Chapter 11 #2
He takes a small sip of coffee. “Mostly residential. Low-rise condominiums. If the zoning allows, we sometimes create the spaces for small businesses underneath. Have you seen that new complex over in Port Logan?”
I have. The building is beautiful, built in the same brick style as the rest of the quaint downtown, but its construction took out an entire block of small businesses.
The only shop that made the transition into the newly constructed work/live lofts was a small kitchen shop with a booming online business.
The eggs in my stomach churn. “So you’re looking at locations in West Lake?”
It’s a moment before Reeve can chew and swallow his mouthful of breakfast to answer.
“I’ve been looking at locations all along the coast, as far north as Tobermory and as far south as Grand Bend.
It really comes down to the area. The economy needs to be able to support the demographic we’re targeting.
The units will start at seven hundred and fifty K. ”
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand each?” I’m grateful I don’t have a mouthful of coffee. “For what? A two-bedroom condo?”
Reeve looks almost sheepish. “One-bedroom. You’d be surprised what the vacation property crowd will spend.”
My breakfast feels like a brick in my stomach. I drop my fork. It clatters onto my plate as I push away the rest of my food, no longer hungry.
Reeve tilts his head, lowering it to meet my eyes. “Why do I get the sense that I’ve just screwed up?”
I wrap my arms across my chest. “You haven’t; I just don’t think I could do a job like that.”
He glances at me, confused. “Aren’t vacation properties a good thing? More tourists means more business for the locals, right?”
He’s both right and wrong. It’s a complex situation.
“In theory, yes. But when the people that live here can’t afford to actually live here and then have to commute to jobs that still pay the same minimum wages because they have to compete with the shiny new Starbucks, or yoga studio, or cheesemonger going in down the street, it really only works out for a select few. ”
In a mere few moments, our pleasant-ish breakfast has turned into something else entirely. I look around for Rosie and her coffeepot and spot her coming our way with both a pot and a plate in hand.
She sets the plate down in front of me. On it is a single butter tart. “Figured I’d save you the trouble of ordering.” She fills my empty coffee mug before turning to Reeve. “You want one, too?”
Reeve looks at my plate and then up at me. “I don’t know. Do I?”
I move my fork to the flaky tart and cut it in half. “I’ll share. I don’t know if I can stomach a full one this morning.”
I push the plate to the center of the table, then use my fork to pull my half of the dessert toward me.
Reeve’s fork lingers over his portion. “Do you always eat dessert at eight-thirty in the morning?”
“Yup.” I lift half of the butter tart to my mouth, forgoing all propriety and eating the entire thing in three bites. It’s sweet, salty, and not too runny, and it drips with the correct filling-to-pastry ratio, washing away some of the awkwardness of the last few moments.
Reeve tosses his fork on the table, following my lead and downing his half in two bites.
“Wow!” he says after he has chewed and swallowed. “I think you might be on to something here.”
He has a tiny dribble of filling on his chin. I reach as if I’m about to swipe it with my finger, then stop and pick up a spare napkin instead.
He takes it. “So is it just butter tarts, or do you switch it up? Cheesecake feels like it could work as a breakfast dessert.”
He wipes his chin with a napkin, and I consider how much I feel like adding to his arsenal of Jules DeMarco facts.
“My mom used to work at this bakery in Port Logan when I was a kid—Annie O’s.
I’d have to wake up super early and go with her.
She’d wrap me in a blanket and set me in the corner on the big sacks of flour, and I’d sleep for a few extra hours and then wake up to the smell of fresh bread. ”
I look up to see him watching me with an amused half smile. “Not the worst way to wake up, I imagine?”
I nod, agreeing. “Exactly. Annie would always be in by that time, and she’d have a warm butter tart ready and waiting.
To have a good day, you should start with a good breakfast, she’d say with a wink, which in hindsight makes me think she knew she was taking liberties with the word good, but it always seemed to work. Those years were good.”
My mom was steadily employed, home in the evenings to tuck me into bed. They were my favorite years, until she decided she was too good to work in a lowly bakery job.
I drain the rest of my coffee to push that particular memory away. When I set my cup down, he is still watching me.
“Have dinner with me tonight?”
His question comes so out of the blue that my guard is down, and my insides flutter.
“I can’t. I’m working until nine tonight.”
Reeve shrugs like he doesn’t see the same problem. “Nine still works for me.”
“You want to hang out at nine ?”
Reeve pales slightly as he follows my thought process. “I wasn’t implying…I assumed you’d be hungry after work. I promise I made that statement with the most gentlemanly of intentions.”
I dwell on the word gentlemanly and wonder if he remembers our night together and how he couldn’t make that promise back then. And that memory reminds me of the bigger problem here. “What did you think of this butter tart?” I nudge the remaining crumbs with my fork.
Reeve tilts his head, unsure of where I’m going with this. “It was delicious.”
“It was good, but not great,” I correct him.
“Lou’s used to get their butter tarts from Annie O’s.
There would be lines out the door on weekend mornings when Annie would send over a fresh batch.
A good butter tart is practically worshiped up here.
But two years ago, a developer bought the block where Annie O’s was located, and she had to shut the bakery down and move it three hours north where she could afford to live. ”
Reeve swallows, his face slightly paler than a moment ago.
“It wasn’t your complex in Port Logan,” I tell him. “But it could have been. Now Lou’s brings in butter tarts frozen from some big bakery in Toronto. He makes practically no margin, but people come to little towns like this expecting butter tarts.”
Reeve stares at his plate and then up at me. He doesn’t say anything, and I open my mouth to shift our conversation somewhere less awkward, but then he scoops up the last forkful of eggs and holds it up. “Let me tell you about my breakfast.”
I shut my mouth again, wondering where he’s taking this.
“I love chocolate chip pancakes,” he continues. “They are hands down my favorite food—of all time, not just breakfast—yet I ordered scrambled eggs with a side of tomatoes. So that tells you…”
He holds out his fork and waits.
“You don’t want to die of a heart attack?”
He laughs. “Well, yes, but also that I’m prone to doing what is expected of me instead of what I want.” He holds up his butterless whole wheat toast. “Dry and boring, like my job. The job my father got me after I failed to find what he deemed ‘suitable employment.’ Also, I am lactose intolerant.”
He takes a bite out of the bread, and when he swallows I expect him to continue, but he doesn’t immediately.
After a pause, he continues. “I am also the middle child of three boys. A people pleaser both by birth order and by nature. That unimpressed look you’re giving me with your eyebrow right now is both killing me and turning me on.”
My mouth falls open, which I quickly try to cover by taking a long sip of my coffee.
“What about the hash browns?” I ask as I finally set my mug down.
He shrugs. “I just like hash browns.” Then he spears the last forkful and bites, fighting back another smile as he chews.
I’m smiling, too, despite myself, and despite still grappling with the idea that I hate everything about his job and yet I like more and more about him.
As if he can sense the thoughts in my head, he reaches his hand out like he’s going to cover mine but stops, and instead sets his hand next to mine so only the backs of our fingers brush.
“It’s my job, Jules. But it’s not me. ”
His eyes lock with mine. Two pools of a deep mahogany brown.
But instead of him looking into my soul, this time it’s me looking into his, and although I can’t explain why, I know exactly what he means.
“Reeve, I—”
Someone clears their throat.
I turn to see Rosie placing a black plastic tray on the table with two bills, leaning away as if she’s trying her best not to interrupt.
“I know you gotta run, honey, so I’ll just leave this here.” She gives me a not-so-discreet thumbs-up before rushing off.
Reeve tries to reach for my bill, but I stop him, setting cash down on the table.
“I’m sorry, but Rosie’s right, and I really need to get going. My shift starts in ten minutes.”
I slide out of the booth, as does Reeve. There is an awkward moment where I don’t know if I should hug him goodbye, shake his hand, or awkwardly wave and walk away.
What I do know is that I wish I didn’t need to go yet. Despite our rocky start, I remember why I fell so hard the first time.
“Do you still have my number?” I nod at his cell phone sitting on the table. “The wrong one. From before.”
Reeve nods. “Yeah.”
“If you reverse the last two numbers, it should be right. Four-two-eight-five.”
He picks up his phone and begins to type, then turns the screen so I can confirm the number is correct.
I double-check it and nod. “For the next time you’re in town. Maybe we can have dinner then?”
“I like that plan.” He takes the phone back, types something into it, and then returns it to his pocket. “I guess we’ll talk soon.”