Epilogue #2
"Hi, Papa," I say, and my voice is steadier than I expected it to be.
I cross to him, my heart pounding, and after only a moment's hesitation, I pull him into a hug.
He returns the embrace, his arms tight around me for a moment before he pulls back, his hands on my shoulders, looking around the room again. "Isabelle, it's beautiful. It's like your grandmother's house. Just like it."
He turns slowly, taking in the warm lighting, the vintage furniture, the family photos on the walls, the copper pots hanging over the bar, the fresh flowers everywhere.
"She would have loved this," he says, and his voice cracks slightly.
My throat goes tight. "I hoped she would. I tried to capture what I remember, what it felt like to be there with her. There's a photo of her on the wall, over there. A few actually, from different years."
He follows my gaze to the cluster of frames near the bar and walks over slowly, looking at each one with careful attention. I can see the grief there, still present after all these years, mixed with love and longing and the particular ache of missing someone who shaped who you became.
After a long quiet moment, I speak again. "There's a photo of you too, Papa. Right there."
I point to the photo I hung specifically for him, the one I've always loved.
Him and me at a beach in southern France, me eight years old and sitting on his shoulders, my arms spread wide like I'm flying.
Him lifting me up toward the sky, both his hands on my waist keeping me safe, his face tilted up toward me, smiling.
Both of us laughing, completely happy, the Mediterranean sparkling behind us. Before cooking became my career instead of my joy. Before our relationship became about control and disappointment.
"I remember that day," he says quietly. "You wanted to touch the clouds. You were convinced if you could just get high enough, you could grab one and bring it down to show your mother."
"You told me if I reached high enough, I could do anything," I say, the memory suddenly vivid.
"Thank you for putting this here," he says, gesturing to the photo. "I love this photo. I'd forgotten about it until now, but seeing it... thank you."
"Me too, Papa," I say softly. "It's one of my favorites."
We stand there in silence for a long moment, all the unsaid things hovering between us. The years of hurt and control and disappointment. The slow, tentative repair we're attempting.
He clears his throat, composing himself. "I'm very proud of you, Isabelle. I know I haven't said it enough over the years. But what you've built here, what you've created, it's remarkable."
I laugh, feeling tears prick at my eyes. "Well, technically you bought it for me, so I think some of the credit goes to you."
He chuckles, amusement lighting up his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Yes, well, not quite how I intended the investment to be used, but perhaps it worked out for the best anyway. I needed to be outsmarted to realize I was wrong about a great many things."
He pauses, looking around the room again. "Where is Alex? I should say hello to him properly. And apologize again, probably."
He looks almost sheepish, and it's so unlike him, so outside his normal character, that I can't help but smile.
"You already have apologized, Papa. Multiple times."
He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "Yes, but maybe in person I should do it properly, face to face, so he knows I mean it. If he still holds a grudge against me, I wouldn't blame him. I was cruel to him, made assumptions about his character that were completely unfounded."
I shake my head. "He's finishing last-minute prep in the kitchen, but he's going to come out and say hi to you right after that. And Alex doesn't hold grudges, Papa. He's not built that way. He's got a good heart. Better than yours or mine, honestly." I add the last part with a wink, and he laughs.
"That may be true," he admits. "He's... he's good for you. Good to you. I can see that now."
We talk for a few more minutes, the conversation careful but warm, and it feels almost like it used to when I was little. The time slips away and I glance at the clock above the bar, and realize the opening is approaching fast.
"I'd better get back to the kitchen so I can finish prep. Service starts soon and I'm getting nervous."
"Yes, yes, go," he says, his hand squeezing my shoulder. "And good luck tonight. Not that you need it. You're going to be extraordinary."
I kiss him on the cheek, rising on my toes to reach him. "Love you, Papa."
"Love you too," he says softly, his voice thick with emotion. "So very much."
And with that I turn and head back to the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door to find Alex exactly where I left him, now talking to one of the line cooks about plating.
He looks up immediately when he hears the door, his eyes finding mine, reading my expression. "How'd it go?"
"Good," I say, and I mean it. "Really good, actually."
He smiles, relieved. "I'm glad. I'm just about to go say hi. I didn't want to interrupt your time with him."
I wave my hand. "Don't worry about it. Let's finish this part first, make sure we're completely ready, then you can go be charming and make my father like you even more than he already does."
He grins at that. "Your father likes me now?"
"Grudgingly," I say. "But yes. You broke his brain and now he respects you."
"I'll take it," he says, and pulls me in for a quick kiss.
We work together for the next ten minutes, moving through the final prep, checking and double-checking everything. The kitchen is ready. The dining room is ready. The team is ready. We're as prepared as we're ever going to be.
And then the clock hits five, opening time for our first official service.
Alex reaches over and takes my hand, his fingers lacing through mine, warm and strong and steady. The bell above the front door chimes from the dining room, signaling our first reservation arriving, and I look up at him with all my love, feeling the weight of the engagement ring on my finger.
The simple platinum band with the small diamond he gave me two months ago, on the cottage porch at sunset, after we'd shared a bottle of wine and he'd told me he couldn't imagine building this life with anyone else.
"Ready?" he asks, squeezing my hand, his eyes bright with the love of being exactly where we're meant to be.
I squeeze back, looking at this man I love so completely it sometimes scares me. "Always. Let's do this."
We walk out of the kitchen together, side by side, our hands still linked. The dining room is full of soft light, the first guests being seated, the hum of conversation already rising.
My eyes drift up to the sign above the host stand, the way they always do. Hand-lettered in gold leaf on a piece of reclaimed wood, the name we chose for our restaurant. Sous le Figuier.
Under the Fig Tree.
For my grandmother, and her garden in Provence, and the tree that grew beside her kitchen door heavy with fruit every August. For the night Alex made me a dish that broke something open in me before I knew what was happening.
For the fig tree outside this very building, the one that stopped me in my tracks the first time I saw it, that felt so much like a sign from her I almost cried in the parking lot.
I look up at it every time I walk in, and I swear I can feel her smiling somewhere.
Alex squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back, and together we step forward to begin the life we've built from scratch. The one we chose for ourselves.
The one that's completely and perfectly and messily and wonderfully ours.
THE END