Brunch at Bittersweet Café

by Carla Laureano

  “I’m Ben Harrison. Would you like to step into my office? I’m sure you have a lot of questions for me.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Melody muttered, earning a nudge from Janna. She slipped into the farthest chair before the big mahogany desk and surreptitiously perused the room. Typical attorney’s office—a wall full of bookcases containing law references, the usual boring art. She noted a photo of Harrison with a red-haired woman and a preteen girl. Nice family. Traditional. Like she even knew what that meant.

  “I want to start by saying that I advised Beverly to talk to you as soon as she learned that she was seriously ill. But she was very adamant that this was the way she wanted to do things.”

  “That’s my mother,” Janna murmured. “Stubborn to the core.”

  Melody stared at the attorney. He sounded far more familiar with Beverly than mere legal counsel suggested. “How did you know my grandmother?”

  Harrison looked a little sheepish. “She played poker with my grandmother. I’ve known her for a few years.”

  Melody couldn’t help but smile. Not bridge or canasta, but poker. No doubt Grandma Bev could bluff a high roller in Vegas if she wanted to—no one ever seemed to guess at the sharp woman beneath the sweet granny exterior.

  Harrison continued. “She asked that I act as the executor of her estate. She didn’t want to be another point of contention between you two, nor did she want to be a burden. She said that she had her church family and friends around her, so she wasn’t lonely, and she didn’t want you to mourn her before her time. Hence making all her arrangements early. She insisted that we do this the same day as the memorial as well, so as not to drag out the process.”

  Melody felt a pang of guilt. Maybe her mother hadn’t arranged it to suit her schedule after all.

  Harrison took a file folder from a desk sorter and opened it. “Right. The documents are fairly involved, so if you’ll allow me to summarize, it will be a bit easier. Janna, to you, your mother has left the contents of her home, as well as her car. She believes you might wish to keep her jewelry, art, and family albums. But she suggests you hire a firm to liquidate the rest. She didn’t want you stuck in Colorado while you oversaw it.”

  Janna smothered her surprise. “Let me guess. She had a suggestion on who to use?”

  Harrison smiled reluctantly. “She did. Melody, to you she left in trust her liquid assets, her home, and her late husband’s car. Because you’re named as the sole beneficiary and successor trustee, those items are yours, today, without going through probate. I can help you navigate the trust details if you want. Janna, your items are outside the trust, but we’ll just need to complete some notarized paperwork to avoid court.”

  It was all Greek to Melody, these legal terms she’d rarely heard, and her head spun from the implications. Her grandmother had left her all her money, her house, and her husband’s car? It was almost too much to believe.

  “She left letters for each of you explaining her choices.” Harrison passed them each a sealed envelope, which Melody took with trembling fingers. “Now before we get to the paperwork, there’s a few more things we should discuss. . . .”

  After they signed the papers—Melody too dazed to know exactly what they were—they left the office, each with a folder of additional information in their hands. Melody barely registered her mother’s stiff posture. She was still too busy processing what had just happened, the envelope like a beacon in her hand, impossible to ignore. Had Grandma Bev explained why she hadn’t told Melody she was so sick? Apologized for not letting her say good-bye? She wasn’t sure she was ready to find out, especially with her mother looking over her shoulder.

  “I should have known,” Janna muttered in the backseat of the sedan.

  “Should have known what?” Melody knew better than to give her mother an open invitation like that. She was obviously in shock.

  “Oh, don’t pretend you’re surprised. I shouldn’t be. It’s just that after all I’ve done for her—”

  “Wait. All you’ve done for her?”

  “You were too young. You have no idea . . .”

  “I know that she quit her job as a professor to raise your daughter when you were too busy to do it yourself. I know she hated being on the road as much as I did, but she did it so you could have me and your career at the same time. And here you’re begrudging the fact that she left me more than you? Have you not seen where I live?”

  “Darlin’, you know I would gladly pay—”

  “I know you would. Just like I know your money always comes with strings. Or have you forgotten about my college tuition?”

  Janna sniffed and turned away, a hurt expression on her face. “I don’t know why I try. You’ve made up your mind that I was a horrible mother, and nothing I do will ever change that.”

  “No, Mom, you’re wrong. You weren’t a horrible mother. For that you would have had to be around in the first place.”

  Janna looked genuinely stricken then, but she shoved on her glasses and turned her head toward the window.

  The usual flood of regret and guilt rushed in. “Mom, I’m sorry—”

  “No, you’re right. And you’ve done just fine without me. Assuming you don’t get killed coming home to that ghetto apartment of yours.”

  And like that, the guilt evaporated. Melody sat back and stared out the opposite window, willing the car to go faster and deliver her from this uncomfortable reunion. There was too much water under the bridge, too many hurt feelings. Even when mourning the death of someone they both loved, they couldn’t put their differences aside.

  Maybe Beverly knew them best after all.

  Chapter Six

  MELODY ALMOST REGRETTED that Sunday was her night off, but when she crashed early and slept thirteen hours straight, it became clear that she’d needed the rest. The next morning, she groggily squinted at her phone, still tangled in her bedcoverings. She had a handful of missed calls and group texts from Rachel and Ana, timestamped the night before.

  Are you okay? Call us if you want company.

  Thinking of you. Let us know how you’re doing.

  And from Rachel: Brunch at my house tomorrow. No excuses.

  Melody glanced at the time and saw it was just past eight. She typed a reply: I’m there. What time?

  Immediately, Rachel came back, as if she had been waiting for the text. 10:30?

  Done. Melody put her phone aside and pushed herself up in bed, testing her body, her emotions. She felt wrung out and hollow from the grief of the last few days, and tears lingered beneath the surface, waiting for the least provocation.

  Melody shoved them back, pushing them down with a deep, shuddering breath. Her grandmother wouldn’t want her to weep. She was in the arms of her Savior, after all. If Bev were here, she’d get that stern, half-chiding look on her face and say, “Melody Anne, you have so much to be grateful for. Do you think God wants you to focus on what you’ve lost or what He’s given you?”

  She’d lost her grandmother. But she still had friends who loved her, and now she had the means to make her own choices. She owed it to Grandma Bev to be appreciative.

  Melody stumbled to the kitchen to start the coffee, bleary-eyed and aching in a way no force of will could completely assuage. She needed something to do before her restlessness made her stupid. Something to occupy her hands and mind. Something to honor Grandma Bev’s memory and the way she’d blessed her only grandchild even through her death.

  Which meant baking, of course. Preferably something complicated, even tedious. A dessert Grandma Bev loved.

  Macarons.

  Melody had long since perfected her recipe, which was no small feat considering the difficulties involved in making meringue at high altitude, but that had happened under the tutelage of a pastry chef, not in her grandmother’s kitchen. Try as Bev might—and she’d loved them, so she’d tried often—she’d never managed to achieve the fine-textured, perfectly proportioned pieds and crisp-tender bodies that characterize
d the French sandwich cookie. The first time Melody had achieved a perfect result, she’d swiped some from the bakery and FedExed them to her grandma.

  So chocolate macarons it would be. Melody methodically took out the ingredients—almond flour, cocoa, powdered sugar, granulated sugar, and eggs—and preheated her oven. Despite being a tiny electric range with a ridiculously small cavity, it heated evenly and consistently—perhaps the only reason she hadn’t fussed over the fact that two of the burners no longer worked. Should she complain to the landlord for a replacement, she’d have to learn all the quirks of a new appliance.

  She carefully separated the eggs one at a time into the bowl of her KitchenAid mixer, added the granulated sugar, and flipped it on, then sifted the almond flour and powdered sugar together into a bowl. By the time she got to the step of piping the batter, now chocolate colored and flavored, onto parchment, the fist in her stomach had begun to ease its grip. Baking might be an art, but it was predictable and scientific in a way life could never be.

  While the macarons were baking, she put together the chocolate-hazelnut buttercream filling, a simple process that took her mere minutes and had her wandering her small kitchen in circles while she waited for the second batch of cookies to come out. Then there was the seemingly endless wait for them to cool on the baking sheets before she could peel them from the parchment.

  When at last all the cookies had been paired up with a neat dollop of filling in the middle, she stacked them artfully on a creamware platter and started building her photo. This time, she chose a matelassé covering that she’d cut down from a damaged antique bedspread and stretched it over the table. One of her teapots and a pretty china cup later, and all that was left was to select a book.

  It didn’t take much thought. She moved into the bedroom and came back immediately with a slim English translation of Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. Grandma Bev had taught the play for years, but she’d always insisted that the makarons Nora nibbled must surely be the French variety and not the more likely Scandinavian coconut type—because who would waste so many calories on coconut? The recollection gave Melody a smile.

  She nestled the book into the composition and then snapped several photos, the best of which she uploaded immediately. And then she paused, stumped for a caption. Tears clogged her throat while she typed and discarded various ideas.

  Finally she just put, In loving memory of Beverly Patricia Keene and tapped Post before she could break down.

  “Well,” she said aloud, clearing her throat to rid it of a sudden lump. “I guess it’s time to go.”

  She quickly packaged the macarons in a plastic container and put it in the fridge, where they’d age to perfection in a few days, and went to put on real clothes. By the time she’d pulled up in front of Rachel’s house, she had herself mostly under control.

  Her friend opened the door and immediately enfolded her in a hug. “Mel. How are you?”

  Melody soaked up the comfort for a moment, then pulled back. “I’m okay. Really. I’m just a little stunned. So much has happened, I don’t even know where to begin.”

  Ana appeared in the hallway, dressed for work in a tailored sheath dress and high heels, her glossy dark hair twisted up at the back of her head. Of the three of them, she was the only one who held an actual corporate job, but she worked such long hours in her new position that she routinely slipped out to meet them. She squeezed Melody into a tight hug. “The only reason I’m not mad at you for not letting us come over is because I’m betting you were asleep.”

  “I was. I needed it.” Melody instantly felt better flanked by her two best friends. After nearly ten years of friendship with Ana and seven with Rachel, the women felt more like family than her actual blood relatives.

  For one thing, they didn’t breeze in and out of her life as it suited them.

  “So how was spending the day with your mom?” Ana asked as they walked into the kitchen. Something smelled amazing already—a quick peek into the oven showed that Rachel had bacon cooking on a sheet pan.

  “It was strained, as you might expect. The woman shows up at my door the day before the funeral, not even having had the decency to tell me what happened as soon as she found out? That’s a low, even for her.”

  “I’ve never quite understood your mother,” Rachel said. “But then again, I guess her career is pretty self-focused.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Melody seated herself at the table and accepted the mug of coffee Rachel put in front of her. “She had the gall to pull a guilt trip on me for not being more enthusiastic about seeing her.”

  Rachel sighed sympathetically and went back to chopping vegetables at her kitchen counter. Her relationship with her own mother was even less existent than Melody’s, but maybe that was easier. It was hard to move on when someone popped into your life as they wished, disrupted everything, and then bailed when they actually had to account for their actions.

  “That’s not even the weirdest thing, though. My grandmother had planned her own service and cremation. She even dictated that we meet with her lawyer the same day as the funeral. I had no idea she’d been ill, but obviously she saw it coming. Why wouldn’t she have told me?”

  “Maybe she didn’t want to upset your life like your mother does?” Ana suggested.

  “Maybe. She left me a letter, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to read it.”

  In the kitchen, Rachel poured eggs into one pan while simultaneously sautéing something in another. Even at home, she multitasked with ease, her movements quick and economical. Melody smiled. Definitely missing the restaurant.

  A couple of minutes later, Rachel slid a plate in front of Melody. “French-style omelet with sautéed mushrooms for Madame.” She glanced at Ana. “Veggie, right?”

  “You know me so well.” Ana smiled and turned back to Melody. “Do you want me to read it?”

  Melody pulled the envelope from her pocket and smoothed it out. Then she slid it across the table. “You better or I’ll never get to it. Wait for Rachel, though.”

  “Give me a minute. Ana, will you grab the orange juice from the fridge and put the butter on the table?”

  Ana rose gracefully, smoothing down her dress, and did as Rachel asked. Somehow she could make carrying orange juice look elegant. There were times when Melody envied her poise. Rachel and Melody lived in a different world completely, spoke a similar language, accepted the strange culture of the food service industry. Ana knew plenty about it, having done publicity for a number of restaurants, but she wasn’t part of it. When Melody thought of regular hours and a decent paycheck, she wondered if Ana didn’t have the right idea after all.

  As if she were reading her mind, Rachel asked, “Did your mom give you the third degree about your career choices again?”

  “Of course she did. She also referred to my neighborhood as the ghetto.”

  “That’s a little harsh,” Rachel scoffed. “Though I wouldn’t exactly keep my doors unlocked at night.”

  “Well, I suppose there’s a chance to change that, if I really wanted to.”

  Rachel looked questioningly at her as she delivered Ana’s veggie omelet. “Oh?”

  “It looks like I inherited my grandmother’s house, her husband’s car, and the whole of her liquid assets. Which was not a small sum.”

  “And you’re just now telling us that?” Ana asked. “Talk about burying the lede.”

  “It feels ghoulish to be thinking about my inheritance. She just died on Wednesday and already I should be figuring out what to do with what she left me?”

  “No, of course not,” Rachel said. “But being happy about that doesn’t mean you didn’t love her or you don’t miss her. She knew how hard you work and how difficult things have been for you over the last few years.”

  “I know. I’m just not ready to deal with it all.”

  Melody fidgeted with her coffee cup until Rachel came back to the table with her own omelet, the bacon, and a plate of brioche toast.


  After Rachel said a brief prayer, asking for God’s blessing for the food and comfort for Melody, Ana looked between them. “Are you ready for me to read this?”

  Melody set her fork down. “Go ahead.”

  Ana unfolded the letter and scanned it quickly before she began.

  “Dear Melody,

  “If you’re reading this, then my fears were correct and I really didn’t have much time left. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you in advance. My heart condition came on so fast and progressed so quickly that I was still trying to decide my course of action. I didn’t want you to worry and I certainly didn’t want you to drop your life to come to me. Don’t say that you wouldn’t have, because I know you better than that. I raised you, remember? I know the lovely young woman you’ve become. I know how you habitually put others before yourself and delay your own dreams for the future.

  “If you expected mushiness from me for my last words, you seem to have forgotten all the tough love I’ve dished out over the years. So take this to heart: stop putting off your plans. Do you remember when you first told me that you no longer wanted to study literature and you wanted to bake? You said you’d rather fail at something you loved than succeed at the wrong thing. You’ve been waiting for your chance. That time is now.

  “I’ve left you my house in Longmont, Grandpa Ralph’s car, and my remaining investments. You may do whatever you wish with these things. Please don’t look at them like time capsules or antiques that need to be kept to honor my memory. They were tools to live the life that I wanted, the life that I wanted to give you. Your mother is probably going to have strong opinions on the matter, but don’t let her sway you. I’ve always known that God has a plan for you that doesn’t look anything like hers or mine.

  “Sell what you need to fund your dreams. If that’s going back to Paris to further your education as a pastry chef, do it and have a crepe in my honor in Le Marais. If it’s traveling the United States and working with the best bakers you can find, do that too. It will make me happy that I’ve been able to launch you into the next phase of your career and give you some independence. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about artists from raising two of them, it’s that the need to make money from your art is the quickest way to kill inspiration. So take chances knowing that your future is at least somewhat secure. Make things that feed your soul and not just your body, whether it’s your fabulous custard or the perfect loaf of bread.