Brunch at Bittersweet Café

by Carla Laureano

  Pete had brought Jessica, not so much to help evaluate the business as to evaluate her potential new home. That was one thing Justin didn’t have—someone in his life with veto power. But when they met him on the jetway after disembarking from the 737, Jessica’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’ve always loved Florida. Did you know that we’re only a three-hour drive from Disney World?”

  Justin chuckled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s not a cheap place to live, and we don’t even know if this charter is a good buy.”

  “I know. And I will be telling myself that while I’m lying by the pool today, getting a tan.” Jessica grinned at him, and Justin couldn’t help but laugh again. It was nice to see her excited about something, acting like the woman he remembered. She had always been relentlessly upbeat, but he still could see the toll that keeping up with daily life took on her. At least, this trip would be a much needed vacation. At best, it would be a totally new start.

  They rolled their carry-ons out to the ground transportation area, the warm, gently moist air enveloping them. Pete turned to his wife, reiterating a conversation they’d obviously had earlier. “You’ll be okay going to the hotel by yourself? It doesn’t make any sense for us to leave the airport, just to come back in an hour.”

  Jessica rolled her eyes and then stretched up to kiss Pete lightly on the lips. “I’m fine. Seriously. If you can’t find me when you come back, look at the pool or the bar. I’ve been craving a piña colada all week.”

  Justin grinned at Pete. “We may have to drag her away kicking and screaming tomorrow.”

  “No kids and nothing to do? You better believe I’m going to live it up.” She turned her attention to the curb, where a white Hyundai was pulling up. “This is my Uber. Let’s see if he can drop you at the FBO.”

  They piled their suitcases into the trunk, and Pete negotiated the extra stop with the driver in rapid, confident Spanish. Justin only caught a handful of words—he’d naively studied German in high school and college, which so far had only come in handy for reading labels on imported beer.

  The charter company was headquartered on the other end of the airport from the commercial terminals, separated by a fairly significant distance. All things considered, it wasn’t much different than Centennial or any of the other GA airports he visited for work.

  The FBO—fixed-base operator, the company that provided services to private and corporate pilots alike—was a huge, modern building that looked more like the headquarters of a tech company than an aviation facility, all stucco and glass with tropical landscaping. The Uber driver dropped them off in front of the double glass doors, pausing barely long enough for Pete to kiss Jessica good-bye and make her promise to have the bellman help her with all the suitcases.

  The FBO’s interior was just as posh, with soaring two-story ceilings held up by columns and walls of windows looking out onto the runways. Seating areas screened by potted plants gave passengers a quiet place to sit and relax while they waited for their flights. Justin knew from passing through here for work that there was also a gym, a crew room, and sleeping areas for pilots, not to mention the adjacent customs facility for travelers going to and from the islands.

  Pete walked to the customer service desk, where a pretty, professionally dressed Latina sat behind the high counter. “We’re here to see Luis Garcia at South Beach Charters.”

  “They’re at the end of the building, upper floor. But I’d be happy to call up for you.” She smiled, her gaze lingering on Justin. “Names?”

  Pete cleared his throat. “I’m Pete Costa; this is Justin Keller.”

  The woman picked up the phone and spoke softly into the handset, then hung up and smiled at both of them this time. “Mr. Garcia will be down in a couple of minutes. You can have a seat over there while you wait.”

  “Thank you . . .” Justin leaned over to check the name tag on her blouse. “Alicia.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Justin.” She gave him a flirtatious look before going back to her computer monitor, but he saw her dart a few more glances their way while they moved to the leather sofa.

  “You’re unbelievable,” Pete said, more admiring than annoyed. “You just can’t turn it off, can you?”

  “What do you mean? I’m just being friendly.”

  “The kind of friendly that has her thinking about slipping you her number.”

  “Not interested,” Justin said. And meant it.

  Pete stared at him. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just didn’t come here to pick up women. Business trip, remember?”

  “Never stopped you before.”

  “It always stopped me before.” Justin scowled at Pete, not sure why he was so irritated by the exchange. He did tend to flirt. It came as naturally as breathing, and it smoothed his way in daily life. Need to ask a heinous favor from the CSR? Make her feel like the only woman in the world; smile while looking into her eyes. Late returning the courtesy car? Bring back lunch. Of course, the lunch thing worked with the men, too, but the women tended to be more appreciative.

  Did that make him shallow? Or just pragmatic?

  No wonder Melody hated him right now. He’d done the exact same thing to her, then switched off just as easily, even though he hadn’t actually been trying to manipulate her.

  “Hello? Where’d you go?”

  Justin started back to the present. “Nowhere. Why?”

  “You’re thinking about that girl, aren’t you?”

  Justin went for evasion. “What girl?”

  “The Hornet girl. Dad told Jessica, who of course speculated all night about who she might be.”

  “She’s just a friend,” Justin said. “I’m possibly moving to Florida. Doesn’t make sense to get involved with someone right now.”

  “But you would get involved with her if you knew you were staying in Denver?”

  “I’m sorry, Jessica, what did you say?”

  Pete chuckled. “Fine, fine. I’ll back off. But you’re awfully defensive about someone who’s just a friend.”

  Justin was preparing a retort when he was saved by the approach of a man wearing pressed slacks and a button-down shirt, his salt-and-pepper hair and sun-weathered face putting him somewhere in his sixties. This must be Luis Garcia. Justin already knew he was a retired airline pilot himself who had gone to the charter side nearly two decades ago after making his fortune in south Florida real estate. The e-mails from the broker had given him the feeling that the charter was more of a hobby than anything else.

  “Justin, Pete, I’m Luis. Pleasure to meet you both. Pleasant flight from Denver, I hope?”

  Justin smiled and shook his hand. “It was, considering I wasn’t flying the plane.”

  Luis chuckled. “And it bothered you the entire time. Follow me, if you would. We’re supposed to go over the paperwork, but we both know you really want to see the fleet. I figured I’d just send you back a packet to review with your lawyer, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Fine with me,” Pete said.

  It was definitely the more interesting part of the trip, but Justin knew there was far more to the viability of the business than just the equipment. “Before I go, I’ll want to talk to your pilot-in-charge about scheduling and routing and the flight planning system.”

  “That would be me. I can answer any questions you have. In the meantime, let’s go to the hangar.”

  For the next four hours, they combed over the two planes housed in the charter’s leased hangars, accompanied by Luis and his chief mechanic. The third was currently in flight, leaving a Beechcraft Baron G58 and the Pilatus turboprop. From everything that Pete and Justin could tell, they were impeccably maintained, with upgraded flight decks and newly refurbished interiors. Luis was going after the luxury charter market and, if his numbers checked out, succeeding at it. He easily recited figures and statistics from the top of his head in answer to Justin’s questions. It quickly became obvious that Luis wasn’t part of the
company—he was the company. Only then did Justin begin to understand the full scope of his responsibilities should they go forward.

  They parted ways with the promise to return early the next morning for a test flight and a look at the remaining G58 before they returned to Denver, then made their way back through the FBO to where another Uber waited out front.

  “So what do you think?” Pete asked as soon as they were headed to the hotel.

  Justin answered slowly. “I can’t find anything wrong with it. The planes are gorgeous. An easy sell to customers. If you think they’ve been properly maintained . . .”

  “From what I can tell, they have been. The chief mechanic knows what he’s doing. Everything tells me that it’s on the up and up.”

  “But it’s still overpriced,” Justin said. “We need to get our lawyer to dig into the books. Do some more research. Probably one more trip.”

  “Right.” Pete visibly deflated. Guilt washed over Justin, but he wasn’t about to ignore what a huge undertaking this would be. Then again, he wasn’t watching his wife’s health slowly decline with each passing day. Pete had a big reason for wanting to make this work, even while Justin had his own for wanting it to fall through.

  Melody.

  Somehow it always came back to her. He’d known her for a couple of weeks; they’d seen each other exactly four times. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her easy laugh. The way her brown eyes sparkled when she got excited about something. The feel of her in his arms. Even now, as the car slid along the highway, the sunset drenching the coastline in warm color, he couldn’t help but wonder if she liked the beach, what she would think about living in a place like this.

  He’d dated Sarah for six months and never once had she distracted him like this.

  But Melody was different. Freer. More alive. When he was with her, he felt like he’d known her forever, and yet he knew he’d barely scratched the surface.

  He was preoccupied at dinner, and he begged off the excursion to check out Fort Lauderdale’s nightlife, instead sitting in front of the TV in his room, remembering the hurt look on Melody’s face when he’d blown her off. Right now she was either hating him for being an indecisive jerk or wondering what she’d done to cause such a rapid-fire flip of his attentions. He’d been completely unfair to her.

  There was only one answer. When he got back, he had to tell her everything.

  Chapter Eighteen

  RACHEL WASTED NO TIME getting started on their new project. They hadn’t yet decided on a name for their restaurant, so after a half-dozen calls yielded no progress, she registered their new business as “RM Ventures LLC” with the idea that it could encompass their initial bakery-café plus any expansion they did in the future. That same afternoon, they opened a joint checking account for the business, each making an initial deposit of five thousand dollars.

  The next step was to secure Gibraltar’s retail space. Melody was happy to leave that job to Rachel, who began the process of talking to Agni, the landlord, the agent brokering the deal, and the lawyer she’d worked with when she secured Paisley’s location. Melody assumed this project would be on hold while they sorted out the details, but to her surprise, less than two weeks later, she was sitting in the leasing agent’s office, signing her name on the dotted line beneath Rachel’s.

  “That was anticlimactic,” she admitted to her friend minutes later as they waited for the elevator to the bottom floor. “It seems like there should be more to signing your life away.”

  Rachel just laughed, beaming with excitement. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done it, so it doesn’t feel like a huge deal. When we signed for the space for Paisley, I just about panicked. Maurice had to hand me a paper bag.”

  Somehow Melody couldn’t imagine Rachel panicking over anything restaurant-related. She stepped onto the elevator and waited for her friend—and now partner—to follow before she punched the ground floor button. “So, what now?”

  “We’ll want to get the contractor out there to take a look at the space and get us a bid on the changes, particularly the ventilation. I’ll coordinate that with Agni. Then we’ll need to get our building permits, start the build-out, get our certificate of occupancy and final business licenses. I’m assuming we’re going to forgo the liquor license?”

  “Right. I don’t see any reason to serve alcohol if we’re closing at six. And it’s one less element to worry about.”

  “Good. Let me make some calls and I’ll e-mail what I need you to do.” Rachel’s smile turned a little crafty. “It wouldn’t hurt to have you work up some design ideas in the meantime. . . .”

  Melody’s own smile returned. “I’ll make you some sample boards. I’ve already pinned hundreds of ideas on Pinterest. It’s just a matter of what’s going to look best in the space.”

  “Better get to it. Not to mention narrowing down your menu—”

  “Already on that. I’ve had to throw out some of my best recipes because they’re just too expensive.”

  “Thinking like an owner. I like it.”

  The elevator delivered them to the bottom floor, and after a quick hug, Melody and Rachel went their separate directions. It was still only two o’clock, which meant if she didn’t delay, she would have enough time to test another recipe or two before she went to work.

  Melody had been toying with the idea of putting éclairs on the menu ever since they came up with the bakery-café idea. It was a traditional pastry that didn’t get much love from serious chefs—the sweet equivalent of the iceberg salad, tired and uninspired. But it didn’t have to be.

  Not that this was solely her idea. She might currently be mired in mediocrity, but she’d kept up with the pastry trends on the coasts and overseas. New York was exploding with exciting variations on traditional patisserie, most of which had not yet made their way west to the Rockies.

  By the time she got home, she was already planning out her afternoon for maximum efficiency. She dropped her purse on the sofa, changed out of her professional clothes, pulled on an apron, and got to work.

  The pastry came first. If cooks had their mother sauces, pastry chefs had their mother doughs, and pâte à choux was the grand dame among them. It was one of the first things she’d learned to make and still one of her favorites. There was magic in the way the dough went together, butter and flour and salt, cooked until the raw flavor of the flour disappeared, but not so much that it went dry and crumbly. Then four or five eggs got added one at a time until it transformed into a thick batter. It was traditional to beat it by hand, but Melody had learned long ago she got more consistent results with far less effort by using a stand mixer. Then she spooned the batter into a piping bag fitted with a star tip and piped long, uniform lines of dough onto a parchment-lined baking sheet.

  As soon as those went into the oven, she began to concoct her flavors. A maple-and-vanilla crème that would be topped with a maple glaze and bacon bits. A lemon curd topped with toasted meringue, the filling for which was already prepared and jarred in her fridge from her lemon bar experiment earlier that week. A cardamom-scented custard paired with a brûléed sugar glaze. She had so many ideas that she could conceivably make a different variation every day.

  Which, when she thought about it, wasn’t a bad idea. Daily specials could build their roster of regulars. Croissant of the day in the morning, and then éclair of the day in the afternoon. She jotted the idea on a notepad and peeked on the shells. They were beautifully puffed and browned, an undulating light-dark pattern on the exterior from the ridges of piped dough. She shut off the oven and propped open the door with a wooden spoon to cool. If she let them sit in their own steam, they’d get soggy and lose that beautifully crisp exterior.

  She was filling and glazing her second set of éclairs when her phone jangled to life several feet away. Justin’s number flashed onto the screen, and she looked down at her sticky hands in dismay. Finally she answered the call with the clean knuckle of her ring finger and tapped the spea
ker icon.

  “Hey, Justin.” She bent over the countertop so he could hear her, proud that her tone sounded so steady and nonchalant.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Not really. I’m testing recipes. What’s up?”

  “I have the first-round totals for you. It’s a bit more than I originally thought. With the parts I’ve already purchased, including the new water pump, it’s going to be $362. I know that’s a little high—”

  “No, no, it’s okay. It’s well worth it. Can I drop it by your place later? I’m in the middle of something right now.”

  “Would you rather I come by your apartment and pick it up? It’s no problem.”

  The unexpected offer made her breath catch. She’d already abandoned any real hope of romance with him, but that didn’t sound like an offer a guy would make when he was anxious to get rid of her. Unless of course he just wanted to ensure he got his money quickly. She wasn’t sure which was worse—how fast her hope deflated or the fact it existed in the first place.

  But she managed not to let those thoughts surface in her voice. “If you wouldn’t mind? You’d save me some time.”

  “Sure. I’ll be over there in a bit. See you then.”

  Melody ended the call and stared at her phone for a minute. “Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t have any hopes in the first place. And whatever you do, do not go change your clothes for him.”

  She was totally going to change her clothes for him.

  But first she was going to finish the maple éclairs before the rapidly hardening glaze became unusable. When she’d finished piping flavored whipped cream into the pastry and dipped each oblong into the glaze, she scrubbed her hands and practically ran to the bedroom to change out of her sweatshirt. The leggings could stay, but she pulled on a more figure-flattering top, a knit tunic that slid off one shoulder. She quickly braided her long hair over one shoulder and secured it with an elastic.