Chapter 7 Emma
SEVEN
EMMA
FEbrUARY
I toed open the back door of Terre a Bouche, my friend Cindy’s farm to table restaurant in the Short North. We’d gone to culinary school together and stayed close ever since. The scent of fresh mint hit my nose and light strains of NPR floated in the air.
“Hellooo?” I called out. I walked to the kitchen, finding Cindy alone, a massive mountain of mint next to her.
“Hey,” she grunted.
“A lot of mint for February,” I mused.
“Well, I also received a lot of lamb for February. My butcher had an issue with his main cooler, so I had to shop from his freezer. I called in a favor to get this much mint. It’s not exactly in prime condition.”
I plucked a leaf from her workspace and popped it in my mouth. Spearmint spread across my tongue. “Eh, tastes fine to me. I’m sure you’ll make it lovely.”
Her face softened. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. How’d the other night go? You do alright without me?”
I’d sent a flare out to see if Cindy could step in for Miguel, but she already had her hands full that night. I clamped my jaw thinking of the real highlight of that evening. Actually, Cindy, I got my fingers sucked by an NHL goalie. All things considered, I did fine without you!
“Oh, it was fine. Hectic, but we made it.”
“Next time, let me know ahead of time and I’ll clear my schedule.” She gestured to the front of the restaurant with her knife. “If you want to go out and make yourself an espresso, I’ll be right out.”
“Me? Using the coveted Marzocco?” Sometimes I suspected Cindy opened this place just so she could get the Ferrari of espresso machines.
She waved her knife at me. “Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.”
“I’ll make you one too. Doppio? Macchiato?”
“If you please.”
I passed through the kitchen to get to the bar, perfectly shut down for the night. I flipped the switch on the side of the silver espresso machine and grabbed some clean mugs from the drying rack. I put them upside down on the top of the machine to warm while the machine heated the water.
“How late were you here last night?” I called, searching for the light switch for the bar. It was a gloomy day, so the windows weren’t cutting it.
“Just till one! And that was with a little venture to the Watering Hole.”
I shuddered. “I don’t know how you do it.”
The last time I was up until one, much less up and drinking, was before I started working for the Rusties. Felt like centuries ago. Once you get used to the rest of the world’s sleep schedules, it’s hard to remember how you did it for years. Especially as a mom.
Cindy appeared around the corner and leaned a hip on the bar. “I don’t have a teenage son or anywhere to be in the morning.”
“Except here, chopping mint and hanging out with me.”
Cindy hummed, then fell silent. I could sense her eyes on me as I tamped the coffee grounds into the portofilter. “Stop judging me.”
“Who said I’m judging?” She put her hands up.
“You are! You’ve got the damn hawkeye on. I’m glad I don’t work for you.”
“But I’d love it if you did,” she tried.
“I like my sleep, thanks.”
“Liam won’t be home forever,” she sang.
I moaned. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
She rounded the bar and lifted a stool off the top of it, pulling a laptop close to her.
Dueling shades of brown swirled into the pre-warmed ceramic, a deep mahogany rising with a tan crema on top.
I stooped to get a jug of milk from under the bar and sloshed a little into the stainless steel pitcher, flipping the steaming wand knob to test the pressure.
I aerated the top of the milk, then plunged the wand to achieve that signature macchiato texture.
Cindy had it down to a science. I was just trying to make it so she didn’t make me do it again.
Though I possessed many culinary talents, she was, far and away, the better barista.
“How is our boy anyway? He figure out what he wants to do yet?” she asked absently, looking over something on her screen while I dotted the milk over the top of her espresso shots.
“Still a work in progress,” I said. “He won’t say it, but I think he’s a little burned out on hockey. And I’m not sure, but I think he feels some duty to stay with me to keep me company or something. I’ve told him it’s okay to choose a different path. One that is away from my house.”
“He loves you! What’s so wrong with your only precious little baby boy wanting to stay in the nest?”
I closed my eyes to keep from rolling them and groaned.
Cindy was joyfully child free by choice, but even though I had Liam young, I wouldn’t have my life take any other path.
I loved my son. Best thing to ever happen to me.
The light of my life. All the phrases held true.
But his impending flying of the coop had me feeling all sorts of things.
Sad he was leaving. Happy with the man he was becoming.
Preparing to be lonely because for the first time in my adult life, I’d be all alone.
But was that a good thing? Would this be How Emma Got Her Groove Back?
The pressure to have some big, dramatic second act weighed on me. And there was another part of me that just wanted to curl up in a ball and let life keep happening to me.
But I didn’t even get a choice if Liam stayed home to play junior hockey.
That was a real possibility. It made more sense to save money and stay home, then wait to see if he’d get some partial scholarship to a D1 school.
Some parents would love to have the relationship Li and I had.
He was open with me without oversharing.
He asked for advice and gave big thought to the answers.
I trusted him to make good choices, and for the most part, he did.
He was still a hockey-playing teenager, and sometimes, he acted like it.
The part that made my heart ache was thinking that my split with his dad made him grow up too fast. It was important to me to maintain the boundary that I wasn’t his friend, but his mom. His mom who loved him, cared about him, and liked to have fun with him.
With the steamed milk dotted across the top of the espresso, I laid the cup into a saucer and slid it across the counter to Cindy. She took a sip and bobbed her head. “Not bad.”
“Not bad positive? Or not bad negative?”
She tipped her head from side to side. “Neutral.” I stuck my tongue out and she laughed. “If you’re wanting to get your skirt blown up, you need to look elsewhere.”
“Heard,” I said. “My skirt could do for some activity of any kind, really.”
“Almost empty nest,” Cindy said with a tap to her nose. “But I say why wait? His dad’s got him some of the time. And he’s almost an adult. How often is he really home?”
I chewed my lip. It sounded ridiculous to blame not having guys over on mom guilt. It was a mistake to bring up my sex life. “Well, anyway. Thanks for turning your culinary school classes over to me because now I’ve got a private student.”
“Ooh, are they actually willing to pay?”
I turned so my back was to Cindy, pulling a shot for my own drink. “He’s got the dough. It’s actually a guy from work.”
Cindy closed her laptop and narrowed her eyes at me. “Wait, you’re teaching a hockey player?”
I scooped some ice from the well behind the bar. I’d test Royce’s stupid “shocks the espresso” theory. “It does seem that way.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Why doesn’t he just make you a private chef?”
“He wants to play chef, I guess. It’s uh,” I toyed with the handle on my tiny espresso cup, “the guy who I saved. From the bus.”
“Wait, Harlan Royce? The one who makes your life hell?” She scrunched her face.
“The very same,” I sighed, pouring my espresso shots over the ice and turning to add water from the soda gun.
“And you said yes, why?” she pressed.
I put my hands out. “It’s good money. He’s paying me an absurd amount to teach him, and Liam needs money for college.”
Cindy guffawed. “Don’t subject yourself to Harlan Royce if you don’t have to. Make Liam earn his own way. Then you can have a night off. He can work here. I always need a dishwasher. And god, front of house is a revolving door.”
Cindy had an interesting mix of employees. Some people thrived under her scrutiny, and others crumbled. She’d had a crumbly streak for a while. A few employees had been there since the beginning and would likely stick around as long as Cindy kept her doors open.
“I believe it.” I took a pensive sip of my iced Americano.
And son of a bitch, Royce was right. The espresso tasted metallic.
I could see his smug face in my head and wanted to slap it.
“I guess I don’t want Liam to worry about all the real world stuff yet, you know?
Maybe when hockey season is over. I’d rather enjoy these potential final months without adding more to the schedule. ”
She barked out a laugh that startled me. “Won’t be the final months if you don’t kick him out the nest!” She slammed her macchiato and shoved the cup and saucer my way. “Come on. Let’s go for our walk. Daylight’s wasting.”
I celebrated when I found a parking spot right in front of Harlan Royce’s German Village home.
I don’t know where I expected him to live.
When I visited the Leroys, I had to go out to the rich suburb, Upper Arlington.
German Village was better suited to a young bachelor, which he seemed to be based on how he gazed into my eyes and maybe almost kissed me in the street that day.
German Village had very expensive homes, but this wasn’t one of the million-plus ones.
A well-kept two bed, two-and-a-half bath situated longways to the street.
A rebuilt garage that could hold more cars than two beds worth of people would need.
Not that I checked the last real estate listing or anything. That would be so intrusive!
I just checked the street view so I could plot where to park and the listing just happened to pop up.