Brunch at Bittersweet Café

by Carla Laureano

  Her heart jumped again at the thought of Justin and didn’t stop its pounding the whole way back to his dad’s house. She focused on the Hornet’s bumper on the truck in front of her, tried to convince herself there was nothing to be nervous about. But she hadn’t seen him or really heard from him in the week since their kiss—since she’d thrown herself at him.

  She didn’t have long to wait. When she pulled up behind the tow truck in front of a brick bungalow in a nice, old part of Washington Park, Justin was waiting on the front step with a steel travel mug in hand. He rose to his feet, and even at a distance, his presence put jitters in her stomach.

  He met her halfway down the driveway as the truck driver let down the back end of the bed with a whirr of motors. “Hey there. Car looks better than I remembered.”

  She smiled. “I know. It gives me some hope for it.”

  He smiled back but kept his distance. “I’ve got what I need to get it started, I think. I’m anticipating finding some surprises once it’s running. Hopefully it won’t be too expensive.”

  “Give me the total of what you’ve already spent and I’ll reimburse you right away.”

  “That’s really not necessary.”

  “It’s very necessary. You’re doing me a favor, and you’re already donating your time and energy. I’m not going to let you float the cost of the parts.”

  He looked like he still wanted to protest, but he finally nodded. “I’ll total up the receipts and let you know. Two or three hundred so far.”

  “If we can get even close to twenty thousand from it, I’ll consider that an excellent investment.”

  They watched the tow truck driver unload the vehicle close to the third bay of the garage in silence, but it wasn’t a comfortable silence. Tension practically poured off Justin. This wasn’t the flirtatious, fun-loving guy she’d been out with last weekend.

  This was a guy who was blowing her off.

  “I’ve got something for you,” he said.

  She blinked. “You do?”

  “Yeah, hold on a minute.” He turned and went back into the house, then came out with a big twine-handled paper bag. He passed it to her.

  “What is this?” She dug into it and found half a dozen loaves of bread. Beautiful bread. Strikingly familiar bread.

  “I ended my tour in San Francisco last night. You’d mentioned Noelle Patisserie, so I thought . . .” He shrugged. “Marin insisted on sending you these. I told them about your new place and they said they’d come by and see you if they were ever in Denver.”

  Melody inhaled the scent of fresh wheat and yeast, immediately transported back to her time at Noelle Patisserie. They were more than a day old already, but she knew they would still be better than anything she had baked in the last several years. Jeff was a genius; she could only hope to approach his level of skill someday.

  Impulsively, she set the bag down and threw her arms around Justin’s neck. “Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me.”

  His arms went awkwardly around her, barely touching her. She drew away, confused. He’d done something incredibly nice for her, gone to a lot of trouble even—the bakery was nowhere near the airport—and now he didn’t want credit for it? There was a guilty look on his face that made her stomach quiver again, this time not in a good way.

  “It was nothing,” he said. Almost like he was begging her to believe it.

  Melody gathered herself and stepped back, hurt building inside her. Not that she had any reason to be hurt. He had never promised her anything. Never said he wanted to see her again. He hadn’t initiated that kiss, even though he’d been fully committed to it.

  Now he was realizing that it had all been a mistake. As was she.

  She cleared her throat. “I appreciate it. Both the bread and the help with the car. Let me know when you have the total and I’ll get you the money right away.”

  “Melody—”

  “I’ve got to go. I’ve been up for twenty-one hours. Can barely keep my eyes open.” She threw him a halfhearted smile, took her bag of bread, and walked to her Jeep without looking back.

  When she passed through the door of her apartment a few minutes later, her eyes were still dry, but the weight in her chest had only grown. After her grandmother’s empty house, Justin’s rejection was one too many blows to her emotions. She pulled a bread knife from her drawer and carefully sliced the heel off one of the country loaves, then slathered it with good European butter. When she sank her teeth into it, she sighed.

  She hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Justin there was something elemental about good bread. Closing her eyes and savoring Jeff’s creation took her back to a time when she was so filled with excitement about finding her calling that she would have rather worked than slept, and there were many times when she’d made that choice. It had been worth the sacrifice to find something that clicked. Something that she could stick to. Something that proved she wasn’t the flighty, distracted screwup her mother made her out to be, but someone with real skills and talents.

  A tear trickled from her lower lashes, and she swiped it away angrily. She wouldn’t cry over Justin. All this proved was that he wasn’t the one for her, and he’d done her the favor of letting her know that early on. If Grandma Bev were here, she’d fix a stern glare on Melody for letting a temporary setback skew her perspective. “When we let ourselves cry over things that weren’t ours in the first place,” she used to say, “it’s like telling God that we don’t appreciate what He’s actually given us.”

  Melody rubbed her eyes dry and drew herself up with a deep breath. No more self-pity. She’d never been promised someone to spend her life with, someone to fill her heart. Maybe that’s why she’d been given this passion for baking. Maybe that’s why every relationship she’d had so far had ended in failure—because it was a distraction from her true life’s work.

  She ate one more slice of bread before she replaced the loaf in the bag and stumbled to her bedroom. In a couple of weeks, Justin would be out of her life. The car would be sold to a collector, and she’d be neck deep in her new venture. It was time for the hopeless dreamer to settle down and build something real and lasting.

  It took several minutes to fall asleep, but by the time exhaustion took her, she almost believed it.

  * * *

  “Another one bites the dust.” Melody slid into a seat at one of their favorite breakfast joints near Coors Field late the next morning, a false note of perkiness in her voice.

  Ana and Rachel stared at her. Both of them were still dressed for church, from where she assumed they’d just come. Melody had gotten off work at six, slept about four hours, and then dragged herself out for an emergency brunch meeting. It didn’t matter. She’d slept on and off all day yesterday until it was time to go to work and throw herself into making the best bad bread she could.

  “We have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ana said finally. “What bites the dust?”

  “Another man. Justin. I think that’s over.”

  Rachel sighed, her expression twisting in sympathy. “What happened? Things looked so promising.”

  “I think I read too much into it. And as usual, I rushed things. Kissed him. Figured the fact he kissed me back actually meant something.” Melody picked up the menu and scanned it, even though she wasn’t really seeing the words.

  “What did he say exactly?” Ana’s tone indicated she was going into full deconstructionist mode.

  Melody told them about the bread and Justin’s uncomfortable reaction. “It was weird. He’s been so smooth and flirtatious from the moment we met. And all of a sudden it’s like he found out something terrible about me.”

  “What a jerk,” Ana said. “Talk about mixed signals.”

  “That’s exactly what it is. Mixed signals.” Melody shook her head. “Where is our server? I really need some coffee.”

  “Maybe he’s just reluctant to get involved with you because you’ve got so much going on. Starting a restaurant an
d everything . . .”

  Melody waved a hand. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m over it.”

  Ana and Rachel exchanged a look.

  “What? I am. It wasn’t like we were together or anything. I’m fine.”

  Rachel leaned forward over her folded arms. “It’s okay to be sad, Melody. Or upset. Or angry. You know you don’t have to put on a brave face for us.”

  “Who’s putting on a brave face? I’ve got much better things to worry about right now. Like the café.”

  “If you say so,” Ana said, looking unconvinced.

  “I do. If I’m going to be upset, I have much better reasons. Get this . . . my mom’s already emptied out the house.”

  Now her friends got serious. Rachel’s tone changed. “No. Are you okay?”

  “I was shocked and a little hurt. I mean, it’s not like she did anything wrong. That’s what Grandma Bev told her to do, even gave her the contact information for a liquidator. I just wasn’t expecting everything to change so fast.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last year,” Rachel said softly, “it’s that change feels terrible at the time but can be really good in the end. I thought my life was over when I lost the restaurant. But you know what? Now I’d rather have a smaller, lower-profile place with one of my best friends than any fine-dining restaurant or big award. And I wouldn’t be getting that if everything hadn’t fallen apart.”

  The server finally arrived and took Melody’s coffee request as well as their food orders. As soon as the woman bustled away, Melody picked up where they’d left off. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself. I’ve always been so restless, I’ve been reluctant to commit to something like this. There’s always the ‘what if.’ What if I want to travel? What if I meet a great guy? What if I want to do something else? But none of those things have happened. So why am I spending all my effort not having a life in case I get a life later? It’s stupid.”

  Rachel smiled sympathetically. “It’s human nature.”

  “It’s stupid human nature. So I’m done with that. I’m excited about this café. It may not be Paris, but you know what? You guys aren’t in Paris. So I’ll bring a little Paris to Denver and we’ll be feeding the souls of all those other people who dream of Europe and can’t get there. That sounds like a worthy endeavor to me.”

  “Hear, hear,” Ana said.

  The server sped by long enough to leave Melody’s coffee, and she raised her mug. “To new adventures, close to home.”

  “To new adventures,” Rachel and Ana echoed, clinking their coffee mugs together. The pain in Melody’s chest eased a degree. She didn’t need anything else. She had her friends, and now she had a purpose. And if she kept putting one foot in front of the other, everything would work out the way it was supposed to in the end.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE NEXT WEEK PASSED with a steady, measured gait. Despite the brave face Melody had put on for her friends, Justin’s rejection still stung. Not a deep wound; more like a paper cut she forgot about until she had to squeeze lemons, startling her that it still existed. Surprisingly, her feelings about her grandmother’s passing were similarly dim; most days the grief was a shadow, lingering in the background.

  So she did what she always did when she was avoiding something: she baked.

  Not the fancy French pastries she was supposed to be testing for her future menu, but the comforting sweets of her childhood. Her Instagram feed filled up with gorgeous photos of her creations displayed alongside books, some of their links tenuous at best. Double chocolate cookies made with huge chunks of Valrhona chocolate found their American-Parisian mash-up reference in Alcott’s Little Women. Currant cinnamon rolls as big as a baby’s head were paired with The Secret Garden. Her lemon-blueberry muffins posed alongside a favorite childhood picture book, Blueberries for Sal. And while her Tumblr expanded in length, she carefully avoided the scale, sure that her emotional baking had expanded her in width as well.

  When on Thursday afternoon she hit bottom on the big Cambros that held flour and granulated sugar, she decided enough was enough. She needed to do something else before she went into diabetic shock or stopped fitting into her extensive wardrobe.

  Twenty minutes later, Melody stepped out the front door of her apartment building, dressed in jeans and a flowy crocheted sweater, her hair plaited in a thick braid over one shoulder. She hopped in her Jeep and headed to her favorite time-killing distraction—the section of South Broadway known as Antique Row. She found street parking a few blocks away from her favorite cluster of shops and climbed out of the Jeep, her oversize bag tossed over her shoulder. The warmth of the sun on her face cut through the cold air and began to evaporate her sullen mood.

  She had to admit, she loved the hunt, even if items that had once been available for a bargain now climbed in price as the young, hip urban dwellers in the surrounding neighborhoods snapped up midcentury and Danish modern pieces to furnish their eclectically designed homes. Melody, fortunately, was far more interested in transformation than restoration.

  The first two stores were a bust, yielding nothing but mass-produced furniture from her mother’s era. When she entered the third, the owner, an older woman named Georgia, popped up from behind the register. “Melody! I was hoping you’d come in. I have something to show you.”

  Georgia waddled out from behind the counter and gestured for Melody to follow her deeper into the dark shop. Melody smiled when she saw today’s outfit: a long purple T-shirt and leggings printed with sunglass-wearing penguins. Georgia had dozens of pairs—lips, Christmas trees, rainbows, you name it—always combined with a tunic-length T-shirt that might or might not match. Today she’d paired the ensemble with neon-green running shoes.

  “Here we go,” Georgia said proudly, spreading her hands wide before a chandelier hanging from one of the shop’s overhead beams.

  Melody blinked. “That’s . . . hideous.”

  “Isn’t it?” Georgia could barely restrain her delight, clasping her hands to her ample bosom.

  Melody circled to view the abomination from all sides. It was a five-armed chandelier with elongated lines and candle-style bulbs, none of which were particularly special. But the entire thing was covered in crawling vines and flowers and hanging naked baby cherubs, all painted garish shades that made her think of an Alice in Wonderland–style acid trip.

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “How much?”

  “Seventy-five.”

  Melody shot Georgia a look. “Fifty.”

  Georgia thought for a moment. “Okay. But just because it’s you.”

  “Thank you.” Melody fished two twenties and a ten from her wallet. “Can I pick it up on my way back to the car?”

  “Of course, dear. And I want a photo when you’re done. The moment I saw it, I thought, If anyone can make over this monstrosity, it’s Melody.”

  Hopefully Georgia’s confidence wasn’t misplaced. In her mind’s eye, Melody could see it transformed by layers of pastel paint, rubbed off wet to show the different colors. . . .

  She was halfway down the next block before she realized she’d missed her stop. She swiveled on her heel and returned to the little niche in the long building. But neither it nor the next several stops yielded anything even close to her earlier find, and all she really wanted to do was haul it home and begin the process of cleaning and stripping the varnish from its exterior.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d eaten nothing but a leftover mini quiche when she left the bakery that morning. She turned off Broadway onto an intersecting street, one side of which were commercial spaces, the other side the backyards of houses. There were a few restaurants on South Broadway, but she had a particular destination in mind, just a couple blocks over on Old South Pearl.

  Five minutes later, she pushed through the door of one of the quirkiest establishments in Denver: Gibraltar Mediterranean Bakery. The owner, Agni, was Greek, but her baked goods ranged from baklava to tiramisu. If
you came in on the right day, she even had fresh Turkish delight under glass, fragrant with rosewater and lavender and pistachio, so far from the jellied abomination that passed for the sweet in most Western countries.

  Agni was behind the counter when Melody entered amid the jingling of bells. She brightened as soon as she saw her. “Melody! I haven’t seen you in weeks! Look, we have kolache today.”

  Melody chuckled. “Ran out of pastries from the Mediterranean, so you’re moving north?”

  “No, no. Customer request. Sweet Czech grandmother misses the tastes of her home. I said I would give it a try.” Agni gave a shrug, her dark eyes sparkling.

  “I’ll have one then. And a cappuccino, please.”

  “Of course.” Agni retrieved one of the jammy pastries from the case and put it on a plate, then turned away to pull the shot for Melody’s cappuccino. Melody perused the rest of the selection behind the glass. Agni was a talented baker, with an uncanny ability to reproduce traditional sweets from anywhere in the world. Except French. The simple—and yet utterly complex—croissant was the only thing she didn’t do well.

  Melody moved to the cash register, looking over the little baskets of tea balls and candied nuts. And then her eye fell on a printed sign in a plastic holder:

  Thank you for your support of Gibraltar Mediterranean Bakery. I regret to say that because of family responsibilities, we will be closing permanently on May 1st. Please join us for a farewell party between ten a.m. and two p.m.

  “You’re closing?” Melody asked, unreasonably stricken by the news. “Why? How?”

  “My mother is ill.” Agni glanced over her shoulder. “I wanted her to move to Denver so I could care for her, but she refuses to leave. Says she was born in Greece and there she’ll die.”

  “Is it that bad?” Melody asked in a hushed voice.

  “Oh no. My mother is just dramatic. I think she is lonely and wants me to come back. But she is legitimately ill, so . . .” Agni shrugged again, the gesture holding volumes of meaning.