Chapter 36 Café Con Leche
Café Con Leche
Jack
The pop-up is tomorrow.
Today is Sal’s birthday.
I wake before Poppy, dressing quietly. The sheet covering us slipped down around her naked waist sometime in the night, showing
off the lines of her body in a tableau so lush, it reminds me of the famous painting of Venus emerging from the seashell.
She’s all creamy skin and sunshine hair and soft, feminine curves. I rub my breastbone as I stare. There’s a pang in my chest,
deep and sweet. I’m afraid to examine what emotion it represents.
It’s been like that ever since we left the hospital. On the way back to Diamond Bay, I drove one-handed, my fingers entwined
with Poppy’s. I didn’t want to stop touching her, even for a moment.
I’d never felt panic like that before. Never felt stripped raw quite like that, my universe narrowed to a singular point.
I counted every breath she took. I sprinted the moment they let me in to see her. I kissed her, once I saw those blue eyes,
bright and alive and okay. Slashed our no-kissing rule to shreds without hesitation.
I listened to her talk to her parents and envisioned a future that previously felt impossible. Me at Green Street. Poppy at
the Winfield Group. An apartment with windowsills for Gator to lounge on and a kitchen big enough for us to cook in together.
The picture is so tempting, it scares me.
I called Douglas the moment the nurse came in to discharge Poppy. Went to the nearest elevator, stabbing the button with my thumb until it opened.
“Jack,” he’d said, picking up immediately, his voice still tinged with relief. “Thank you again. Are you sure I shouldn’t—”
“I’m done.” I stared at my funhouse reflection in the elevator doors, feeling like a caged animal. “If you want to hear more
about your daughter, you call her yourself.”
“I’m glad that she’s doing better than I expected,” he said, a placating tone in his voice. “That both of you are, son.”
I stayed silent, refusing to give in to the invitation to keep talking about her. I couldn’t do that to her anymore. Not when
she knew my past, and I knew hers. Not when I learned just how deeply she’s needed this space from her family. Not after I’d
let her into my bed, and kissed her, and . . .
“Come to opening night and see if I deserve Green Street.” I slumped against the elevator wall, my stomach turning sour. “If
not, then fuck it. I don’t want it at her expense. And don’t call me son ever again.”
I’d hung up before he could get in another word.
I shake my head to clear it. Gator eyes me from his typical place on the couch when I emerge from the bedroom, dressed and
trying to find my wallet. I finally locate it underneath a couch cushion, for some reason, and crouch to give him a scratch
behind his good ear.
“Hey, buddy. Keep her company, yeah?”
He arches his back, yawning, and trots to the bedroom to join Poppy.
Although we didn’t speak about it beforehand, I see Kiara as soon as I’m above-deck. She’s sitting on the edge of the dock,
worrying something between her fingers, bare feet swinging over the water.
She looks young. I swallow around the lump in my throat as I join her.
“Are we getting birthday donuts?” I ask quietly.
I was only around for a few years of it, but I know the tradition well: Sal got a gift for himself on his birthday, half a dozen sugar and cinnamon donuts from the tiny shop downtown, along with a café con leche.
He modified it for Kiara’s birthday with a box of her favorite cupcakes, and twice for mine with croissants.
The coffee was a mainstay, even though back then Kiara didn’t even like the stuff.
I wonder if she does now. It’s one of a hundred things I don’t know yet about this new version of her.
She looks up, tucking what seems like an envelope into her bag. “Do you want to?”
“Of course.”
“He’d want us to take them to the beach.”
I look at the horizon, lined with gray clouds. “Might rain.”
“He’d like that.”
We walk along the edge of town, where ramshackle houses sit smushed against condo complexes. The donut shop is the only business
open this early. The air smells like sugar and cinnamon and frying oil. Kiara takes my hand, suddenly, her fingers clinging
to mine like a vise.
“Ki.”
She shakes her head, lips pressed together. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be fine.”
“I just miss him.” Despite the emotion in her voice, it doesn’t waver. “It’s hard to think about the things he loved and know
he’ll never get to experience them again.”
Fifteen minutes later, donuts and coffees in tow—I guess she does drink coffee now—we head to Hutchinson Island. Aside from
a few solitary people out for an early walk or surf, we’re alone. I help Kiara spread out a blanket, then take a fortifying
sip of coffee.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember,” she says eventually.
I look at her sidelong. “His birthday?”
“Or the tradition.” There’s no vitriol in her voice. “I’m glad you did, though.”
“Do you still have birthday cupcakes?”
“Always. What about you?”
“I’d stop by a bakery on the way to work, grab a box or two of croissants to share with the crew.”
She smiles. “How is Poppy feeling about the pop-up?”
“She’s fine.” She’s been pushing herself the last few days, working out any lingering details for the event and developing the dessert concept, but it’s not like I’ve been taking any breaks either.
Owen, Hazel, Herman, and I have been in the kitchen late each night, doing practice runs, working out a rhythm that will allow for maximum efficiency.
I know the menu for the pop-up so well, I could pull it off in my sleep.
“Good. I’m glad.” She rests her chin on her knees. “Are you nervous?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“We have to make every moment count, that’s all.”
Her mouth tilts in a half-smile. “Oh, that’s all.”
“Do you ever get into a zone that’s just . . . so pure, nothing can touch it?”
“Sometimes, when I’m performing surgery.” She pulls a donut out of the box between us. She passes half of it to me. “That
takes up all of my concentration.”
“But is it . . .” I trail off, frustrated the right words aren’t coming to the forefront. I take a bite of the still-warm
donut. It practically melts on my tongue. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. Is it what?”
“Joyful.”
It feels silly to say aloud. Like something a kid might wish for, not an adult.
“No,” she says thoughtfully. “It’s satisfying, to help a living thing in need, but I don’t feel like that at work.” She finishes
her half of the donut before continuing. “I feel it when I’m riding, though. When I’m on Charger, and she’s practically flying.
That’s joyful.”
“That’s how service feels to me. I love food and what you can make with it on its own, but working as a chef . . .”
“Nothing better?”
“Yeah. Nothing.” Except being with Poppy Winfield, maybe, but I’m not about to make that particular confession. I pick up
my coffee cup. Out in the waves, a surfer manages a pretty good ride, raising her hands in excitement as she slices toward
shore. “You and Poppy haven’t gone riding yet, right? Maybe you could go do that today.”
“What about Fable?”
“There isn’t that much more to do until tomorrow. And she needs the break.”
“I’ll try my best to convince her. It would be fun to get down and see Charger.” Kiara nudges my side. “I have something to ask you.”
“Yeah?”
“I want to scatter Dad’s ashes.”
My chest goes tight. “Ah.”
“You know how much he loved the ocean. It’s only right that he rests there.” She wipes her eyes carefully. “Remember how he
joked about having a sea burial?”
“Did he say he wanted that?”
“Just that he wanted to be cremated. He didn’t mention anything else.” Her hand curls around my wrist, drawing my hand into
her lap. She interlaces our fingers, squeezing. “Will you do it with me? Please?”
“Now?”
She shakes her head. “Just—sometime. When it feels right.”
I look into her eyes, shining all shades of brown in the morning sunlight, and can’t say no.
“It needs more color,” I tell Hazel. “Turn up the heat just a touch.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Like this?” Herman asks from the next station over. He shakes the sauté pan he’s working with, reglazing a portion of carrots.
I watch for another moment. “Yes, perfect.”
“Heard, Chef.”
We’ve been at it for a few hours now, making last minute tweaks to our plans in between final food deliveries—minus seafood,
which will arrive tomorrow morning—and explaining to the servers, a couple of local kids, how to describe the components in
the dishes to the patrons. Chester showed them how to properly pour wine tableside, and the right way to bring a martini to
a guest. Hopefully Poppy, who has been running around with her phone in hand all day, will be able to keep them in line.
The kitchen door swings open, and Poppy walks in, braid swinging.
I brought her one of the donuts we got in honor of Sal, once Kiara and I split up for the morning.
When she heard it was his birthday today, she said it was a sign of good luck.
I don’t normally believe in those things, but I can’t knock the feeling away entirely, either.
She wants us to hang out together tonight, as a crew, to commemorate him and the Sailfish before Fable opens.
I pretended to be annoyed by the suggestion—at least until she begged me to say yes.
“Trying to get rid of me?” she asks once she reaches me. She crosses her arms in mock-outrage, even as a smile plays on her
lips.
I shrug. “I thought it could be a nice break for you and Ki.”
“Tonight’s the break.”
“Nah, tonight’s the party.” At my words, Hazel pumps her hand in the air, swinging her hips at her station. Owen, not to be
outdone, mimics doing a shot. “And chefs party hard, Winfield.”
“Don’t call me that.”
I pause. “No?”
“You can’t kiss me like that and then hide behind last names.” Her hip cocks, her smile widening. “So, no. Don’t call me Winfield
anymore.”
Somewhere behind me, Hazel whistles. “Yes, girl.”
I just take a few steps closer. “Kiss you like what, exactly?”
“You know what.”
“Do I?” I lean in, brushing my lips over hers. She tastes like coconut lip balm and smells like sugar. “Maybe I should do
it again, just so I’m sure we’re on the same page.”
She laughs, stepping away before I can kiss her properly. “I am going riding, but note it’s against my will.”
“Get mixers on the way back!” Hazel calls.
When she’s gone, Owen fixes me with a long, deliberate look. “I see your taste for fine things hasn’t diminished.”
I head to the walk-in to make sure we aren’t missing anything essential. Owen just follows me inside.
“What?” he says, at my glower. “It’s obvious. I’m surprised you’d risk it with another nepo baby, that’s all.”
“I thought you liked her.”
“I do like her. But you do realize this feels just like Jessica, right? I mean, they even look alike.”
The fact that Jessica and Poppy have similar looks hasn’t escaped me. Chester teased me about it ages ago at Salty Joe’s,
after all. “She’s nothing like Jessica.”
“You know what these rich types are like. One minute they’re interested, the next, you’re nothing to them. They always end up going for someone in their own circle.”
Before Poppy, I’d have agreed immediately. We’d have laughed about it. But I know Poppy, and unless she missed her calling
as an actress, there isn’t a disingenuous bone in her body. She simply is, flawed and real and vibrant. Jessica couldn’t hold a candle to her.
“She’s different.” I give Owen a look. “And what about Mateo? You met him on one of your yachting jobs, right?”
Owen holds up his hands in surrender. His hands are a chef’s hands, like mine and Hazel’s and even Herman’s: calloused and
scarred, holding enough muscle memory to cook blindfolded. “Fair. Sometimes there are exceptions. But her family is coming
to opening night, right? Do they know? It’s pretty easy to see that you’re in deep.”
I swallow, hard. The thought of seeing Poppy’s family again, after everything that has happened between us, sets off alarm
bells in my head. I can’t imagine any of them being thrilled to see Poppy move on to yet another guy so quickly. Especially
since that guy is me.
But I’m not convinced either of us can let this go, either.
“Chef?” Hazel pokes her head into the walk-in. “Chester says there’s a delivery. Dairy, looks like.”
“Awesome. Thanks.” I stride past Owen, grateful for the distraction.