Not For Sale

by Tasha Fawkes

  Actually, other than the brief interlude with Scott, nothing in my life had really changed, except emotionally. I felt good about confronting Mike Holbrook, and while he wasn’t personally, or at least physically responsible for the death of my father, I’m glad that I had called him on it, at least in regard to his business practices. Did I expect that to change the way he did business in the future? Not at all. Mike Holbrook catered to no one, bowed to no one, and acquiesced to no one.

  I tried not to think about the man because every time I did, I naturally thought of Scott. And again, I shook my head. What was my problem today?

  “Megan?”

  “Yes,” I said, gesturing to the containers lined up on the kitchen counter and our small dining room table. “Everything is ready to be loaded into the car.”

  After several trips back and forth, rearranging a few of the containers in the back, we set off. It was winter in Southern California, not that the destination made much of a difference in temperature. Someday, I wanted to experience a white Christmas. Southern California’s temperature rarely offered more than two seasons, warm and pleasant or hot and stifling. It wasn’t unusual to find people wearing shorts and t-shirts on Christmas Day, and even well into January. Then again, I wondered if I’d be able to survive in the snow. As an experiment once, just last winter, and embarrassingly enough, I had stood outside on our postage stamp-sized patio in our tiny backyard in the middle of the night in January when the temperature had dipped to a frigid and rare forty-nine degrees. I had managed to stand there for only a couple of minutes before finding it uncomfortable.

  “Where are you?”

  I startled, turned to Mom in the driver’s seat, and glanced at her questioningly. “What?”

  “You look like you’re a million miles away. What you thinking about?”

  I offered a shrug. “Everything and nothing,” I said with a smile.

  Soon we arrived at the Bill Barber Memorial Park and turned into the parking lot. No Little League games, as baseball season had ended a couple of months ago. Nevertheless, the field was now filled with middle-aged kids playing soccer, and off to the side, an older group of young men and women playing what looked to be a rather vigorous and exuberant became a flag football.

  I sighed, waiting for Mom to find a parking spot that wasn’t too terribly far from where we would set up our stall, not that it really mattered. What else did I have to do today? Since I had quit working for Kristin, I’d once again returned to my temporary job status. I had done some part-time work at the local animal shelter and decided that I wasn’t cut out for that type of work. I wanted to bring every stray animal home with me, an impossibility since our landlord didn’t allow pets: no dogs, no birds, and oddly enough, not even a fish tank.

  I forced my thoughts away from anything that didn’t have to do with the farmers’ market. The sights, the sounds, the aroma of not only our baked goods, but the scent of sizzling, rotisserie roasted chili peppers, tamales, and a myriad of other scents filled the air. By the time we finished setting up and making multiple trips back and forth to the car, I was ready to sit down on one of our folding chairs and just people-watch. It had always been a favorite pastime of mine, watching visitors meandering through the stalls, just—

  I blinked. As quickly as the figure had swept into my line of sight, he disappeared. My heart gave a traitorous skip, and then I shook my head, looking in the other direction. It couldn’t have been. And of course, any time I saw anyone who looked even vaguely familiar or had blond hair like Scott, I couldn’t help all the thoughts that rushed into my head. I missed him, terribly. The length of time that had passed since I saw him on the pier, and then before that, seemed interminable. I knew I had fallen in love with him. The crush I’d had in high school had morphed into adult love, hard and fast. I wondered how long it would take before thoughts of him didn’t cause a bittersweet tug on my heart. Sometimes, out of the blue, I found myself growing teary-eyed at the loss. I tried to counter those feelings by enticing a surge of irritation toward him for his decisions, but I couldn’t, not really.

  We all made mistakes: Scott, my mother, and myself. We had all done what we thought was best, not only for ourselves and our peace of mind, but for the sake of others. Unfortunate as it was, I knew that letting him go had been for the best. He had made his decision, and I had to accept it. I didn’t have to like it, but that was life.

  I heard voices approaching the stalls beside ours and turned to look. I saw him and blinked again, frowning, staring. Sure enough, it was Scott, weaving his way through the slow-moving crowds, having spotted our stall. I quickly glanced at my mom and it was obvious that she had also seen him. She glanced at me and then pretended to turn away, her expression displaying nothing. I turned back to watch Scott, thinking that maybe he hadn’t seen me, that he was here merely through coincidence. I quickly gazed around but didn’t see any sign of Kristin.

  Our eyes locked and he smiled, lifted his hand halfway in greeting. I stared, trying to tamp down my now thumping heart, finding myself needing to fold my hands in my lap over my casually crossed legs to hide my surprise and pleasure at seeing him again. Just seeing him, those broad shoulders, that expression he wore, the way he moved, sent a thrill of heat coursing through my body. In a matter of moments, he paused in front of the stall. He turned to my mom, nodded hello, and then turned back to me.

  “Which one of these pastries would you recommend?”

  I stared, open-mouthed and confused for a moment until Mom cleared her throat. I gestured toward one of my favorite delights, cranberry and white chocolate crescents. Trying to still the trembling in my fingers, I stood, reached for a napkin, plucked one of the pastries from the display case with a slender pair of tongs, slid the pastry onto the napkin, and handed it to him. He grinned, his hand brushing mine as he took the pastry. My body flushed with heat, even more so as I watched him lift the pastry to his mouth, taking a huge bite. His eyes widened a bit in surprise, and he chewed thoughtfully for several moments, then swallowed.

  “This is really delicious,” he said, his tongue darting to the corner of his mouth to trap a small piece of cranberry off his lip. “I mean it. Seriously.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my insides burning with desire. I was still taken aback, not only by his appearance, but my very physical reaction to him. He appeared different. Relaxed, content, no tension, no indications of any negative emotions. What was he doing here? Had this been merely a happy coincidence, or—

  “Do you have time… I mean, can we take a little walk, maybe do a little catching up?”

  I glanced at Mom, who smiled and offered a nod. I turned back to Scott and agreed, watching as he finished off the pastry and then wiped his hands on the napkin, balling it up and tossing it in a nearby metal trash can. He pulled his wallet from his pocket.

  “No, not necessary, Scott. That one was on me.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, plucking a twenty-dollar bill down on the table.

  Mom reached for it as he continued.

  “Just load me up with however many different pastries as you can for that, okay? I’ll take them home with me when I get back.”

  My mom smiled and nodded as I made my way out of the stall, Scott waiting for me. I felt what I could almost define as a way of homesickness flood through me as I stood next to him, caught the scent of his aftershave and his deodorant. Damned Old Spice. We began to walk, just meandering, really, and it was several minutes before I realized he was guiding us toward one side of the soccer field, away from the players and their watching families. He gestured toward a single set of bleachers nearby.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, can we sit here for a moment?” he said. “I won’t take up too much of your time.”

  I slid onto the bleacher, skidding over so he could sit down. He did. Close, but not touching. I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed. “You’re not taking up my time, Scott. Mom can handle any customers.” I glanced at the soccer player
s for a moment, then up at him, disconcerted to finding him watching me with an odd expression. “What brings you here? Was it a coincidence, or did you know I’d be here?”

  He shrugged. “I figured you might be here, and I wanted to talk to you.”

  I sighed inwardly, trying to still my curiosity. I refused to ask about him about Kristin or his dad. He had come for some reason, so I would just be patient—

  “I resigned.”

  “What?”

  “I resigned from my dad’s company.”

  I looked up at him, stunned. I knew the decision wouldn’t have been easy for Scott, which was primarily why his dad had found it so easy to manipulate him in the first place. How was he dealing with his independence?

  “I also broke off the engagement with Kristin.”

  I nodded, not terribly surprised yet again, I still didn’t know what to say. He shook his head and offered a soft laugh.

  “She actually believed that I would stay with her even after discovering her lie.”

  Well, this was something. I looked at him, smiling with approval over his decisions. He sat a little straighter, a smile of pride lifting the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t done.

  “In fact, I started my own property company. It’s only been a few months, but things are going well, starting to pick up. If you have some time, I’d like to show you something.” He paused, gestured in the direction of the stalls at the farmers’ market. “You might be gone for a little while, if you want to come… or if you don’t want to go, I’ll understand—”

  “No, I’ll go,” I said, curious. “Let’s go tell Mom we’ll be gone for a while, all right?”

  In less than fifteen minutes, we walked away from the farmers’ market, the crowds finally thinning out as we headed down Harvard Avenue and then turned west onto Alton Parkway, walking over the trickle that called itself the San Diego Creek, passed Jamboree Road, and toward a cluster of shops not far from the Irvine business complex. I had no idea where we were going, but I couldn’t deny that I was enjoying merely spending time with Scott. Not that I expected anything to come from it, but I was terribly proud of him for finally finding the courage to strike out on his own. I supposed it just took some of us longer than others to get our feet under us. Me, I had been pushed by my father’s death to become more independent. I wasn’t sure exactly what had been the final straw with Scott that prompted him to make the same decision. It could’ve been Kristin, the lie about the baby’s paternity, his father, or all of it, and I supposed it didn’t matter.

  A short distance from the intersection, he gestured toward two connected buildings surrounded by an asphalt parking lot. Two storefronts, both empty, both with realty signs taped to their windows. One of them had a ‘SOLD’ placard pasted across it. He gestured toward it.

  “What do you think?”

  I glanced at him, back at the storefront, then back at him, my eyebrows raised. “What do you mean? It’s an empty storefront. What—”

  He grinned, reached into his front jeans pocket, and pulled out a key. To my surprise, he unlocked the door, pushed it gently open, and gestured for me to step inside. I did, slightly wrinkling my nose at the musty and dusty scents that filled the space. I noticed several things at once, the first being a small, waist high counter that separated the front portion of the store from the back, and then an L-shaped angle behind which I noticed a number of pipes sticking out of what I could see of the wall. I turned to look up at Scott.

  “What is this place?”

  “It’s your future bistro.” He grinned.

  His words didn’t compute. I numbly stared at him for several seconds, and then my brain tried to absorb his words. “What do you mean, my bistro?”

  “Now you have a shot at making your dreams come true.”

  “But… but I can’t afford this, not now anyway,” I stammered.

  “I know, and you don’t have to, not yet. I just put a down payment on the place for you.”

  A gust of hot air from outside could’ve knocked me down. I stared at him, gulped, my eyes wide, my jaw hanging open. At first, I felt a surge of excitement—a glimpse of a successful future raced through my body, but then reality sunk in and my thoughts clouded. “Scott, I can’t accept this. Why would you…?”

  “Why?” he said, his grin fading. “Because I wanted to do something for you. Because I believe in you. Because you gave me the courage to strike out on my own. And now it’s your turn.”

  “But I have been on my own,” I said. And then I felt a sense of embarrassment. I knew that wasn’t what he intended, but I couldn’t help it. My voice choked, I told him the truth. “I’m not your charity case, Scott. I can’t accept this. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not charity, Megan, believe me. We can be partners. From the money that I’ve managed to save, I’m investing in this business. Eventually, you can pay me back—in increments—but for now, we can be in this together. Partners. What do you say?”

  I knew I could make money doing this. I knew I could. I also knew that, eventually, I would be successful enough to pay Scott back for whatever down payment he’d put on the place. At the same time, I felt uncertain and more than a little hesitant. What if I failed, and then I realized that Scott had felt the same way for years. I did what I could to earn money to pay the bills, but even with the money left over from the Kristin debacle, I still hadn’t had enough to put a decent down payment on any storefront, at least not in this area. Scott was giving me the chance. A chance to take a stab at running my own business, just as he was striking out on his own to start his real estate business.

  I also knew that at that moment, after I digested his words, that he already invested some of his profits from his own new business into my future business because he believed in me, that he also knew that both our futures lay on the line. How could I say no? At the same time, how could I say yes?

  I was so overwhelmed, I didn’t know what to say.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Megan

  It had been two hectic months since Scott had surprised me at the farmers’ Market. I had been bowled over by his generosity, and his attempt, a serious attempt at that, to make amends for the way things had gone between us. Mom and I had talked it over and she had told me that as long as Scott wasn’t expecting me to make any commitment to him on a personal level, and if he was genuine about this being a business agreement, I should jump at the chance.

  I knew that Scott didn’t want me to feel obligated, hence the business aspect. I did insist that we draft an agreement, and we had it signed and notarized. In that agreement, I stipulated that as soon as the bistro started making consistent profits, I would pay Scott back five percent of his initial investment every month, or as I could, for the funds he had put forward for the purchase of the store itself.

  Scott and I worked hard getting the remainder of the interior of the storefront into shape. It appeared to have been some sort of pizza shop before it had been partially renovated into something else, God only knew what, but the plans for that had fallen through for the guy who’d bought the place before me. The location was perfect, the street running parallel to the main drag, so my guests would find plenty of parking, and if they wanted to sit outside at the tables, they could without being overwhelmed with gas fumes from too much passing traffic.

  Out from under his father’s often-overwhelming presence, Scott seemed to bloom. His confidence soared. His business was doing very well, and in a couple of years, he might even be giving his father a run for his money. Just last week, he had told me that his father had reached out to him, not to “bring him back into the fold” so to speak, but to try to repair broken bridges. Scott was still locked out of his inheritance, but his father had hinted that it might not be that way forever. It was all the apology that Scott might ever get from his father for what he had done. I couldn’t fathom Mike Holbrook apologizing to anybody, least of all to his son. But from what Scott had told me, after he had broken up and called
off the engagement with Kristin, she had thrown a genuine, old-fashioned, conniption fit and temper tantrum, especially when her father—appalled by what she and Mike had done—had told her it was time she started accepting responsibility for her actions, or something along those lines. I didn’t really care.

  Scott had sold his mansion and found a nice house in Woodland Hills, out in the San Fernando Valley. Mom and I were still in the apartment, but I knew that if the bistro was successful, maybe we could find a two-bedroom, or even a bungalow in one of the outlying communities where I wouldn’t be spending half my day on the freeway to get to work. I would have to be patient, but I had plenty of practice at that.

  In addition to the renovation work, both inside and out, I had spent hours, with Mom’s help when she could, designing a simple menu plan. Nothing too fancy to start out with. I planned with the basics in mind, and could always expand both menu and expenses for supplies after we saw how things went.

  “Ready?”

  I turned to Scott, smiling at his expression. He looked around the interior of the bistro, hands on his hips, a self-satisfied look of pride on his face.

  “We did it, and on time!”

  Tomorrow, we would open for business. I looked around at everything we had accomplished. Of course, we hadn’t done it all by ourselves. We had to hire some carpenters and plumbers, but with the help of an interior designer to put my ideas into action, the place was ready. I had wanted a vintage feel to the place, and as such, two of the walls had been bricked with banquettes along one side. Single, wrought-iron and cedar tables had been interspersed throughout the interior, the flooring a combination of wood laminate planks and faux octagonal marble tile floor. The upper portion of the far wall was covered with a huge, old-fashioned school chalkboard with our menu scrawled across it. Hanging plants dangled from the ceiling, a myriad of glasses hanging upside down from racks above the bar, behind which stood the grill. Along the front window stood a chest-high narrow table with simple barstools so that clients could enjoy a cup of coffee, one of my pastries, or light fare while watching cars or pedestrians go by on the street beyond.