Chapter Sixteen
Sparrow
I still have the application for my shop to be featured in The Seacoast Gazette hovering in my mind but haven’t yet applied. Online shop? Recipes of my mother’s? It’s swirling uncomfortably in my mind. Despite the irony, Rafe has been the only one who brings me a sense of peace these days, even if I’m melting because of the tension between us. I find myself hoping that he’ll stop by the bakery today, which explains why I’m hovering at the front of the store, grabbing things from the back so I can keep my eyes trained on the entrance.
I’ve been doing my best not to completely lose sight of the fact that Rafe is going to move on. He has to. And he’s not French. (Can’t forget that ... even though that argument of mine wasn’t sound from the beginning.)
Lily is rolling her eyes so much I’m sure she’s going to do some damage if I don’t get this situation under control.And if she was here right now, she’d have me blaring a playlist about not needing men and being independent, but because I’m me, I have soft French café music surrounding us (me and the few regulars here). I’m rearranging a tray of salted caramel macarons for the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes when I hear the door open. My eyes bounce up to find Grey and Ivy walking in, and I feel my smile grow at the sight of them.
“Rory!” Grey yells.
I wave and lean over to give them hugs across the counter. Grey’s light-brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun, her wide, cat-eye glasses peeking out from under her bangs. Ivy’s dark-golden hair is nestled under one of those headbands with the knots on top like a vintage icon. They’re both wearing long, cozy sweaters and boots, a sign that fall is certainly here. It makes my heart happy to see them because it’s been way too long.
“So, any men from France hanging around here these days?” Grey asks, her eyes wide and hopeful. If anyone would recognize a storybook romance, it’s her. She’s constantly surrounded by books and is the fastest and most prolific reader I’ve ever met. She’s been mostly single in the time that I’ve known her, although I suspect it might be because of a mutual friend of ours, but she’s a romantic at heart in every way.
Right now, I know she’s talking about Jacques, but her words don’t get my heart fluttering like they used to. Ivy grins a bit, her husky voice breaking through the air—the type of voice you want to read to you or sing on a cold winter’s night in front of a fire. She’s always had the coolest voice of anyone I know.
“Or, you know, any other men hanging around here?” She shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be French.” Ivy and Grey share a look.
“Okay, so, you know about Rafe, clearly ... ” I start.
They are practically giddy as I turn to get their usual orders: a pumpkin spice latte for Grey and a hot chocolate for Ivy. She really is like a Christmas card come to life, now that I think of it. I set to steaming the milk and allow the familiar sound of the steam frothing to settle my nerves.
“I understand why people would be so fond of him. I mean with his hair ... and his eyes.” I sigh and lean into the counter for a second.
“What about his eyes?” Grey asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.
I pour a splash of house-made syrup into the cup and grind more espresso while I give her question some thought. “Oh, gosh . . . his eyes hold secrets. An enchanted forest full of them, saying you’ll get lost, but you’ll have fun along the way.” I pour the steamed milk—perfectly frothed, might I add—into the coffee mixture, content with the hint of pumpkin meeting crema at the rim of the cup, a heart in white foam clearly outlined. I put a lid on it and work on the hot chocolate. Ivy’s voice breaks through the routine.
“Hmm ... sounds dreamy. Anything else about him?”
I pour some of our homemade chocolate sauce into the cup, add a little steamed milk, and mix so that it’s integrated before pouring in the rest of the milk. I put in a pump of house-made, salted caramel syrup for good luck.
“Well,” I begin. “I mean, I know he’s not Jacques, but he’s his own version of a dream. The hair, the height, the way he dresses. You know, his style is kind of like a classic, Old-Hollywood-meets-boy-next-door type of vibe.” I drizzle some chocolate over the top in another heart design. So many hearts to match the ones I’m sure are in my eyes. I grab two of our to-go bags, light-brown patisserie paper with our logo stamped on the front, and insert a sampling of macarons in each one. I also package up some croissants in an attempt to make up for our lack of time together lately.
“And I just have to say . . . ” I start, adding the treats to a bag with a satin ribbon handle. I put the drinks in a to-go carrier, gathering everything together. “I don’t know, sometimes I just want to tell him—”
“Tell me what?”
I jump at the sound of the voice behind me. I nearly knock over the drinks but recover in time. Even with my eyes tightly shut and my back to the man, I know who is behind me.
“Please wake up, please wake up ... ” I whisper.
“You’re awake,” Grey assures me.
“Yes, very awake,” is the added (non-helpful) encouragement from Ivy.
I take a deep breath and roll back my shoulders. When I turn toward my friends, I also spot Rafe grinning at me. Something is clouding his expression, but I’m too focused on the fact that he’s wearing glasses. As if he needed yet another reason to make him more heart melting, he now has solid frames accentuating his green eyes. I clear my throat and focus on my friends, who are standing wide-eyed and slightly slack-jawed at the sight of Rafe. I know, friends. Hard to believe he’s real. And the glasses really take it up a level. He is not making this easy.
Feeling my eyes take on a bit of a “help me” glint, they finally turn to face me. They’re a step behind Rafe, and with his eyes still on me, they use this opportunity to both give me a thumbs-up sign. Before I can manage another word, the little traitors grab their treats and are out the door, but not before I see them through the window peeking back at me. Ivy fans her face while the to-go bag swings wildly from her wrist, and Grey pulls her away from the window.
“How long were you standing there?” I ask while pretending to reorganize some pastries. Again.
“Not long. Except, tell me, what do you think of this shirt?”
I look over to see him in a sage-green V-neck sweater, his eyes illuminated with amusement. “Do they bring out my forest eyes?”
I roll my own eyes and try to act unaffected. “First of all, you don’t know I was talking about you. I could’ve been talking about Jacques.”
“His eyes are brown.”
“So?”
“So, the forest is brown?” His eyebrows furrow, but it’s a little too whimsical to be taken seriously.
I put down a tray of chaussons aux pommes , or French apple turnovers, a little too forcefully. I realize in that moment that I can either run away (which won’t work because Lily’s shift hasn’t started yet, and I need my pastry chef to keep working on a wedding order in the back), pretend that I’m not talking nonsense (which won’t work because I totally am), or own it. I choose none of the options by changing the subject.
The overhead bell rings, and in walks Jacques. I’m expecting a standoff, given the way I’ve seen Rafe giving him looks whenever we’re about town. Instead, he nods at him and moves out of the way to sit at his usual spot at the counter. He doesn’t order anything.
I look at Jacques, confusion on my face. Something is definitely different about today.
“Sparrow, I . . . ” Jacques starts.
We’re interrupted now by Gladys, who’s coming in hot. Of all the moments for her to stop by, of course it would be now. I swear I saw her bang a uey (a u-turn, in New England language) on her way to the flower shop. It’s not even her usual time for coming into the store. And the way she’s heading toward Rafe, like a kid with a chocolate bar within reach, I’m certain it’s for him.
Rafe braces for impact, but like a barnacle, Gladys attaches to him. I’d warn him, but despite her meddling and complete lack of awareness at times, she really does mean well and has a heart of gold. I’m just hoping she doesn’t break out the messages she sent me of Rafe at his show. I shudder.
“What can I get you, Gladys?” I give her a warning glance, but she ignores me, instead keeping her focus on Rafe.
“What are your intentions with our girl?” she demands.
Thankfully, Rafe has the good sense not to laugh. I set about making a decaf pour-over and add a handful of madeleines to a plate—some toffee, some coffee—and try my best to listen.
“I promise they’re honorable,” Rafe says, his jaw tight, gaze set. He’s looking her right in the eye, and even I believe him. Not that I doubted.
Gladys rises up on her tiptoes as if she can threaten him with her intensity. I lean back a bit because it’s working on me, at least. Except, Rafe doesn’t move. He’s committed. And instead of trying to run, or scoffing, or acknowledging how absurd this is, he has the audacity to grin.
“Ms. Gladys,” he begins. “I know how much Sparrow must mean to you—and to this town—because it’s clear that if she has people coming to check up on my intentions, she’s dear to you. And I respect that. And I respect her. And while I have a suspicion that she may have stolen another guitar pick of mine the other night . .. ” He glances over at me on that part before returning his attention back to Gladys. “I can assure you that this short time with Sparrow has already been the best I’ve ever had with a woman. And not because of anything physical, but because she has as much heart as she does beauty. It’s in how she moves. It’s in when I make her nervous, and she overfills a coffee cup. It’s when she’s so passionate about her work that she doesn’t realize she’s covered in flour. It’s in the way she smells of caramelized sugar and dreams. It’s also in the way there’s a piece of hair that falls over her eyes, no matter how much she pulls it back, and all I want to do is tell her to leave it right where it is because it’s perfect. I know I can’t be the one she chooses in the end because, the truth is, I’m not sure I deserve her. But anyone would be an idiot not to try.”
“Well,” Gladys says, wiping her eyes. She lowers her heels back to the ground and grips the counter, much like I’m doing while I stare at this man—this wonderful man who just gave the most beautiful speech I’ve ever heard. She reaches out and lightly takes Rafe’s hand before picking up her coffee and madeleines and walking away.
I reach for him too, except now he’s standing. He walks over to Jacques, not making eye contact with me, though I’m begging him to.
“Rafe,” I whisper.
I see him swallow, his hand extending to shake Jacques’.
“Be good to her,” Rafe says, his jaw clenched.
“Rafe!”
He doesn’t stop until he’s at the door. The grin marking his face is forced. The waves of his hair fall in an arc over his forehead. He nods, and then he’s gone, putting on his coat as he walks away, the sun marking his steps.
“Sparrow,” Jacques continues while I’m reeling from the interaction that just unfolded. “Rafe told me it was a mistake.”
I lean onto the counter, my heartbeat thumping in my ears. “A mistake?”
“Yes.” He nods. “I thought you two were dating, but he told me you were just friends. He says he knows you need someone to be here for you.”
“Friends. Someone here,” I repeat, my fingers going numb.
“I do really want to know you more, Sparrow.”
“I—I’m sorry, Jacques. I just ... ” I begin as he pulls a piece of folded paper from his jacket pocket and hands it to me.
Opening it slowly, I note the smudges of ink in the corners and the creases of notes that must’ve been written over the paper I’m holding now before it got to these words: I still believe you’re brave. And I’ll keep singing for you, Sugar.
I clear my throat and fold the paper, tucking it into the pocket of my apron before lifting my eyes to Jacques.
“Will you go out with me, Rory?”
And this time, with Rafe not in sight and the note clenched in my hands, I nod my head and feel a bit shattered as I do.