A Fine Romance

by Christi Barth

  Would’ve been smart. The sort of thing his dad would’ve insisted on before she even boarded the plane. He hadn’t thought of it. Hell, there were a lot of things he would’ve done differently, in hindsight. But Sam didn’t have any experience in parenting an angry, grieving teenager. As just her brother, he knew he didn’t have the right to order her around. His feet started him on another circuit between the fuzzy pink throw rugs in front of the door, the dresser and the bed.

  “No. Damn it, she had her fun, and plenty of it. She didn’t stick around and help pick up the pieces when Mom fell apart. The minute things started going downhill, she bailed. Claimed that if I got to train in Belgium and Switzerland, she deserved the chance, too.”

  “That sounds like a reasonable point,” Mira ventured in a quiet voice.

  “Except the difference is that she didn’t bother to go to college first, like I did. She treated the Alps like her own oversized college quad. We’d get postcards from different ski resorts. Places with so many consonants in their name you couldn’t say them without spitting. She’d bop from town to town, usually following whatever man turned her head that week. We used almost all of Dad’s life insurance money to pay for her grand tour.”

  Mira leaned back against the pile of frilly pink pillows. “Which leaves one burning question. Between all the schussing and the screwing, did she ever show up to class and learn how to bake?”

  “Probably. Diana’s a whiz in the kitchen. She shadowed Dad from the time she was old enough to lick the beaters. If she put her mind to it, she could be better than me. Put her within three feet of a pastry chef, and she’ll absorb every trick up their sleeve. Girl’s got mad skills with flour and yeast.”

  She scrambled out of bed to pick up the pile of paper he’d mounded onto the fuchsia afghan at their feet. “Let me get this straight. This postcard you shredded doesn’t make any mention of Diana returning soon, let alone by next week. If she doesn’t magically appear, your dream of starting a new business is dead in the water.” The tiny strips of paper slowly floated through her fingers into the wastebasket.

  “Exactly.” Sam stopped pacing. He didn’t need it anymore. Just knowing that Mira sympathized, saw his side of the problem that he’d kept locked away from anyone else’s scrutiny, calmed him. Their relationship was good for him. Well, not just good. Had to be said that the sex was eye-crossingly fan-fucking-tastic.

  In Mira, he also got a partner. The kind of connection he’d seen between his parents. For two years, he’d pretty much kept his head down, focusing all his energy on his mom and the bakery. Sure, his friends had stood by him, but he hadn’t connected to anyone with this level of emotional intimacy. Being able to let it all out and lean on someone relieved about two thousand pounds of pressure inside his skull. He’d fallen for her harder and faster than a failed soufflé.

  God, out of practice didn’t begin to describe his relationship with, well, relationships. Sam hoped he wouldn’t accidentally do anything to epically screw it up. At least if he did, it wouldn’t be a secret. Mira had proven from day one that she had no problem letting him know exactly where he’d stepped wrong.

  Mira cradled her elbow with one hand, and tapped the first finger of the other against her cheek. “What did your mother say when you told her? Did you ask her if she could ramp up her hours and commitment back up to the level they used to be? Explain that you need her to at least fill that gap until Diana eventually wends her way home?”

  “No.”

  “No to what?” she asked, with a gentle kick to his calf.

  Sam spread his hands, palms up. “All of it. My mother doesn’t know. Period. She can’t know about any of this.”

  “You’re going to quit the bakery, open a chocolate shop, and keep it all a secret from your own mother?”

  “Of course not. But I’m not going to lay any of this on her shoulders until it’s decided, one way or the other. She doesn’t need that kind of stress.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  Whoa. What happened to her understanding? How did the most supportive girlfriend ever suddenly change gears and turn on him? He sat back down on the bed. “What’s with the name calling?”

  “This isn’t a case of the caring son sheltering his sick mother from the big, scary world. Your mom’s fine now. She’s not going to collapse with an attack of the vapors from hearing that her son wants to aim for the stars. That’s the sort of thing every parent longs to hear.”

  Riiiiight. Because Mira’s parents were so excited about all of her life choices? Talk about a double standard. “No. That’s the sort of thing parents dream about when they’re staring down at a newborn. Messy, ugly life, the reality of it, is a whole different story.”

  She eased down beside him, threading her fingers through his hair in a rhythmic pattern that sent good chills up and down his spine. “Maybe so. Sometimes. In the past couple of years, the Lyons family’s taken more than its fair share of licks. But the unlucky streak doesn’t have to continue. What if this is what your mom needs to move forward? A sense of making a difference, helping her son to follow his own path?”

  “No.” How many times did he have to say it before she truly heard him?

  “Sam, you’re on the cusp of throwing away your dreams. Don’t you owe it to yourself to at least consult with your mother before that happens?”

  “You’ve talked to my mother a couple of times. Don’t think that gives you any great insight into her. Pride’s taught her to put up one hell of a front. I’m telling you, she couldn’t handle my stepping back from my duties. Not unless Diana slid in and took my spot. I. Will. Not. Burden. Her.” He spoke each word slowly, with great emphasis, so there would be no mistaking his intent.

  She stared at him, her expression unreadable. One minute ticked by, then another that felt like a year as the silence grew. Damn it, this is why he hadn’t told anyone. Showing off his possibly unreachable goal was a lot like showing off dirty underwear. People were guaranteed to turn up their nose and say something about it.

  With the brightness of the flashlight app on his iPhone, Mira tilted her head and smiled. “How about that bubble bath?”

  Huh? He thought they’d been headed down the road toward a full-blown fight. Instead, she’d jammed on the brakes and made a U-turn. “You mean, we’re done here?”

  “I think you’ve made that quite clear.” Her smile dimmed, just for a second. At least he thought it did. She had it back in place so fast, Sam wasn’t sure. “I promised you a bath, not a browbeat.” Mira skimmed her hand down his arm. “Let’s go lather that frown off your face.”

  “I’d rather use the bubbles to put a smile on yours.”

  “The two plans are not mutually exclusive.” Taking his hand, she led him out of the bedroom. He couldn’t help but think he’d narrowly averted stepping on a minefield. Trouble was, Sam couldn’t figure out how or why. He did know that he’d better figure it out before they went much further. Bubble baths couldn’t cure everything. But if Mira wanted to pretend they did, though, he’d be ten times a fool not to play along.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Everyone knew the classic stereotype of a boss: demanding, driven, nitpicky, consumed by the bottom line. Mira didn’t think that Ivy, with her ponytails and propensity for the color pink, looked like she embodied the stereotype at all. Heck, the sunlight filtering through the restaurant’s stained-glass windows even dappled a muted halo around her head.

  But on the inside, behind the cotton-candy, smiling exterior, a detail-oriented bean-counter drove all of Ivy’s business decisions. Which is why Mira brimmed with confidence that she would green-light this new idea for A Fine Romance.

  She scooted her chair across the brown-and-cream checkerboard floor, barely hearing the squeak in the busy noontime buzz of the Berghoff restaurant. The entire El ride here, she’d been bursting t
o tell Ivy her plan. Restraint prevailed, though. They discussed the very serious issue of whether or not to have a groom’s cake at Ivy and Ben’s wedding. Also covered was the equally serious issue about what color her wedding-night lingerie should be, and if they should bother with a save the date. Basically, Ivy exhibited early symptoms of morphing into a complete bridezilla. The upside was that with half an hour already devoted to her wedding, Ivy would be able to fully focus on business talk over lunch.

  Mira looked around at the wood-paneled room. It definitely lent a serious tone to lunch, only slightly mitigated by the strong scent of smoky knackwurst and vinegared sauerkraut that seared the back of her throat with every inhale. Men in suits packed almost every table. She and Ivy still hadn’t quite figured out how to balance their tight friendship and a more formal employer/employee relationship. At least this atmosphere was ripe for business. Mira cleared her throat.

  “Over the last two months, you’ve said repeatedly that you didn’t know what to do with the second floor of the store.”

  Ivy jabbed her straw at the ice in her root beer. “Because the storeroom only takes up a quarter of the space. All the rest of it sits there, expansive and open. I swear it’s just taunting me.”

  It was doubtful the brick walls and wood floor had it in for Ivy. At least, Mira hadn’t heard anyone mention that her building was haunted. But if their mere presence pissed her off, all the better. “It doesn’t have to stand empty much longer. I came up with a plan.”

  “Not now,” Ivy groaned. “You’ve got more than enough on your plate. I told you not to worry about it until after the opening. We’ll figure it out then.”

  “And I appreciate you not pressuring me. Probably the lack of pressure is what relaxed my brain enough to make the leap.” Mira leaned forward, elbows on the table. “We should open a matchmaking service.”

  A double eye blink. A long, slow sip of a soda. Another double blink, finished off by a definitive head shake. “I’m sorry, I think I zoned out for a minute there. It isn’t remotely possible that with two new employees and a highly publicized grand opening party in two days, that any sane person would recommend starting another entire business. Or drop it on me out of the blue.”

  Crap. She’d considered writing up an official proposal memo. No time to work up a complete business plan, but Mira could’ve at least bullet-pointed all the pros on a snazzy piece of letterhead. Clearly just springing it like any friendly piece of gossip hadn’t been smart. Mira tried to regroup.

  “It wouldn’t be a separate business. It’s a natural offshoot. We sell romance. In order to need romantic things, you need a date. We find people dates, we end up giving ourselves more customers. It would be a symbiotic relationship.”

  Another firm head shake. Ivy looked like a horizontal bobblehead doll. “You have a full-time job managing the store. I have a full-time job at Aisle Bound. We can’t open a third business.”

  Why wouldn’t she hear her out? If she had sent an email, Ivy undoubtedly would’ve read through the entire thing. Mira intended to plead her case all the way to the end. “It wouldn’t cost much. Practically zero overhead—you’re already paying for the space, whether we use it or not. We’d start slow. Mixers once a week.”

  Ivy threw up her hands. “Mira, I swear to God, you might as well be speaking Igbo.”

  “You made that up.”

  “I did not. Igbo’s a real language, spoken by the Igbo people in Nigeria. In sixth-grade world cultures class I wrote a report on them. The name stuck with me.”

  It took every ounce of self-control for Mira not to roll her eyes. “Okay, then, consider this plan to be as real as the Igbo people. Chicago’s filled with eight million people. Hard to work your way through even half that number. You see someone cute on the El, and there’s no way to know if they are single and ready for a relationship. So many singles are looking for a way to whittle down the choices to a manageable group.”

  “That is their problem, not ours.”

  Mira ignored the ill-humored comment and continued. “Throw some café tables and chairs up there, and every Thursday night we could have a mixer. Serve Helen’s amazing food. Or, work out a good deal with a nearby restaurant. Maybe a just-starting-out caterer that would be grateful for a steady gig. We’d give people someplace safe to mingle and maybe hit it off.”

  “You expect random people to walk in off the street and hang out on our second floor? We’re going to get a soup-kitchen vibe going awfully fast.”

  That snarky little salvo proved Ivy’s mind was welded shut tighter than a vampire’s coffin at high noon. “Of course not.” Okay. Wipe out all memories of she and Ivy dressed as twin mermaids at Halloween. Or the night they drank too many French martinis and jumped into Lake Michigan fully clothed. If Ivy wouldn’t listen to her as a friend, she’d flip into full business mode. Bury her with details.

  “Everybody would have to register with our Find a Romance service first. We’d run credit and background checks, be sure we’re not offering up a buffet to a predator. The basic level of membership gives them entry to the weekly mixers. Maybe we could partner with a wine store, do tastings. Every week could be a different theme. Wine tasting, chocolate tasting, sports around playoff season. There’s a million ways we could go. Anyway, the second tier of membership would get you one-on-one matchmaking.”

  “Can’t be done. Not at this late date. You’re leapfrogging about six months into the future.”

  Getting through to Ivy on this issue was proving harder than defending her master’s thesis. But she’d survived that three-hour inquisition to graduate with honors. Persistence and patience proved to be the key. “I disagree. We can advertise the weekly mixers at the grand opening. Let them take shape for a couple of months while I find a qualified matchmaker. A licensed counselor would probably be best.”

  “If we were brainstorming ways to utilize the second floor, this would be worth adding to the list. But it’s too much, too soon.” Ivy leaned back to give the waiter room to deposit their plates of wurst. “Over at Aisle Bound, we’re still in the thick of fall wedding season. I don’t even have the spare brain cells to consider this from all angles. Let’s back-burner it until after New Year’s, at least.” She dug into the steaming pile of hot German potato salad with gusto.

  Mira, on the other hand, couldn’t blithely start eating. She had a battle to win. “You’re turning your back on almost pure profit, at least at the start. We’d charge people more than enough to cover the background runs and still pocket a good amount. The tables and chairs wouldn’t set us back much. Once we’re ready to move on to the matchmaker, she’d only be part-time. There are kinks to be worked out, but I guarantee it would work. People want to find love.”

  “I can’t take on one more thing right now. I can barely steal time to plan my wedding.”

  “Your wedding’s been planned since you were twelve.”

  Ivy brandished the tines of her fork. “Don’t be glib. I’m serious.”

  “So am I. And you wouldn’t have to be involved at all.”

  “There’s where you’re wrong. A Fine Romance is my store. My name on the lease, the incorporation papers, your paycheck. Nothing moves forward without my approval.”

  Whoa. They’d just taken a sharp detour from discussing a single idea to defining their entire working relationship. She should probably just redirect back to the topic at hand. But Ivy’s comments were akin to waving a red cape, and Mira was just bullish enough to plow ahead. “You want to micromanage me? Do you want to start doing a walk-through every day to see if I’ve arranged the displays correctly? Straightened out the corners on the cash? Double-check the deposit slips before I go to the bank?”

  Ivy kept eating, staring straight down at the plate. “You oversee the store. I oversee the big picture.”

  Was she serious? After she’d spent a soli
d hour on the phone last summer begging Mira to be the manager? Saying the only person who could take the job, who could give her peace of mind with her utter competence, was Mira? A ball of hurt and anger sat heavy in her stomach, as though she’d just inhaled all three of the sausages on her plate in a single gulp. “Don’t you trust me?”

  Squaring her shoulders, Ivy finally looked up. “I’ve taken enough risks this year. I let a reality television crew tape me. I fell in love and got engaged in three months. I built a second business from the ground up. In a nutshell, I need to let the dust settle.”

  Now Ivy was the one who might as well be speaking some unknown tribal language. “How does all that even matter? I told you that I’d take care of every aspect.”

  “Really?” Ivy pushed back her plate and white-knuckled the table’s edge. Her changeable hazel eyes clouded to a serious brown. “Every start-up requires money. If you’re so gung-ho, why don’t I see you reaching into that trust fund of yours, offering to cover the costs?”

  Talk about playing dirty. Mira couldn’t believe Ivy would throw her family angst into her face. Those who knew you best sure knew how to skewer you best. “You know I can’t touch that money.”

  “No. You have no-strings-attached access to the interest until you turn thirty. And it’s a safe bet that a month’s worth of your interest could pay the mortgage on the store, Aisle Bound and my new condo combined.” Ivy leaned forward, her eyes heavy-lidded with anger. “I know that you won’t touch that money. There’s a big difference. It’s sitting there, waiting for you, and you refuse to dip into it for anything. After the hurricane, you could’ve whipped out that black AmEx your parents gave you and checked right into the nicest hotel in town. Instead, your almighty pride and stubbornness kept you in a Red Cross shelter for almost a week.”

  “My choice,” Mira forced out between gritted teeth.

  “At least you have a choice.” Her voice rose, then dropped to a furious whisper. “I’ve thrown almost every penny from Planning for Love into getting this store off the ground. I didn’t want to do a second season. But I signed a contract two weeks ago to live my life in a fishbowl for another three months. Not because I want the limelight. Not because I like being on television, and seeing my monthly breakouts in HD. Because I need a cushion. A chunk of money that will see A Fine Romance through the first six months before we can begin to hope to turn a profit.”