Chapter 29 Coco
TWENTY-NINE
Coco
The line at Café du Monde moves the way it always does, slow and stubborn and somehow still charming. Powdered sugar hangs in the air like the place is permanently mid-celebration, even when the morning feels ordinary.
I step inside and let the noise wash over me. Tourists, locals, trays clinking, the espresso machine hissing like it has opinions.
I spot my father before I even register that I am looking for him.
He sits at a small table near the edge of the room, where he can see the door without looking like he is trying.
Dark suit. No tie. His hands rest on the table beside two coffees, one black, one already stirred with cream.
A paper bag sits between them, folded at the top, the grease spot darkening through.
He stands when he sees me. It's not performative. It's just what he does.
“Corinne,” he says.
“Morning, Papa.”
He pulls out the chair. I sit, and I note the small, familiar click of eyes on us. People notice him. That part never changes, no matter how much distance I build in my own life.
He nods toward the coffee with cream. “I remembered.”
I wrap my fingers around the cup. The warmth hits my palms first, then travels into my wrists. “Thank you.”
He watches me take the first sip, like he is checking for a reaction he's not going to comment on. The coffee is strong, sweet, and exactly what I want.
This is not the father I grew up with. That man would have corrected me, adjusted the order, reminded me how things are done. This one lets the choice stand.
I don't know if California changed him, or if it only changed what I am willing to accept. Maybe it did both.
Outside, the street carries on. A carriage rolls by. A bus sighs at the curb. Somewhere close, a saxophone tries out a melody like it is deciding whether it is worth committing.
My father folds his hands. “How are things going at the restaurant?”
It is a careful question. He could ask about where I have been, or about the last year and all the ways it rearranged my life. He doesn't. Instead, the work that now separates us.
“It's going well,” I say. “It’s busy, but I really love it.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, then nods like that is enough. He doesn't press any more than that, and I'm okay with that..
His coffee steams untouched. I think about all the times he drank it like fuel, fast and joyless, and I wonder if he still does that when I am not around.
“You're back here for good, right?”
I keep my face calm. “I'm back. I'll travel some, because there's always more to learn and different grapes to experience, but this is my home base.”
His mouth tightens slightly, and I know he is measuring the difference between what he asked and what I answered. He doesn't correct me.
“Your mother would have liked California,” he says, and it is the closest thing to softness I have heard from him in a long time.
My throat tightens, but I do not let it take over. I take another sip of coffee. The chicory is bitter on my tongue.
“She would have liked the vineyards,” I say. “She would have hated the traffic.”
That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost. His eyes shift, then come back to mine.
“I want you to be careful,” he says.
There it is. It isn't a demand or an order dressed up as concern. Just a statement any father might say to his daughter. And for once, I don't want to buck against it.
“I am careful,” I tell him, and I mean it. I am not careful the way I used to be, shrinking myself down and letting other people decide what risk is acceptable for me. I am careful in a different way now. I choose. I pay attention. I do not pretend I am untouchable.
He reaches for the bag between us and slides it across the table. “These are for you.”
I unfold the top and the smell hits me immediately. Hot dough, sugar and butter. New Orleans comfort in a bag.
I glance at my watch. I don't want to, but I do. I have learned that time does not pause just because something important is happening.
“I actually have to run,” I say. "I have a big night tonight and have to get several errands done today."
He stands with me and looks at his own watch. "Yeah, I've got to get going, too. I've enjoyed this. Let's try to do it again."
It lands somewhere in the middle of an invitation and a demand, where we have been trying to build something that doesn't collapse under the weight of who he is.
“Yes,” I say. “I'd like that.”
Outside, the light is bright in that particular New Orleans way, the kind that makes the edges of buildings look sharpened and clean. I step carefully around a puddle that smells faintly like urine, and I head toward Jackson Square.
Delphine’s gallery sits a few blocks off, tucked into a narrow building with tall windows and a simple sign. Inside, the air changes immediately. It smells like paint and old wood and the expensive candles Delphine insists are necessary for ambiance.
She looks up from behind the counter, and her face brightens. “Please tell me you brought me sugar and happiness.”
I lift the bag. “I bring offerings.”
She comes around the counter and reaches for it like it is sacred. “I could kiss you.”
“Do not get powdered sugar on my face,” I say, even though it makes her laugh.
Delphine pulls out a beignet and takes a bite without hesitation. Sugar dusts her lips. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, then points at me with it.
“You met with Laurent this morning, right?”
I set my coffee on the counter and lean against it, careful to keep my blouse from touching anything sticky. “I did.”
Delphine studies me in a way she only does when she is trying to see past what I am saying. “So…? How was it?”
“Fine,” I say. “It gets a little better each time.”
Delphine’s brows lift. “Three's a charm, right?”
I let out a quiet breath and tilt my head, conceding. “Yeah. Today makes the third time I've seen him since I've been back. We're getting there.”
Delphine hums. “Look at you. Miss Boundaries.”
“Don't call me that,” I say, but I secretly like it.
She wipes sugar from her fingers with a napkin, then rests her hip against the counter beside me. “So what does this mean? Are you back in his orbit?”
I meet her eyes. Delphine never asks out of gossip.
She asks because she has been there for every version of me.
The obedient daughter. The restless one.
The one who finally chose herself and went across the country to learn a craft that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with taste and patience.
“It means we can sit at a table,” I say. “In public without fighting.”
Delphine nods slowly. “That's… something.”
“It's not him pulling me back,” I add, because I need her to understand the shape of it. “It's him learning that I am not coming back in that way.”
She takes another beignet and holds it out to me.
I take it, and the warmth sinks into my palm.
I tear off a piece and savor the sugar as it melts on my tongue.
For a second, I am eight years old and my mother is laughing, and my father is watching from the edge of the room like he is keeping the world at bay.
I swallow and let the moment pass.
Delphine watches me. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me about your real day.”
I lift my eyes. “Tonight.”
Her expression shifts immediately. Interest. Pride. A little excitement she is not trying to hide. “Wine night.”
“It's the big private tasting I've spent the last four weeks buying for,” I say, and the words still thrill me when I say them out loud. “Full buyout. Twenty-four guests, four courses and eight bottles that cost more than my first car.”
Delphine whistles softly. “And you curated it.”
“I curated it,” I repeat, and this time I let myself feel it.
The months in California where my feet ached and my hands smelled like cork and my mind stayed sharp from dawn until late night.
The tests. The tastings. The way I learned to trust my own palate without someone else telling me what is valuable.
Delphine leans closer. “Who’s coming?”
“Names you have heard,” I say. “People who pretend they do not run the city and then run it anyway. Lawyers. Investors. Old families. New money trying to look old.”
Delphine’s smile turns sly. “So basically your father’s friends.”
“Some of them,” I admit. “Not all. This is not his event. It is mine.”
“And you're excited,” she says, like she is pleased to catch it.
“I am,” I tell her, and I do not soften it. “I worked for this.”
Delphine nudges my arm with her elbow. “I am coming by after my shift. I will stand outside and look supportive.”
“You are not getting in,” I say.
“I know,” she replies, unbothered. “I will still look supportive. And if there is anything left over, I won't be ashamed to take it.”
I laugh, and it feels easy in my chest. “Go sell your art, Delphine. I gotta go run my errands.”
She lifts her beignet in a salute. “Go make your wine people cry with joy.”
I pick up my coffee and shift the bag of beignets under my arm. As I turn toward the door, Delphine calls after me.
“Coco.”
I look back.
Her expression is calm now, serious under the sugar dust. “You're doing it,” she says. “The life you wanted.”
I hold her gaze and nod once. “I am.”
Outside, the city hums around me, and the morning has teeth and sweetness in equal measure. I walk toward the river, coffee in hand, and I let my mind move forward to tonight.
I get to the restaurant early, before the light outside shifts and before the kitchen heat settles into the walls.
The room is quiet in a way it never is once service starts. Tables are set but untouched. Glassware catches the overhead lights and throws them back clean and sharp.
I walk the floor once, methodically checking spacing and sightlines. I adjust a chair by a fraction of an inch and straighten a place card. I pause at the long central table and imagine the bodies that will fill it later, the way voices will rise and overlap once the first pour loosens everyone up.