Chapter 27
Isabelle
It's been four days since everything with my father imploded.
And now—as though my life hasn't completely flipped upside down—I'm sitting at a café in Manhattan with Margot, which feels surreal after so much time in Napa.
The pop-up has three scheduled nights off this week, and I was supposed to use them to handle NYC restaurant transition meetings, meetings that are obviously not happening now.
Instead, when an old colleague named Camille reached out yesterday saying her restaurant needs a head chef, I figured I might as well use the time for something.
Apparently word spread that I wasn't taking over my father's New York place like wildfire.
My father's not one to gossip, but Camille said the contract dissolution information became public after the legal paperwork was filed.
The industry talks, especially when Jean-Pierre Beaumont's succession plan implodes. Whatever.
Alex encouraged me to go, and said it would be good to see what else is out there, explore my options. Margot jumped at the chance to tag along, admitting she's never been to the East Coast and has always wanted to visit.
The café is one of those trendy West Village spots with exposed brick walls, industrial lighting hanging from black pipes, and succulents in geometric concrete planters on every surface.
It's busy even at ten in the morning, the sound of the espresso machine hissing and milk steaming constant background noise, people typing on laptops at every other table with their AirPods in.
Margot returns from the counter with a tray holding pastries wrapped in wax paper and two of those handleless cups, which I take gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. The heat seeps into my palms and I can smell cinnamon and espresso rising in the steam.
"Bless you," I say, sipping the coffee carefully.
She smiles in return, and we both sit quietly for a moment, sipping our lattes and watching the street outside through the window.
People rush past in that distinctly New York way, everyone moving with purpose and speed, shoulders hunched against the chill, no one making eye contact or slowing down.
I forgot how relentless this city feels, how it never stops moving, never takes a breath. Even at ten in the morning on a weekday the sidewalk is packed, a river of people flowing in both directions.
"The people-watching is incredible," she says, tearing a piece from her croissant and popping it in her mouth. "I think I could just sit here and watch all day."
I smile. "It's one of my favorite things about the city, though if you like people watching then we've got to get you to Paris. That's where it really becomes an art form."
She grins. "Deal. Next trip, alright?"
I lift my latte and we toast.
We got in yesterday afternoon and woke up early today to explore the city before the restaurant meeting.
It's fun playing tourist and showing a friend around the city.
Especially in late October when it's not sweltering summer hot, or dead of winter when you're slopping around snow or packed-up ice on the sidewalks. The fall foliage is peak right now, Central Park looking like a scene from When Harry Met Sally, one of my comfort movies, and one Margot’s actually seen.
"Alright," she says, brushing croissant flakes off her sweater. "We have an hour before we need to head to Camille's restaurant. So let's talk through everything before you walk in there and have to be professional."
I smile at her, tearing off a corner of the almond croissant. "You're a good friend, Margot. Coming all the way across the country with me for this."
She beams back at me. "Well, we are instant soulmate friends, right? That's what we decided back in Napa when we got wine drunk on the terrace that first week."
I laugh, remembering that night. "Sealed with a bottle of white Burgundy."
"The best friendships are," she says, taking a delicate sip of her latte and then making a face. "Okay this is way too hot. How are you drinking yours already?"
"Years of burning my tongue in professional kitchens. I have no nerve endings left."
She sets her cup down carefully, wiping a few drops from the side of the cup with her napkin, and then her expression turns serious. "So. Still spiraling about the whole future thing? You barely slept last night, I could hear you shifting around."
I wince. "Sorry. I was trying to be quiet."
She waves me off with one hand. "I'm a light sleeper. Always have been."
Margot and I crashed at my tiny apartment last night, much to her surprise as apparently she was expecting a penthouse. Sadly for her, and me, I live in a shoebox I pay for with the money I earned working at my father's places and occasionally stints at other restaurants.
My father believes in bootstraps and earning your way, which means no trust fund until I'm thirty-five and a studio apartment the size of most people's closets. And I’m starting to doubt I’ll see a nickel of that trust fund. And right now, I don’t care at all.
She gives me a look and I sigh, taking a sip of my latte.
"Still spiraling just a bit,” I say. “Having the future I've been working toward my entire life just evaporate is quite the mindfuck.
No New York restaurant, which my father used to describe to me when I was like eight years old, this place I'd run someday, this legacy I'd take over.
And then when I was sixteen it got really serious—business plan, numbers, projections, all of it.
And now I'm just... floating. The pop-up ends soon, I get on a plane back to California, and then what?
I have absolutely no idea what to do next.
Maybe this restaurant with Camille, but it even feels weird considering it. "
Margot nods sympathetically. "Have you talked to Alex about it? I mean really talked, not just surface reassurances?"
I shift uncomfortably, fiddling with my latte cup. "No, not much. I hate bringing it up since I dumpster-fired his entire future. He's being so nice about it, so understanding, telling me it's all going to work out. And it just makes me feel even more guilty."
"He loves you," Margot says simply. "Of course he's being nice about it. That's what you do when you love someone."
"I know, but—" I stop myself, looking out the window at a businessman yelling into his phone while balancing a briefcase and coffee cup. "I don't know. I just keep thinking about how he had this perfect opportunity lined up and I ruined it."
She reaches for her coffee, taking a careful sip now that it's cooled slightly. "From what you've told me, you didn't ruin it. Your father ruined it by being impossible."
"Same end result though."
"Maybe," she concedes. "Have you talked to your father? Maybe you can get him to change his mind about Alex? Smooth things over?"
"I called two days ago and told him that if he blacklists Alex, he'd never see me again, and he said Alex is a manipulator who's using me for his connections, and that I'm too blinded by infatuation to see it clearly.
" I shake my head bitterly. "He told me to break up with him.
Can you believe that? He's actually unhinged. "
Margot's eyebrows shoot up, her coffee cup pausing halfway to her mouth.
"I've got to say, I always kind of thought my family was a bit intense with all the country club drama and the expectations.
But your father truly takes the cake. I have never in my life heard of someone being quite that controlling over their adult daughter. "
I shake my head, pulling off a piece of the almond croissant on the plate between us. "Welcome to my life. I didn't even tell Alex about the call. It's all just bad news and misery and I don't want to pile more onto him."
Margot reaches over and squeezes my hand gently. "He'd want to know, Isabelle. He'd want to support you through it."
"I know. I'll tell him. Just not right now when everything is already so complicated.
I feel guilty even being here," I say. "Looking at potential jobs and planning my future when I just destroyed his.
He lost Seattle because of me, and here I am having breakfast in Manhattan and touring restaurants like nothing happened. "
"Your life blew up too. You can't put everything on hold because you feel guilty. That's not fair to you and it's not what Alex would want."
I nod, knowing she's right but not quite believing it.
Alex flew back to Dark River for the three-day break to handle a few things at Harbor & Ash, maybe to clear his head too.
He called me last night and reassured me before bed, his voice warm and patient, but the guilt still won't leave me.
I don't want it to. Maybe I'm a glutton for the punishment I deserve.
Margot glances at her watch. "We should start heading out, right? Don't want to be late."
I nod. Margot and I share a love of punctuality that borders on neurotic. We bundle up and head down the street, me in a wool sweater and blue scarf, pointing out various places along the way, Margot craning her neck and staring up at the buildings with wonder.
"I just can't get over it!" She stops on the corner, tilting her head back to take in the skyscrapers. "The architecture here is insane. We don't have anything like this in California."
I stop and look up with her, really look instead of just rushing past like I've done for years. "I guess it really is. I've lived here so long that I've gotten used to it. I can't remember the last time I looked up and marveled at the buildings."