Brunch at Bittersweet Café

by Carla Laureano

  “Are you sure you’re not a real estate agent in disguise?”

  “Told you,” Rachel said through the screen.

  Alex passed the phone back. “I just don’t want you to be unhappy with what you’ve done to a place that holds so many memories.”

  He was an uncanny judge of character if he could tell that about her in the little time he’d known her. Part of the reason she hesitated to sell the house was because she knew someone would come in and do a massive renovation and destroy all the house’s original charm. If she could update it while keeping its integrity, she’d sleep better at night. Or during the day, as the case might be.

  Rachel reappeared with a wooden peel holding a free-form pizza heaped with vegetables, its edges blackened by the flame. Melody’s mouth practically watered at the sight of it. The moules on Saturday had been amazing, but after the day she’d had, pizza and wine and butterscotch bars—hopefully with good coffee—would feed her soul as much as her body.

  Her friend cut the pizza into diagonal strips with a dangerous-looking mezzaluna, and then it was a free-for-all to grab the crispiest slices.

  Melody closed her eyes to savor the perfectly tender vegetables on top of the crisp pizza crust and sighed with happiness. “You did a garlic Parmesan cream sauce.”

  “I figured I was allowed to deviate from traditional primavera since it’s pizza.”

  “It’s good Parmesan.”

  “Local. Makes up for the fact it’s not Italian.”

  Alex was looking between the two of them with amusement. She supposed to someone who didn’t habitually deconstruct every item in his head, their food banter probably was funny. It didn’t take them long to polish off the pizza, and then Rachel made coffee while Melody transferred some of the butterscotch bars to a plate.

  When they finally dug in, the bars earned a wide-eyed look from Alex. “These are really good.”

  “They are,” Rachel said with a nod. “I can imagine them served warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. A twist on a brownie sundae.”

  “Mmm,” Melody agreed. “With a drizzle of homemade caramel on top?”

  “That would be divine. You should make that happen.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit . . . homey? It’s straight-up Americana, and we both usually gravitate toward French. Or at least European. I figured our place would be along those lines. Fresh-baked pastries in the mornings, European-style breads in the afternoon.”

  “Both of us are grounded in French cooking, but I don’t want to be theme-y. We call it something like La Maison and the first time I want to do an udon bowl as a lunch special, everyone loses their minds. Suddenly the menu is unfocused and the reviews say ‘award-winning chef falls flat.’”

  Melody didn’t blame her for being wary. After all, an unfair restaurant review started the debacle that lost her Paisley. “It doesn’t have to be that on-the-nose. And I don’t want to replicate Paris. I was just thinking if we’re going to do this, let’s open a place that really reflects the things we love.”

  “I agree. We may be French at heart, but I’m not going to turn down a really good home-cooked lasagna. And Dutch apple pie à la mode is one of life’s great summer pleasures.”

  Melody held up a hand. “I trust you absolutely on the food. And the business decisions.”

  “And I trust your baking and design vision.”

  “Trust is great, but you need to nail down your concept,” Alex said. “It’s going to determine your location. Different neighborhoods will embrace different concepts.”

  “Alex is right,” Rachel said. “I’ll start working on the menu so you’ll have an idea of what I’m thinking and what kind of baked goods I’m going to need to go along with them . . .”

  “. . . and I’ll start working on the dessert and bakery menu. What do you think? Meet back at the end of next week?”

  “In the meantime—” Alex tapped something into his phone, and Melody’s cell beeped a moment later—“call my contractor and see what he says. Maybe a real estate agent, too, for some advice on fixing the house up as a rental.”

  “Thanks, Alex. I’ll check it out.” For the first time, Melody realized what she had taken on. Fixing up a house to rent, selling a classic car, all so she could start a risky business with her best friend. It made her question whether she was up to the challenge. After all, her track record for sticking with a single project was woefully poor. What if she couldn’t do it all? What if she let Rachel down?

  No, she wasn’t going to think that way. Focusing on the negative would only distract her from the positives—finally, she’d be getting the thing she’d always wanted. Not just the chance to be her own boss, but the opportunity to remedy the lack that had been hovering at the edge of her consciousness her entire adult life.

  Roots.

  Chapter Ten

  TEMPORARY INSANITY.

  That was the only way Justin could explain how he’d managed to keep things friendly and platonic with Melody, only to blow it at the last minute by asking her to dinner.

  Not that he didn’t want to take her to dinner. She was . . . magnetic. That was the only word he could think of that came close. Beautiful, smart, funny, sensitive. He was acutely aware of wherever she was in relation to him, like the pull of a compass needle toward north. By the end of the day, worn out from pretending he had no intentions beyond friendship, it had been all he could do not to kiss her. So he’d asked her out instead.

  And then he’d gone upstairs to find an e-mail agreeing to the date he’d proposed for a tour of the charter business and realized what an utter nitwit he really was.

  But what was done was done. He wouldn’t back out on the car project because he really did owe her one, and besides, even if it wasn’t a car he’d personally chosen, it would be fun. He would do some research this week and play off the dinner as an informational meeting. Kind of a jerk move, but not as much a jerk move as getting involved with a woman he’d have to bail on in a few months.

  He did still need to clear the whole car idea with his dad, though, and he hadn’t even mentioned the Florida plan. So on Thursday morning, Justin made the trip across town to his father’s house.

  The painted-brick bungalow was located in Washington Park West, bought by his parents long before the neighborhood became one of Denver’s hottest and most expensive districts, maintaining a quiet family feel with large lots and well-kept homes. Justin pulled up on the street and stepped out of his SUV, pausing at the curb. He’d grown up here, but it had been years since it felt like home. He strode up the front pathway to the door and knocked before letting himself in with the key.

  “Hey, Dad, are you home?”

  “In here.” The voice came from the living room, and he heard the faint drone of the TV in the background. Justin moved through the hallway, jingling his keys in his hand, until he came to his dad sitting in a recliner, a cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Still in his pajama pants and a white T-shirt.

  “I thought you’d be back. When did you get in?”

  “Last night. I’m only back until Saturday, though.” Rich Keller, though he might not look like it at the moment, was a senior pilot at United Airlines, where he’d flown for the last thirty-five years, his seniority granting him the ability to dictate his lines and his schedule. Unlike his son, who pretty much went where the company routed him.

  Justin wandered toward the coffeepot in the kitchen. “You mind?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Justin poured himself a cup, then plopped onto the sofa placed diagonally to his dad’s chair. “You have a final flight scheduled yet?”

  Rich gave him a pointed look. “You didn’t come over early on a day off to talk about my retirement. What’s up?”

  Justin pulled up the charter listing on his phone and passed it to his dad.

  “Florida, huh? They’re asking a lot of money.”

  “About five hundred thousand more than we’re willing to
pay.”

  Rich let out a low whistle. “Revenue justify the asking price?”

  “Not sure yet. It depends on their liabilities. We’re going there in a couple of weeks to check it out in person, look over the aircraft, meet the staff.”

  “You have a lawyer yet?”

  “Pete’s taking care of that. There’s a lot to like about this company. The owner’s willing to stay on for six months for the transition. And he’s had it up for sale for over a year, so we think he might be willing to make a deal for the right buyers. It’s just all dependent on the timing. I don’t want to quit AvionElite until my stock is vested and I can take it with me.”

  “If you’re that desperate to get out of fractional flying, it’s not too late to start a career in the majors. Internal recs still mean something, you know. With your hours and qualifications, you would have no trouble picking up an airline job.”

  “And I’d be starting over as a junior first officer, at the mercy of the worst lines and schedules. No, thank you. If I were going to do that for another ten years, I’d stay where I am.”

  “If that’s your choice . . . I just never thought of you being happy with day charters.” Rich shrugged. “I did get my official retirement date.”

  “They’re finally prying your hands off the controls?”

  Rich grinned. “April 21. Minneapolis-Denver. You want to ride along?”

  It was a tradition on an airline pilot’s last flight to invite family and friends to come along, where they usually had some sort of celebration with cake and balloons at the gate. “I think I’m working, but I’ll have to check.”

  “If you can make it, do. If not, no big deal.”

  “I’ll do my best. I did want to ask you something, though. I found another project car. Fixing it up for a friend. I wanted to make sure you were okay with me keeping it here before I arrange to have it towed.”

  Now Rich’s interest was piqued. “Oh? What is it?”

  “A 1971 AMC Hornet SC/360.”

  “Who is she?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you. You wouldn’t give that car a second look, no matter how rare, if there wasn’t a girl involved.”

  He’d give his dad this: he didn’t miss anything. “Just a woman I met over the weekend. She did me a big favor, so I’m happy to do one in return. It’ll be easy. It’s in great shape.”

  “She know what it’s like to date a pilot?”

  “It’s not like that—” not yet anyway— “and she works in food service, so she knows weird schedules.”

  “Food service?” Rich lifted an eyebrow. “She’s a waitress?”

  “Pastry chef.”

  “Ah. It’s fine if you want to keep it here. No other use for the extra bay in a three-car garage.”

  “Thanks. I already ordered the carb kit and hoses, but I haven’t been able to start it to know how it runs. She’s just going to sell it, but I’d like to give her a chance to make as much as she can off it.”

  “Let me know if you want help.” Rich drained his coffee cup and set it aside. “If the weather stays good, I was thinking about taking up the RV-7 tomorrow. Feel like coming?”

  “Absolutely.” It had been months since they’d gone up together in their plane; both of them flew it independently when they had free time, but Justin always liked to fly with his dad. It reminded him of the days after his parents had gotten divorced when he was struggling through the changes in his life. Somehow things always seemed better in the air, less urgent, as if the intensity of his troubles faded as the distance from the ground increased. Even now, he felt a clarity in the left seat of a plane that he rarely felt anywhere else.

  “You know, you’ll have a lot more time for recreational flying when you’re retired. How does it feel to be leaving it behind?”

  “I’m not going to lie. Fantastic.” Rich grinned and pushed himself out of the chair, then carried his empty cup to the kitchen. “Now about this girl . . .”

  “I told you, there’s nothing going on with this girl.”

  “And I told you, I don’t believe you.” His expression turned serious. “If you’re really leaving Denver in a couple of months, you’ll leave her alone. Help her out, since you’ve already agreed to work on the car, but don’t get involved.”

  “I’ve already thought of that, Dad. That’s why I called her a friend. She seems fun, but I’ve got this sense that deep down, she’s probably the relationship type. Maybe if I were going to stick around—”

  Rich pegged him with a stern look. “Don’t kid yourself, Justin. If that were really the issue, you would have stayed with what’s-her-name—”

  “Sarah.”

  “You would have stayed with Sarah. It’s okay. No one is forcing you to do things the traditional way. I’ve got plenty of nephews to carry on the Keller name. Better that you know what you want now than find out fifteen years after you’re married.”

  Justin shrugged. “If we get this charter, I can fly as much or as little as I want. Who knows? Maybe I’ll decide family life is exactly what I want.”

  “Whatever you say.” His dad clapped him on the shoulder and then stood. “I’m going to get dressed. Feel like walking to Kimball’s for lunch?”

  “Sure.” While his dad was changing, Justin went to the garage and began sorting through his tools, organizing the already-organized collection in its big black chest. The whole time, his mind turned over his dad’s words, his warning. He wanted to believe his dad was wrong, that he was simply letting his own bias color his outlook. But Justin’s own experiences had proven that outlook correct too many times.

  Which left him perpetually single with a string of first and second dates to pass the time. He simply wasn’t willing to give up the thing that made him . . . him, no matter how great the woman might be. And yet he didn’t want to get to his dad’s age and realize he had no one to spend his retirement with. Maybe this Florida thing was exactly what he needed to break him out of this no-win cycle.

  A fresh start.

  Chapter Eleven

  WORK HAD ALWAYS BEEN somewhat tedious, but now that Melody knew she was on borrowed time, it was downright torturous. Every batch of dough became a mental critique: what she would do differently when she made it in her own place, how she would improve upon the breads in her current routine. The easy rhythm she usually found in the scraping and kneading of dough and the physical labor of lugging sacks of ingredients eluded her. Now that she and Rachel had decided to move forward with the café, she wanted it here now. She longed to be testing recipes for their own place, overseeing construction, finalizing menus and design decisions. Never mind the fact that she was getting way ahead of herself—they didn’t even have a name or a location—she was still living firmly in the future.

  But that didn’t mean there wasn’t work to do. She spent her non-baking hours downloading menus from restaurants she admired, regardless of whether they were in San Francisco, New York, Austin, or London. She flipped through her pastry books, brainstorming ways to transform traditional confections into something new and exciting. She spent hours on Pinterest pinning images of residential and retail spaces that inspired her.

  Fortunately, Rachel seemed just as enthusiastic. The recipes that appeared on their shared Pinterest board expressed that clearly enough, just as her pins to the design board showed that they had very different tastes. Rachel gravitated toward the clean and industrial, while Melody liked soft and classic. There was an intersection in there somewhere, hopefully something different than the vintage-industrial look that had taken over the city’s cafés. Something that implied the established overlaid by the modern. That sent Melody in search of photos of contemporary decor in historic spaces from all over Europe.

  By the end of the week, she was pretty sure her eyes were permanently crossed from staring at a screen.

  She dragged herself in from work on Saturday morning, intending to grab a few hours’ sleep before she headed over to The Engl
ish Department for brunch with Rachel and Ana. She was just pulling off her boots when a text message vibrated her phone.

  Hey, it’s Justin. Just confirming tomorrow night. Do you like Asian food?

  The jitters she had suppressed all week came rushing back. Even though he was merely words on the screen right now, he might as well be standing next to her considering how breathless she felt. She typed and deleted her response until she had something suitably casual. I do! Looking forward to it. Still picking me up at 6?

  If that works for you. Address?

  She typed her address in quickly and waited. And waited. But her text remained the last one on the screen. She pulled off her flour-dusted clothes and yanked on a pair of threadbare yoga pants and an old T-shirt with the collar cut out. Still nothing. She broke down and texted back, Dress code?

  This time, little dancing dots appeared, indicating his reply. Sorry. Spilled coffee all over my kitchen. Dress code is casual.

  Melody laughed. At least he was secure enough to admit when he did something stupid. But the casual dress code . . . that meant they weren’t going anywhere fancy. She wasn’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment. Either way, she wasn’t going to let on. See you tomorrow.

  Sounds good. I’ve got info on your car to discuss. Makes more sense to do it in person.

  Okay, that was a little . . . odd. Maybe he thought she was in a big rush to get the car finished? If that were the case, she’d already have had it towed instead of waiting on Justin to give her the thumbs-up.

  She plugged in her phone and climbed into bed, where she tossed and turned, her bone-deep exhaustion unable to keep her from replaying the text exchange with Justin. Had she misread him after all?

  No, she was overthinking things as usual. He was the one who had asked her out. Were he having second thoughts, he would have canceled. She just had to keep her expectations low. Dinner didn’t mean he was looking for a long-term commitment, just a night out. So for now, that’s where Melody would start.