Waterfront Café

by Mia Malone

  She'd seemed so happy, and he hoped the damned kid didn't disappoint her. None of her family members made any fucking effort to stay in touch, but she called them every week, and it sounded like she did most of the talking during the short calls.

  He had called his daughter, and they had spent two hours on the phone, talking a little about why he'd moved back to Bakersville, and a lot about his relationship with her mother. Ex-wife number two had over the years shared her view on what they'd had, it seemed, so Brody figured it wasn't unreasonable for him to add his perspective. That perspective was that her mother was a nagging shrew, but he used other words which were a lot less offensive and thought he'd achieved to pull it off rather credibly. Then his daughter giggled, which meant he probably hadn't managed to be neutral enough about things after all.

  It felt good to talk to her, though, and to hear her laugh. Brody had been living all over the world when she grew up, but now they were three hours apart, and he promised to come down to Boston for a visit. Then he shared gently that she'd probably hurt her grandmother more than him. Thea promptly started crying, and he spent at least ten minutes trying to calm her down again.

  Dottie had been stunned when she heard about her great-grandchild and had sent an email to Thea sharing her view which was that the girl had behaved like a spoiled fool. Dottie had also shared that she would not be able to see her great-grandchild before Brody had met the baby, which she assumed would happen within shortly. She had shared a few more things, apparently, so her anger and hurt had been clearly conveyed, but she’d finished the email with a long paragraph about the importance of spiritual music in a small infant’s life, so Brody figured she’d come around.

  “Hey, sorry!” Marie called out from the door. “Next weekend,” she said to Brody with a sunny smile.

  “That’s great, babe,” he murmured.

  “We’ll talk later, I’m hungry,” she said and sat down with the others. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Chef Baker.”

  Chef Baker. He hadn’t heard that in a while and grinned at her as he put the first round of plates down.

  As expected, Marie loved everything, and Jools scowled through the samples. They discussed and gave input, but to Brody's relief, they mostly confirmed his own view on the food. It was good to get a second opinion, though, and he wondered if he shouldn't take on an apprentice once the Café was up and running again. It would be good to have someone young around to keep him on his toes if he could find someone who didn't faint when he yelled or used profanities.

  Brody was clearing out the last plates and was about to ask if anyone wanted an espresso when the door opened, and a young man walked in. He looked so much like Patrick had done at the same age that Brody's heart missed a beat, and he had to swallow.

  The man looked searchingly around the room, his brows went up when he saw Pat, and he took a step forward.

  Brody took a deep breath to steady himself and said calmly “Hey. You’re looking for me, I think.”

  “Brody?”

  “Last time we met you called me dad, Jag.”

  “Last time we met, I was two years old, and I go by John these days. John Davidson.”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Fuck, yes. Mom said you didn't want me to use your name, so I didn't.

  Brody stared into his son’s eyes and wondered if killing ex-wife number one wouldn’t be legal after all.

  “That fucking woman,” Pat muttered and got his mother's elbow in his ribs.

  Brody knew he had to say something, so he took a few steps forward.

  “You mother wanted to call you Bernard Oliver Baker Davidson,” he said calmly. “First of all, your name was already Baker. You’ve never been called Davidson, whatever she told you. Second; Bernard is a name for pussies, which means third; you would have been called Bob. And that’s a name –”

  “For pussies,” Patrick cut in, and Brody flashed a quick grin his way.

  “I talked her into naming you John Adam George Baker, and called you Jag,” he said.

  “I know my legal name, but I've used John Davidson my whole life,” Jag said and looked away with a frown. “Whatever the fuck,” he muttered. “I like Jag better.”

  “Anyone would,” Brody said.

  Their eyes met, and they measured each other up for a while. Jag got a stubborn look in his eyes which almost made Brody laugh because the boy might look like his uncle, but he recognized that look. He’d seen it in the mirror often enough.

  Then Jag straightened, tilted his head slightly to the side in a movement Brody had seen his brother do all his life, and made an impatient gesture with his hands.

  “Why did you leave?”

  Chapter Nine

  Pasta Alfredo and shit

  Marie

  The only thing echoing in my mind was, “Yikes.”

  It was ridiculous and stupid in equal measures, but I couldn’t seem to get my stunned brain to work. Then Brody’s son asked him why he’d left, and I guessed the boy meant to sound defiant, but the tone of his voice held an ocean of sadness and confusion, so I stood up abruptly.

  “Right,” I said. “Why don’t we leave these two gentlemen alone for a while?”

  I put it as a question, but no one protested, and they started to gather up their things. Brody and Jag waited in silence, but when I reached for my jacket, Brody stretched out a hand and took hold of mine.

  “You’re staying.”

  “Brody, you should –”

  “Marie, please.”

  His face was completely expressionless, and I nodded. I hadn’t seen him look like that before, and the hardness in his eyes was a little scary. I suddenly got what his daughter had meant when she said he was frozen.

  “Okay,” I murmured.

  “Thanks, baby,” he said, and his eyes softened with what looked like relief.

  Dottie started moving but stopped in front of Jag to put a hand on his cheek.

  “I’m your grandmother,” she said. “Come see me before you leave, okay?”

  Jag swallowed and nodded.

  “I’m your uncle Patrick,” Pat said, and added with a grin, “But you must have guessed that already.”

  Jag nodded again, and Patrick got a tight smile.

  “I’m your granduncle Jools,” Jools said. “Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that young Pat here didn’t piss in his brother’s well.”

  Everyone froze.

  “Jools,” Brody said warningly.

  “Just saying,” Jools muttered. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

  “For fuck’s sake, I did not sleep with my brother’s wife,” Patrick snarled. “Hated the fucking woman from day one, and the sentiment was entirely mutual.”

  “Just saying,” Jools repeated with a shrug, and moved toward the door. “It’s a relevant assumption.”

  “It is not a relevant assumption, you old goat,” Pat barked, opened the door at the same time as he rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

  “It is,” Dottie said. “You always liked your brother’s toys better than your own.”

  “Mom,” Patrick barked. “I hated the goddamned bitch.”

  They passed by the window, clearly still arguing, and I cleared my throat.

  “Sorry,” Brody muttered. “They’re...”

  “Unusual,” Jag filled in with a short bark of laughter.

  “I was gonna say morons, but yeah. They are unusual too.” Brody pulled hand over his head, wiped off the bandana and shook out his hair. “Jag... You’re mine. Pat didn’t –”

  “I know. Mom shared her feelings freely, and she does not like Patrick Baker any better than she likes you.”

  “Coffee?” I cut in, thinking that talking about how much everyone seemed to dislike everyone would be less than helpful in the current situation.

  “Right,” Brody grunted and walked over toward the espresso machine.

  I tried to engage Jag in small talk while w
e waited, and it was like squeezing water out of a rock. Sure, he could hang his jacket over by the entrance. Yes, he was twenty-eight. No, he hadn’t grown up on the east coast. Yes, the weather was nice for the season. Yes, he liked his coffee black.

  I was relieved when Brody plunked cups of coffee down in front of us and put a bottle of milk next to mine.

  The soft tinkling sound of Brody's spoon as he stirred his usual two unhealthy spoons of sugar into the black brew grated on my nerves, but I focused on the complicated task of pouring milk into mine. And drinking it with an air of what I hoped was casual indifference.

  “I don’t know why I came here,” Jag muttered after a while.

  “Sure, you do,” Brody countered. “You wanted answers. I’m not sure I have any, but I’ll try.”

  “Yeah,” Jag said when there was another uncomfortable silence. “You should know that I don’t have any contact with my mother.”

  “What?”

  “None. Left when I was eighteen, talked to her twice since then.”

  Brody got up so fast the chair fell backward, and he cursed.

  “Bro –”

  “I'm your fucking father, so you call me dad,” Brody snarled. “Why the hell didn't you come to me?”

  “Why did you leave?”

  Jag was on his feet too, and they were staring at each other. Or rather, glaring at each other in a way which communicated clearly that someone was about to punch someone. Imminently.

  “Mud cake?” I asked into the silence, and they turned. “I brought some,” I clarified. “Thought it would be nice as dessert, but we never got around to it. Perhaps we should have a piece now instead?”

  “Babe,” Brody said sternly.

  “I brought a can of cream too,” I whispered. “Low fat.”

  Jag made a strangled sound, and I glanced at him. He was pressing his lips together firmly, and the black, tight tee moved a little at the waist.

  “Are you laughing at me?” I asked, remembered the many times I’d asked Brody that exact question, and added, “Your dad does, all the time.”

  “I could eat a piece of cake. And if you can get the famous Brody Baker to serve me low-fat cream from a spray can, I'll have some of that too.”

  “Jesus,” Brody said with an eye-roll. “Right. Mud cake and spray-shit it is.”

  I smirked as I pulled the box out and thought that they might laugh at me. They might even think I was more than a little ditzy. But they weren’t punching each other or glaring anymore.

  “Your mother does not like me,” Brody said when he’d put the apparently offensive can of cream down. “I get why she doesn’t because I was an asshole, but she was a bitch. Not a good combination, son. We fought all the time, and it was a seriously unhappy home. I didn’t want that for you, and yeah... didn’t want it for me either, so I told her I wanted to split up. Fuck me if I know why, but she wanted to stay together. So, we fought about that for a few months, and then I’d had it. She said that if I left, I’d never see you again, but I thought she was just pissed. Thought she would calm down, so I packed up my things and moved out.” Brody sighed and shrugged in a way that looked sad. “She stayed pissed. Threatened with all kinds of shit. Said she was leaving the country. Said she’d report me to the police for abuse that never fucking happened. Tons of shit...” He looked away for the first time, and I put my hand on his under the table. “The one paying for her tantrums was you, Jag, and I knew it. I worked nights, hell, I worked fourteen-hour shifts most of the time and couldn’t take care of you. So, yeah. I gave up. I paid her what she wanted and promised to stay away until you were sixteen. She would give you my contact details then, and you would get to choose where you wanted to live after that. Called her on your sixteenth birthday and she said you wanted nothing to do with me.”

  Brody's hand formed a fist under my palm, but I kept holding it and squeezed gently.

  “She said you lit out in a cloud of pot-smoke, and that you didn’t want us. That she didn’t know where you were, and that I should forget about you.” Jag pulled a hand over his hair, and his face hardened. “We had a huge fight when I turned eighteen, and it ended with her throwing me out of the house.”

  “You could have come to me,” Brody murmured.

  “Yeah, dad,” Jag snarled. “I looked you up, and you were in London. A few months later, in Singapore. I was eighteen and worked two jobs. I had enough money to take the bus to fucking Kalamazoo.”

  “You could have called.”

  “Yeah, well, after eighteen years of hearing how much you disliked being a father, I wasn’t too keen on that.”

  “I fucking hate her,” Brody grunted and looked down on the cake he hadn’t touched.

  “You paid her?”

  “Alimony until you were eighteen. Set up a college fund.”

  “She did not share that. Never saw the college fund, so she probably burned through it.”

  “Nope. I knew what she's like, so it's for your education only. Once you turned twenty-five, you could access the cash for whatever.”

  Jag's jaw dropped, and he whispered hoarsely, “Seriously?”

  “It's not uncommon,” I cut in. “I did the same thing for my kids.”

  “Huh,” Jag muttered. “She wanted me to sign shit when I turned eighteen. I wanted to know what it was, and she pitched a fit. It escalated and ended with me getting thrown out of the house.”

  I stared at him and wondered if this was for real. Mothers did that kind of thing? Tried to steal their son’s college money and kicked them out?

  “I hate her too,” I murmured, but apparently not as quietly as I intended because they both turned. “Well, I do,” I added lamely.

  “Whatever,” Jag said. “I didn’t want to go to college anyway. Overpriced goddamned places all of them when the library is for free.”

  “What do you work with?” I asked, thinking that they both needed a pause from their mutual dislike of a woman who seemed to have been a pretty crappy wife, and mother.

  Jag suddenly grinned crookedly, and his eyes darted over to the kitchen.

  Brody caught on immediately.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Jag sighed. “Local places. Not fancy stuff like you do.”

  “This is a local place,” Brody countered. “It’s Jools’ old place, but now it’s mine.”

  “It looks nice,” Jag said slowly.

  “You need a place to stay?” Brody asked.

  “I’ll get a room at the motel down the road.”

  “Boy. A Baker does not stay in the fucking Bakersville Motel. It defies the laws of nature. You gonna stay a while or are you moving on?”

  Jag made a face and shrugged. “Don’t know. Gave up the house and car in the divorce. Quit my job, so I’ll have to find a new one.”

  Brody raised his brows and leaned forward.

  “You’re married?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Sucks.”

  “Yup.”

  “Right. Give me a sec.” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen and raised it to his ear. “Pat. How filthy is the place above the Bar?” There was a brief silence, and then he nodded. “Thanks. We’ll be over in fifteen. Tell mom to go pick up some sheets and towels and shit.” He closed the call and turned to Jag. “There's a tiny studio above Pat's bar, and it probably looks like shit, but they'll clean it up some. It's yours if you want it. I could use help here, and the job's yours too if you want it. Pat could probably do with another bartender if you'd rather do that. Our cousin Shelly is always looking for people. None of the jobs will make you rich, but it'll be enough to live on.”

  That was such a lovely thing to do, and the best part was that Brody clearly didn't do it to be nice, or out of guilt. He simply did it because, in his mind, Jag was his son, and this was what a father did for his son. Jag must have realized that too because he blinked a few times and a muscle in his jaw moved.
r />   “I should have called you,” he said hoarsely.

  “Yeah,” Brody said. “You should have. I should have done a lot of things differently too, but you’re here now. We’ll figure it out.”

  “I'm not the kind of chef you are. I've worked in small time, family-owned places. Basic stuff. Mostly goddamned Pasta Alfredo and shit.”

  Brody tried to hide that he wanted to wince and said valiantly, “You’ll learn. I’m gonna yell at you some, though. Can you handle that?”

  Jag's face relaxed, and he raised a brow.

  “Can I yell back at you?”

  “Would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  Brody

  “Jesus,” he sighed and held the door open to let Marie walk inside ahead of him.

  They had left Jag in the small place above the bar. Brody figured that the boy could use some space after spending half an hour cleaning up a shoebox-sized studio with his estranged father, said father's lover, and a crowd of assorted family members who pretended to look like they weren't watching his every move.

  Shelly and her husband Mark had joined them, and Shell had promptly started laughing when she faced Jag.

  “Jeez, Patrick. You’ll never live this one down,” she giggled.

  “For fuck’s sake. I did not do that woman,” Pat snarled.

  “I know,” Shelly said. “Everyone will think you did, though. God knows you’ve done everyone else.”

  “Shelly,” Mark said. “Not everyone.” He paused and grinned. “Brody was married twice, so there’s at least one more woman he kept his hands off.”

  “And me,” Marie squealed, and looked at Patrick with fake annoyance. “You never even tried.”

  “We’re leaving,” Brody announced, not sure that he wanted his grown son to hear that he’d had to warn the boy’s uncle off Marie. “Come on down to the Café when you wake up, Jag, and we’ll sort shit out.”

  Marie stopped moving, and Brody herded her inside to close the door.

  “I could sleep in the Mermaid house tonight,” she said.

  Since that first night together, she’d spent one night alone in the small pink house, and Brody had fucking hated it, so when she admitted that she hadn’t slept well, he’d made sure they’d been in either place, but together.