Brunch at Bittersweet Café

by Carla Laureano

  When they parted, she looked up at him with an expression verging on wonder and cleared her throat. “Hungry?”

  “I most certainly am.” It came out huskier than he intended, laced with an unintended hint of innuendo.

  That little spot of pink appeared on each cheek again. “I know just the spot for dinner, then.”

  And when she took his hand and interlaced her fingers with his, he was surprised once again to find how much he liked it.

  Chapter Twenty

  MELODY DIRECTED JUSTIN through the city to one of her favorite restaurants just off the 16th Street Mall, a long outdoor promenade with a full complement of stores and restaurants. The warmth of Justin’s hand and the filtered afternoon sunshine drugged her with a drowsy feeling of well-being. She marveled at how simply, uncomplicatedly happy she felt at this moment. She had always felt everything intensely; hadn’t she come to fear that fast, fierce attraction to a man as a sign things would burn out just as spectacularly? But never had she met someone who could light her up with his touch and still make her feel this safe and comfortable.

  Justin pulled up at the valet stand in front of the restaurant she indicated. “Asian again?”

  Melody blinked. She hadn’t intentionally stayed away from her usual European and American picks, but now that she thought about it, she was craving something other than the food she’d been immersed in for weeks. “If you’d rather go somewhere else . . .”

  “No, this is fine. I just thought you might be trying to feed me fish heads for real this time.”

  Melody laughed as the attendant approached and opened her door. “Nothing that can look back at you, I promise.”

  Inside, the restaurant was just beginning their first seating, half the tables already filled. The hostess led them to a spot by the window in the far corner, close to the kitchen. Melody took that to mean it was one of the few unreserved tables, the worst in the house, but she didn’t mind the location. The faint clatter of cooking was oddly comforting, and from here she could watch both the patrons coming in and the passersby on the street.

  Which was a silly thought: when Justin was seated across from her, he filled all her attention. The restaurant around them might as well not have existed.

  Melody did know the restaurant, but she didn’t take control of the ordering this time. Instead, they chose a handful of small plates to share. When Justin ordered a cocktail, she blinked at him. “Don’t you have to fly tomorrow?”

  “I pick up my plane in Detroit, so I’m technically not on the clock until noon.”

  “So you have until midnight until you turn into a pumpkin?”

  “Something like that.”

  The food came out soon after their drinks, but they lingered over the dishes, almost unconsciously stretching out the meal. “So I’m curious,” Melody said finally. “You talk about your dad all the time, but you never mention your mom. What’s the story there? I know you said they were divorced. Do you see her?”

  “Not often. They co-parented pretty amicably when my sister and I were kids. When I was seventeen, she got married and moved out of state. We don’t really talk much now. I haven’t seen her in years.”

  Melody sensed there was far more beneath those words than he was willing to tell, but she didn’t press. Instead, she said lightly, “If only I could be so lucky. My mother likes to show up randomly, criticize everything about my life, and then run back to Nashville so she doesn’t have to deal with the fallout.”

  “What does she get out of it?”

  “Beats me. My mom never really got the nurturing gene. That was my grandmother. Most of the time I felt like a photo op to my mom. Not now, of course. An underemployed adult baker is a lot less cute than a little girl with ringlets and missing teeth. I mean, for heaven’s sake, she named me Melody. From the start, I was meant to be an accessory.”

  Justin watched her with a sympathetic look. “Are you ever going to tell me who she is?”

  “You mean you haven’t googled it? My name would probably bring her up.”

  “It felt invasive. I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would.”

  Melody sipped her cocktail and considered. What did it hurt, really? “My mother is the incomparable Janna Leigh.”

  Justin stared at her blankly.

  “She’s a platinum recording artist? Hosted this year’s Academy of Country Music Awards on TV?” And half a dozen other things, for good reason. Janna Leigh might not have been a great mother—or any kind of mother at all—but she was a talented songwriter, a gifted singer, and an engaging performer.

  Justin simply shrugged. “The name sounds familiar, but I’m not sure it’s because of her music.”

  Melody laughed. “Wouldn’t she love to hear that.”

  “What about your dad? Is he around?”

  “My father lives in Sweden and I haven’t seen him since I was thirteen. He sends me flowers on my birthday and a piece of jewelry or something at Christmas.”

  Justin reached for her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. Hard to miss something you’ve never had. Honestly, the idea of two artists in one house was doomed to failure.” At his quizzical look, she said, “My dad is Magnus Johansson. You’ve probably seen some of his films.”

  His eyes got wide. “He made Stockholm. It was an amazing film.”

  “It was. There’s a reason why everyone calls him the Swedish Roman Polanski. Minus the nasty proclivities and flight from prosecution, of course.”

  “You didn’t really have a chance, did you?”

  Melody laughed, hearing her bitterness reflected back at her. “At being normal? Not a single one.”

  “At being anything but an artist. Passionate. Creative. Exciting.”

  Melody’s thoughts froze in their tracks. “You think I’m exciting?”

  “I think the way you approach life is exciting. You make me wonder what I’ve missed around me while I’ve been so focused on my goals.”

  His smile warmed her straight through, but it started an uncomfortable squirm there too, as if what he said didn’t match up to the truth. “You’re the one flying off to multiple cities every day and rubbing elbows with celebrities and moguls.”

  “Trust me, it sounds more glamorous than it is. Regardless of who’s sitting in the cabin, the routine is the same. I mean, I do love my job, but you’re the real risk-taker here.”

  “Says the man who flies a home-built plane.”

  He waved a hand. “That’s just aerodynamics. There’s nothing risky about science.”

  Melody laughed, the spell broken. Their server came to the table and asked about dessert, but Justin glanced at his watch. “Don’t you have to work tonight?”

  An uncomfortable feeling came over her at the thought of ending this night so abruptly, just when they were really connecting. She hesitated to call it desperation, but it clawed into her all the same. “I’ll call in sick.”

  He stared at her.

  “I’ve never missed a shift. And the pastry chef here is a bona fide genius. Totally worth it.”

  Justin held up his hands. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of a pastry chef crush. I’ll have the five-spice donuts.”

  The server looked amused by the whole exchange. “And you, miss?”

  “The banana lumpia, please. And coffee.”

  The server moved away, and Melody pulled out her cell phone to dial the store manager. “Robert, it’s Melody. I’m not going to make it in tonight.”

  Silence came through the line and Melody checked her screen to see if it was still connected. “Robert?”

  “I heard you. I just didn’t believe it.”

  “Something important came up. Hugo can handle things without me. I’ve covered enough for him that he owes me one. Five, in fact.”

  Robert cleared his throat. “I heard you’re going to open your own place.”

  Melody’s thoughts ground to a sharp halt. What did that have to do with anything? “Not for a co
uple of months.”

  “But you are leaving? It’s not just a rumor?”

  Now Melody was beginning to feel a little unsettled. “No. It’s not a rumor. But I’d planned on giving plenty of notice.”

  “Except you’re calling in tonight with no notice.”

  Justin caught her eye and made a gesture toward the door. She shook her head and turned her attention back to the phone. “You’re going to bust my chops for calling in once when there’s already a second baker scheduled? After all the times I’ve done this shift myself?”

  “Melody,” Justin hissed. “It’s okay. We can go.”

  But the tenor of the conversation had already gotten her back up. Someone had overheard a phone conversation and tattled to the general manager, who now wanted to make her life difficult, despite the fact she’d been the most experienced and dedicated employee they’d ever had.

  “The thing is, Melody, we need reliable employees to uphold the standards of our bakery.”

  The whole conversation suddenly struck her as completely laughable. “Robert, we both know the only thing it takes to do this job is the ability to read directions and watch an instructional video. Consider this my resignation.” And she clicked off the phone.

  Justin stared, slack-jawed. “You just quit your job.”

  “Robert’s an insufferable blowhard who lets everyone else off the hook because I take up the slack. It was two months overdue. At least.” She grinned. “And the banana lumpia really are that good.”

  A disbelieving laugh slipped from Justin. “You’re insane.”

  “Not insane. I just know what I want. And right now, I don’t want this night to end.”

  The statement hung there for a moment, and she realized how it might be taken. But Justin saved her. “I’m wishing I didn’t have to leave tomorrow. And before you say anything, I don’t have the option of calling in sick.”

  “I’d never dream of asking. Look, here come our desserts.”

  Melody was right: the lumpia—Filipino-style eggrolls stuffed with banana and drizzled with caramel sauce—were worth losing a job over, especially a job she didn’t even like. As was the feel of Justin’s hand gripping hers as they waited in the chilly night for the valet to bring the car around. Her heart swelled with something she hesitated to call happiness. It was more like . . . contentment. As if a switch had been flipped, turning off her restlessness and her overthinking. Tonight, she couldn’t find it in herself to worry about the future. She would just enjoy this perfect moment to the fullest.

  Justin didn’t seem to have that ability. “I can’t believe you quit your job.”

  Melody waved a hand. “C’est pas grave.”

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “It doesn’t matter. Sometimes I think the French have it right. Americans worry so much.”

  “Did you drink more than I thought?”

  No, but she definitely felt intoxicated. With her sudden freedom from a job she hated. With him. With life. The feeling lasted all the way home in his car, where he walked her up to her apartment. They turned to each other in front of her door.

  “Do you want to come in?” she asked, nervous again. About what, she couldn’t articulate.

  “I probably shouldn’t. I’m leaving early and I haven’t packed yet.”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do.” The look he gave her made her tingle down to her toes, caused her breath to catch. “I won’t be back until next Saturday. But I want to take you someplace. Sunday morning?”

  “I thought I might go to church since I don’t have to work. . . . ,” Melody said slowly.

  “Afterward, then. Let’s say noon.” His hands found her hips, steadying her in place while he lowered his mouth to hers. The first time they’d kissed outside her door, it had been a flash fire, a lit match touched to a pile of kindling, unexpected and powerful. But now, he kissed her softly, sweetly. Tenderly. All too briefly.

  Her fingertips drifted to her lips as she watched him walk away, wondering if she’d been mistaken.

  For all their talk of wait and see, that kiss tasted like a promise.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  MELODY SPENT THE NEXT DAY reliving every detail of the date: every word, every touch, every kiss. Especially the kisses. The practiced and assured way Justin kissed made all the warning flags pop in the back of her mind; it clearly spelled player. And yet he seemed to deliberately stay out of her apartment at the end of the night. That suggested something else entirely.

  Her cell phone beeped, and she snatched it up, hoping for a message from Justin. Instead, it was Rachel, a message on their running group-text thread. We need to come up with a restaurant name posthaste.

  Posthaste, huh? Rachel was stressed if she was getting formal. Time to lighten the mood. Melody tapped out some ideas. Cut the Cake? Gluten Maximus? The Bun Also Rises?

  Almost immediately, Rachel’s response: Ugh! No!

  And then Ana’s: Are you on drugs?

  Just high on Justin. She deleted that message before she could press Send. That was definitely an in-person conversation. For now, she just wanted to enjoy the happy flutter that remained from their amazing day together.

  She couldn’t let Rachel off the hook, though. I take it that means Flours for Hours and For Goodness Cakes are out too?

  Rachel sent back a string of angry face emojis, and Melody burst out laughing.

  Okay, fine. I’m heading out to collect material samples for the bakery. You and Ana keep working on it.

  It was a quirk of Melody’s that she rarely visualized a space and then filled it. She needed something, whether it be building materials or textiles, to inspire her, which meant visits to the design centers and showrooms that dotted the southwest section of Denver. Three hours later, her Jeep’s backseat was stacked full of tile and paint samples, her brain crammed with just as many design possibilities. She stopped by Gibraltar for a cappuccino and a piece of Agni’s amazing baklava and sat in the corner with a small sketch pad, outlining the dimensions of the room and the current placement of the fixtures. They’d have to get exact dimensions from the contractor, but right now it was unnecessary. She just needed the basic feel, the shell of the place, so she could overlay her own ideas on the existing layout.

  She and Rachel had already agreed that the kitchen was much too big for their needs, compared to the rest of the space. They were used to working in close quarters, and since they planned on having a maximum of five kitchen staff in there at one time, they could get by with a little more than half. That would open up an entire section of the room for seating that was currently just a blank wall.

  Melody’s pencil scratched across paper, at first just the suggestion of shapes, then bolder strokes to define walls and lighting and furniture. A long, high bar went into the new space reclaimed from the kitchen, adjustable wood-and-iron stools beneath, a cool multi-light fixture over the length of it. They could hire a local craftsman to make it and install power strips on the underside for people to plug in their laptops, maybe run the electricity up the hollow leg of the table. That meant they’d need a power fixture underneath—that note got scribbled on the back of the sketch.

  Then some square tables with slim metal chairs to maximize the number of seats they could fit while giving enough space to pass in the aisles. It was a balancing act between making it inviting but not too comfortable. Maybe they could do some soft seating up front in the bakery and orchestrate the back to turn tables over quickly.

  She held the sketch at arm’s length, comparing her vision with the current reality in front of her. They looked nothing alike, each choice diverging further from Agni’s warm Mediterranean style.

  She loved it.

  The question was if Rachel would agree. She laid the sketch flat and snapped a photo of it, then texted it to Rachel with a question mark as the only caption.

  Her response several moments later: Wait. That’s not our place?

  It is
if you want it to be.

  I LOVE IT.

  Melody smiled and let out a sigh of relief, Rachel’s approval easing the knot of nervousness inside her. Amazing how quickly their dream bakery had taken shape beneath her pencil. Grandma Bev was probably looking down on her and smiling.

  I’m going to work up some mood boards tonight. Meet tomorrow?

  Ten? I have an early class and then I’ll be home. I’ll invite Ana too.

  Perfect. Melody wasn’t entirely sure if she meant the class she was teaching at the culinary school or one she was taking at the university, but either way, Rachel’s schedule was enough to make Melody’s head spin. In fact, she’d barely heard from her friend since they’d signed the lease, unless abbreviated notes on inspiration pins counted as communication.

  She packed up her sketchbook and pencils and drove her samples home, where she immediately got to work on the inspiration boards. She’d had the home improvement center cut a thin sheet of plywood into four-foot squares to serve as the base, upon which she’d adhere all the different materials.

  As the evening wore on, she sorted out the pieces that weren’t going to work and narrowed down the design schemes to two: one light and bright, the other industrial and moody. She checked the clock reflexively, preparing herself to clean up and head to work before she remembered she had no place to go.

  Had she really quit, just like that? She’d been intoxicated, no doubt, but not from alcohol. Justin’s influence over her was far headier than any substance she could ingest. It wasn’t like she hadn’t planned on putting in her notice anyway. The lease went into effect in a few days, and the contractor would be out to take measurements sometime next week. The idea of trying to juggle everything along with a night job was laughable.

  Plus it would have meant seeing a lot less of Justin.

  She thumbed through her contacts before she shut off her phone’s screen with an irritated shake of her head. He was working. She wasn’t going to be the girl who needed to check up on him.