café.
“Sophie,” Jackie whispers out hoarsely, rushing up to me. Her arms are akimbo and, despite her high heels, I still tower over her a good six inches at least. She looks up at me with growing vexation. “Sophie, what did we discuss?”
“Stop it,” I whisper back, just as hoarse. “Not now.”
“If not now, when?” Still speaking hoarsely, she inches closer to me. “Come on. Don’t be chicken.” She waves my cell phone in front of my face. “I took care of your task, now go take care of yours. Ask him out all ready.”
“Jack—” I instantly clamp my mouth closed and poke Jackie in the ribs as Dean reappears.
“D—double shot espresso, coming up,” I hastily spit out a response to Dean. “And your biscotti!” I push the saucer forward, and Dean just looks at me with a curious expression.
I can feel Jackie poke me surreptitiously in the back as she hands over my cell phone. “The repairman will be here next Monday,” she says, voice only slightly less hoarse. “Now get to work.”
“Whoa,” I gasp. “Next Monday? Monday?”
Jackie gestures with her eyes to Dean and doesn’t say a word.
“Ugh.” I grab one of the filter baskets and begin to pound out the used coffee grounds. “That’s the soonest he could come out, Jack?”
“Yup.” She leans into the counter and says to Dean, “Is there anything else you need? Anything else Sophie can get for you? Biscotti, espresso…” I can feel Jackie’s eyes boring into the back of my head, her words lingering in the air, her next words dangerously on the verge of humiliating me.
“Dean,” I blurt out in a rush. I drop what I’m doing and turn to him, avoiding eye contact with Jackie as a huge smile overcomes her face. “About that coffee date. How does this weekend sound? Say…Saturday? Saturday night?”
Chapter Twenty
“Oh, Claire,” I whine into the phone as I pace from my dining room to the living room. “Of all the times for my oven to decide to poop out on me.”
I pause the incessant pacing I’ve been doing for the past five minutes to turn down the volume on the TV. I was watching this fascinating MLK, Jr. piece on the History Channel before Claire rang me up with confirmation of her and Conner’s Christmas season trip to Seattle, only one week away! She called to make sure things are arranged for at least one reunion night, preferably when Emily will be in town. As is usually the case, one thing led to another and what began as a quick “just checking in” call has turned into an opportunity to bitch and gossip.
“Sophie,” Claire says in her signature peppy voice, “that oven’s always giving you trouble. Don’t be so surprised.”
“But during the holidays! What a fan-damn-tastic time, huh?”
“Please, if it were February you’d complain because of Valentine’s. If it were May you’d complain because of the wedding season. If it were—”
“Okay, I get the picture.” I mute the TV. “I’m a complainer.”
Claire clarifies in a lighthearted tone. “Not all the time, but come on. Where’s that positive mood? Em and I are coming to see you super soon; it’s Christmas time! I mean, it’s only the best and jolliest season of the year. Why be a downer?”
“Suppose so.” I give up the pacing in lieu of a slump on the sofa. “Hey, guess what?”
“What?”
“I’ve got a date.”
“Omigod! With?”
“Dean,” I say casually, hugging close a throw pillow, “that law student who’s always coming by the café.”
“Awesome.” She sighs dreamily. “Well good for you. This is just what you need, Sophie. I bet anything once you relax and let yourself actually have some fun…” Another sigh. “This is just what you need to de-funk.”
“I’m not funked.”
“You are so funked.”
“Well.” I toss the pillow aside.
“So are. It’s true,” she says. “But hey, after that insane admission of what really went on in Paris…with Henri…” She whistles for added drama. “I can see how you are so ready to get back into the dating scene and find something—someone—you can be serious about. Something honestly attainable. And, by the way, how could you have kept all that with Henri a secret for so long?”
“What’s the point in telling a futureless story, you know?”
“I guess,” she says after a quiet pause in the conversation.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, I wouldn’t say Dean’s that one—that really attainable and lasting relationship I want, but—”
“Oh, who cares! A date’s a date, Sophie. Have fun.”
“Yeah.” I roll onto my side on the sofa and prop a hand under my head. “It’s this Saturday, by the way. Saturday night, after work.” I sigh. “Should be interesting. Evelyn said she’d even close out for me so I could head out kinda early.”
“Nice. And you’ll totally call me afterwards to tell me the whole scoop?”
I smile and give a playful roll of the eyes before turning onto my back. “Do I have a choice, Claire?”
“Never.”
***
“I’m sorry, but we’re closing in ten,” I say at the sound of the café’s door bells chiming, my back to the door as I wipe down a table. “We’re closing up early tonight so it’s to-go orders only.”
I have no choice but to close a couple of hours early, because when you’re working with just one oven you can only crank out as many scones and cupcakes to stay open for so long.
“I’ll take a chocolate-something on the house,” Chad’s voice unexpectedly rings out.
“Chad?” I say, surprised to see him in the café tonight. Evelyn’s been off since noon—one of her busier days at school. “What are you doing here?” I begin wiping down a chair.
“Evelyn told me I should come by when I got off work,” he says breezily, ambling over. “What are you doing closing early?”
I wipe a small bead of sweat from my brow and toss the rag onto the table. “Apparently all the oven repairmen are backlogged around Christmas time with Thanksgiving turkey disasters, so there’s a bit of a waiting list this time of year.” I roll my eyes and return to finishing my cleaning job.
“Then good thing I swung over straight from work.” He sticks a hand in his black dress slacks pocket. “Or else you’d be short an emergency handyman.” He takes a seat at the table I’m in the midst of cleaning.
“Handyman?” I furrow my brow in total confusion.
“That’s right.” He leans back, balancing on two chair legs. “Your handyman.” He begins to roll up the sleeves of his powder-blue, button-down dress shirt. “Your oven. Evelyn said it’s busted.” He wiggles his eyebrows mock-teasingly, mock-seductively, and adds, “Closing early means losing business, and that’s you losing control…and money.”
“Point taken, Chad,” I say with a small grin.
“So, I’m here.” He finishes rolling up his sleeves, exposing his sinewy, tattooed forearms. “I’m ready to work.”
My gaze falls to the intricate root design of the tree tattoo—one of Chad’s artier patches of ink—that runs along the entire length of his right forearm. Small cursive words such as Trust, Risk, Laugh, and Love curl along some of the roots. It’s, as Chad likes to call it, his tree of life—his rather loud reminder of what life’s all about.
“Yeah, well…” I break my gaze and walk over to the counter to exchange my cleaning rag for a hardier sponge. “I think I’ll wait until the real handyman shows up, but thank you.” I flash him a quick smile and begin scrubbing hard at the dried specks of icing on the table at which Chad’s still comfortably seated.
“Come on,” he presses in a bewailing way, still rocki
ng back on two chair legs. “At least let me have a look.”
“All fours,” I say, pushing on his shoulder until he concedes, the chair no longer rocking back annoyingly.
“Raowww! Calm down there, Miss Perfection.”
“If you came to call me names and stall my closing and ruin my chairs then—”
He begins to laugh and wag his head. “You are a piece of work, Sophie. You know that?” He folds his hands and leans into the table. “Honest, all kidding aside. I came by to see if I could help with your oven. Evelyn said the thing’s really causing you trouble, and, well…” He waves a hand around the empty, low-lit café. “It’s hurting business if you have to close up early.”
He has a point, I think. There’s no harm in letting him try…
Immediately my mind runs over and again this “no harm in trying” mantra. I had the same line in the back of my mind when I finally gathered the gumption—as coerced as I was—to agree to a date with Dean. Seems to be the words I should live by.
What the hell?
“Fine,” I say at last. “I’ll take you up on your offer. Thank you.”
“Great.” He jumps up and follows me into the kitchen.
“But if you break it or make anything worse, then—”
“Chill, woman. Chill.”
***
“So what do you think it could be?” I ask after Chad’s poked and prodded at the oven for fifteen minutes. It doesn’t seem like he’s alighted on any magical cause-of-damage discovery, much less a quick-fix.
“Honestly?” He shines a flashlight behind the oven, which is pressed tightly against the wall. “I have no idea.”
I let out a loud moan and he rushes out, “But I’m thinking maybe you just got yourself a dud of an oven.”
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 15
