Melody put away her supplies and leaned her two finished mood boards against the dining room wall, then drew herself a bubble bath. Changing from a night owl to a day dweller would take time. When she was relaxed and warm and a little pruney, she wrapped herself in her coziest pajamas, made a mug of steamed vanilla milk, and climbed beneath her cloud-like duvet. For good measure, she shook out a melatonin tablet and a prescription sleep aid. She wasn’t big on pills, but she knew transitioning her body clock was going to take more than warm drinks.
She reached for Madding Crowd on her nightstand, but instead her fingers touched the leather-bound Bible her grandmother had given her at her baptism when she was thirteen. She hauled it into her lap and turned the fragile pages. It had been too long since she’d read it, too consumed with work and grief and, for the first time in a long time, hope.
Highlighters turned the pages into a colorful rainbow of reminders, not Melody’s doing but Bev’s. As she turned toward the back, her eyes lit on one verse illuminated in pink and starred with a ballpoint pen. Romans 8:28: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”
Was that what God was doing now? Working things for her good—Grandma Bev’s death, the new restaurant, even Justin? She’d heard the verse nearly every day growing up, accepted it without question. It was the automatic answer any time she questioned her mother’s absence or the long stretches in a tour bus or anything else she didn’t particularly like about her life. And so it had taken on the quality of a well-worn meme, something spoken so often it started to lose its meaning.
Melody replaced the Bible on her nightstand, feeling guilty for even thinking such a thing. Good things were happening now. Of course this was God’s doing. She didn’t have to understand it to accept it. She just had to trust.
* * *
Melody awoke the next morning late but feeling more alert than she had in days. She made herself presentable, gathered up her mood boards, and headed to Rachel’s without even her customary pot of coffee. When she arrived, Ana’s familiar black Mercedes was missing. She hefted the inspiration boards and trundled up the front steps, where Rachel opened the door before she could knock.
“I come bearing gifts,” she announced as she edged by Rachel and headed straight for the kitchen table. “I can’t believe I beat Ana.”
“She just texted. She can’t come. Work crisis.”
“All her work is crisis. Literally. Should we be worried?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Rachel stopped in front of the boards where they sat on the table. “Wow. I loved what you put together in the sketch, but these are . . .”
“Aren’t they?” Melody smiled. Both color schemes used a healthy dose of gray, black, and white, but the one on the right was moodier, more industrial, as suited Rachel’s taste: hand-scraped plank floors, lots of stainless steel and slate and glazed gray tiles against a pale dove-gray wall. The one on the left was lighter, more classically European: tiny coin tiles for the floor, reclaimed wood counters, elongated white subway tile set in a herringbone pattern. And of course she’d included a snapshot of the almost-finished cherub chandelier.
Rachel rubbed a finger against the tile samples and examined the colored-pencil sketches Melody had done to try to communicate the differences between the two. “I don’t know how we’re going to decide.”
“I thought for sure you’d go for the one on the right,” Melody said.
“I thought I would too; it reminds me so much of Paisley. You really nailed my taste.”
“But . . .”
Rachel glanced at her, a smile forming on her lips. “The one on the left looks more like you. And I kind of love it.”
“Really?” Melody threw her arms exuberantly around Rachel. “I mean, I would have been fine if you picked the other one, because I like it too, but—”
“This one merges Paris and Denver. It’s sophisticated, but in a more relaxed way. I think our customers will love it.”
Melody flipped over the board to display a piece of paper taped on the back. “Then here are all the manufacturers and style numbers to give to the contractor. As soon as we can get in there, I can show them exactly which walls will be which finish so they can do the measurements.”
Rachel was still looking over the rejected design. “You know, Melody, you are a talented baker, but I think you could have just as easily been a designer.”
“And now I can be both.” Melody sobered. “Do you think it would be inappropriate to drop in on Gibraltar’s good-bye party? It’s been part of the neighborhood so long, it feels wrong not to celebrate, but I also don’t want Agni to think we’re vultures, waiting to swoop on her misfortune.”
“I think it would be nice. We are doing her a favor in a way. And I haven’t started anything for breakfast yet. Why don’t we have a pastry there to say good-bye?”
“Perfect. I’ll drive.” It would give Melody something to do with her hands and attention while she told Rachel that she and Justin were together . . . and about the looming separation on the horizon.
Except Rachel started talking about having the contractor come out to start the measurements and draw up plans, and Melody couldn’t find a place to smoothly segue into her love life. Instead, she just nodded and said the right things and tried to be as interested in certificates of occupancy and building permits as Rachel was.
And then she was parking on Old South Pearl and her chance was blown. Only then did she realize that not only hadn’t she told Rachel about Justin, but she’d forgotten to mention that she’d quit her job as well.
Chapter Twenty-Two
IT TOOK A HERCULEAN EFFORT to keep his mind on his flights and off Melody on his seven-day tour, but Justin managed . . . until his plane touched down in Denver. The desire to see her built from the moment the “fasten seat belts” sign went off and only grew the closer he got to downtown Denver. He resisted it. For one thing, she’d said she was adjusting to her new daytime schedule slowly, early bedtimes interspersed with long periods of insomnia. For all he knew, that meant she was still asleep.
Instead, he made a quick stop at his apartment to drop his bags and change into some grungy clothes, then headed to his dad’s place.
Rich’s car was missing from the driveway, so Justin didn’t bother to unlock the house, just went directly to the garage and punched the code into the keypad. The door slid open with a low hum, gradually revealing the chrome and green front end of the Hornet.
It was coming along. He’d only gotten as far as cleaning the carburetor, which as he’d expected was varnished shut with the residue of old gasoline. Today he figured he’d change the sludgy oil and see if the beast would start.
The garage was even colder than the outside air, untouched by the spring sunshine spreading over the city, so he pulled on the flannel coat he left here expressly for that purpose and slid under the car on a padded roller board. He’d just gotten the old oil drained from the pan and a new filter installed when he heard the hum of an engine abruptly cut off.
He slid out on the board to see Pete walking up the driveway.
“Hey,” Pete said when he was within speaking distance. “I thought you’d be here. I dropped by your apartment earlier.”
Justin wiped his greasy hands on a rag and pushed himself to his feet. “I needed to make some headway on this car. What’s going on?”
“I finally got the paperwork back from the lawyer; thought you might like to take a look.”
Justin automatically reached for the sheaf of papers, then thought better of it. “You can put it on the bench and I’ll look over it when I’m done.”
Pete dropped the paperwork on a clean spot on the workbench and took a slow circle around the car. “She must be a knockout.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s a classic. You know, this thing will actually trounce my Mustang on the quarter-mile.”
“We all know tha
t’s not your style. You’re a collector, not a racer. And you only drive the chick magnets.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m only fixing this and not driving it.”
Pete shook his head. “Tell me about this woman.”
Justin sighed and cocked a hip against the open engine compartment. Pete wasn’t going to let it go. “Same one as before. The baker.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We’re seeing each other.”
“She know about the business?”
Justin nodded once.
“And she’s still okay with it?”
“So she says. I was ready to break it off with her, but she wanted to wait and see where it goes.”
Pete made a face. “I don’t like the sound of that. That usually means she thinks you’ll fall in love with her and change your mind. Like . . . what was her name? The redhead. The one you met at the car show.”
“Becca.” Justin unscrewed the cap from a plastic bottle and began to funnel motor oil into the car’s empty reservoir.
“Right, Becca. Either that, or she figures you’ll invite her to come along with you. Or marry her.”
If only it were that easy. “She just invested her entire inheritance into a bakery here in Denver.”
“So what are you doing? You know this isn’t going to end well.”
Justin tossed aside the empty bottle and reached for another one. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I tell the truth. You’re usually the one keeping things light and meaningless. What’s the deal?”
Justin sighed and straightened. “I don’t know, okay? It’s probably going to go bad, but I can’t bring myself to break it off, even if it’s for her own good.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why all the interest in my love life? Jessica again?”
Pete plopped himself on a stool at the workbench and watched Justin finish filling the oil reservoir. “She’s worried about you. Feeling guilty, I think, about having you move away for us.”
“Tell her she has nothing to feel guilty about.” Justin wiped away excess oil with a rag and then screwed the cap back on. “This was my idea, remember? No matter what I tell my dad, I’m starting to get tired of the fractional gig. At first the waiting and the cleaning and the kowtowing didn’t bother me, but . . .”
“But now you really are feeling like a glorified chauffeur,” Pete finished for him. “You sure you’re not going to feel the same way shuttling vacationers to and from the islands?”
“The key word there is islands.” Justin flashed a smile. “I can soothe my bruised ego with my ocean view.”
“Funny you should say that. If this guy accepts our offer, we’re going to need to go out there again, sign the paperwork, and get the ball rolling on business licenses. Jess and I thought we’d take the opportunity to look at houses. You want to come?”
“I’m stuck with AvionElite until at least the end of the month, remember? I don’t want to be signing leases until I’ve let my place go.”
“I know that. Just thought . . .”
“Jess is giving me my last chance to get out before it’s too late.”
Pete nodded.
Justin clapped a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Listen. You guys are family. We’re doing this for Jess. It’s okay. I knew what I was getting into. It’s going to be great.”
“And the girl?”
Justin shrugged. “You know me. Probably lose interest before it ever becomes an issue.”
For the first time since Pete arrived, he seemed to relax. “Let me know what your schedule looks like, and we’ll work around you.”
“I’ll e-mail you. And I’ll look over the paperwork later and let you know what I think.”
“Good.” Pete gave him a half slap, half handshake and turned on his heel. “Good luck with that beast.”
Justin waited until Pete was back in his car and pulling away from the curb before he climbed into the Hornet’s driver’s seat and pushed the key into the ignition. Here went nothing.
The engine struggled to turn over, the starter whining in protest. He gave it a little gas, and the engine finally caught and rumbled to life. The whole car shuddered as the cold motor pulled in new oil, lubricating the neglected cylinders, and gradually settling to a throaty rumble. A smile came to his face. Ugly as it might be, this beast would be fun to drive. It was almost too bad that Melody was selling it.
He kept the clutch in and pressed the accelerator, listening to the engine as it revved. There. A misfire in one of the cylinders. He tried again, watched the RPM. Not a big surprise, given the age and history of the car.
Justin shut the engine off and climbed out to remove a spark plug. He hadn’t included it in his estimate for Melody, but they weren’t so expensive that he felt like he needed her approval. He shrugged off his jacket, took the plug with him as a sample, and hopped into his Mustang, aware that he was avoiding the larger problem.
He’d told Pete that he was all in with the Florida move, but it was a complete lie.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THIS PAST WEEK HAD been the longest of Melody’s life. She told herself that Justin’s absence was convenient, considering she and Rachel had spent every free moment discussing design and business issues, but she didn’t believe it. The leap in her heart when he called on Saturday to tell her to wear snow boots and a warm jacket belied every protest to the contrary.
Melody had fully intended to get up early to go to church with Rachel and Ana, but when she pried her eyes open at 11 a.m. on Sunday morning, she saw that she’d slept through her alarm so many times that it had given up on her. As had her friends . . . after half a dozen missed text messages. She dragged herself from beneath her duvet and stumbled into the bathroom.
The going-to-bed thing was never a problem. It was the waking up between three and six every morning that was killing her. She’d been getting a lot of reading done this week, but the fact she’d been sneaking contemporary romance novels, so far from her usual literary bedtime preferences, didn’t help her sleeplessness. She found herself glued to the pages, desperate to reassure herself of the characters’ happily ever after.
She showered, primped, and dressed as quickly as she could, leaving enough time to down a full pot of coffee. When Justin buzzed at the building minutes before noon, she was slipping on her boots with her mug in hand.
She opened the door to him before he knocked. “Hey! Give me a second to put this in the sink and we can go.”
“You’re looking much more alert than I expected.” He put his hands in his pockets and watched her with a half smile.
“I’m fine as long as you don’t ask me to make any witty conversation. I’m still running on autopilot this morning. Afternoon. Whatever.” She poured the rest of her coffee in the sink, grabbed her handbag, and moved to the door.
“Wait.” Justin grabbed her arm and tugged her back around to him. Then he took her face in one hand and kissed her slowly and thoroughly.
Melody sighed and wound her arms around his waist with a dreamy smile. “I missed you.”
“I can see that.” His voice, pitched low, held all sorts of promises she was suddenly a little too anxious to explore. “However, we need to get going.”
“What’s the hurry? Are we going to be late for something?”
He checked his watch. “Kind of. You feel up for an adventure?”
The dare in his voice broke through her sensual haze. “You bet I am.”
Despite her sassy words, Melody had been telling the truth when she warned him not to expect conversation—it was all she could do to stare out the window of Justin’s perfectly nice Nissan SUV and shake the fog of a midday awakening. She was coherent enough to know he was heading out of the city into the southern suburbs, sprawling communities of newer houses connected by highways, interstates, and toll roads. When he exited the freeway and headed east up Arapahoe Road, a six-lane highway that connected the Denver Tech Center to the city’s suburbs, she couldn’t stay
quiet any longer.
“Where are we going exactly? Last time I checked, there was no longer any snow in the tech center.”
“You’ll see. I guess I should have asked you this before—do you like the mountains?”
“Yes.” Though they were going the wrong direction through suburban sprawl for the mountains. Then she saw the signage on the right side of the road for Centennial Airport. “Where are we going?”
Justin chuckled. “The airport, obviously. After that, wait and see.”
He turned down an adjoining road, then up to a gate, beyond which an array of business jets stood in a neat grid. He swiped his card and the gate slowly slid back.
“That’s a Citation XLS,” he said, pointing at one of the smaller jets through her window. “That’s what I fly for work.”
“It’s so . . . small,” she said, surprised. “Somehow I always envisioned them being like airliners.”
“More like a fighter than an airliner. At least that’s what we like to tell ourselves. Speaking of, look . . . an F-18.” He pointed at a military jet parked straight out front of one of the terminals.
“What, did the guy just stop in for lunch?”
Justin chuckled. “Maybe. The airport restaurant is pretty good. But this airport handles a lot of military traffic too.”
He navigated slowly across the expanse of concrete, then drove up to what looked like a huge self-storage facility. She supposed it was, in a way: the rows of long rectangular buildings no doubt held planes that ranged from little two-seaters to corporate jets like the ones Justin flew. After a couple of minutes, he pulled up in front of an end unit with a small entry set beside a huge corrugated metal door.
“This is it?” she asked inanely. “There’s no security or anything?”
“Nope. There aren’t any commercial flights from Centennial, so it’s the crew’s job to make sure their passengers pass muster.” He fixed her with a mock serious stare. “There isn’t anything I should know, is there? You’re not secretly on some Homeland Security no-fly list, are you?”
Brunch at Bittersweet Café Page 20