Chapter 22
NOAH PULLED UP TO the little green bungalow, now called the Bistro on Third.
Twinkling golden lights poured through the bungalow’s old, original windows.
Noah put the car into park and opened his door.
I started to follow suit when he motioned for me to wait, striding over to my side and opening the door.
“Thank you.” I slid out, and he shut the door behind me.
“’Course,” he murmured, his soft smile appearing. A crisp mountain breeze danced around us. I caught a whiff of the woodsy scent that I now knew to be his cologne. I tore my eyes away from him, and we made our way across the street to the Bistro.
“Hi there.” A young, high school–aged hostess with pink braces welcomed us as we ducked inside the restaurant, which, once again, had been totally redecorated.
Low lighting illuminated the cozy space, thanks to the small, mismatched chandeliers that hung throughout the dining area.
Framed paintings of breathtaking Colorado scenery by local artists covered the warm amber walls, with fairy lights and vintage botanical prints of flowers native to the state thrown in for good measure.
Thin, worn Persian area rugs covered the space’s original oak flooring.
The wooden tables and chairs looked old but well cared for, each one with a simple canvas tablecloth and a candle in a red mason jar sitting in the middle.
Slow, quiet romantic music lilted over the speakers.
The feeling took me by surprise, but I was impressed: the Bistro actually looked nice.
“Evening. Table for two, please,” Noah said.
The hostess sat us at a table by the window.
The Bistro was mostly empty, save for a group of young hipsters a few tables over by the fireplace, who were most likely stopping for a bite to eat on their way to or from skiing in Breckenridge.
Such a small crowd on a Friday night sadly didn’t bode well for the restaurant’s survival.
“I think the last time I was in Avila Falls, this place was . . . Bijutsu?” I remarked.
Noah lifted his eyebrows. “That’s right.
That was a few restaurants ago already. You’re behind the times, I’m afraid,” he teased.
I’d always comforted myself with the thought that nothing ever changed in Avila Falls.
And for the most part, that was true. But the realization that I’d missed a few of the establishments that popped up at 231 Third, however doomed they were from the start, created a strange pang in my chest.
“So, what’ve you been up to since we were set free from the bookstore?”
Thinking about that night in the bookstore, I thought.
But, of course, I couldn’t admit that. Which left me in the lurch of figuring out something to say, despite being distracted by Noah’s eyes in the candlelight.
Somehow, they were even more captivating, more brilliant than before. I cast my eyes down.
“I’ve been reacquainting myself with the town, mostly. I celebrated my mom’s birthday, caught up with Sue and Evelyn.”
Noah laughed. “Gotta be careful around those two. They have an impressive talent for finding things to talk about in a town with a population of around a thousand.”
I smirked in agreement.
“Jane? Jane Caldwell?” a voice said from across the dining area. I looked over to see a vaguely familiar young woman in an apron striding toward us—but I couldn’t quite place her.
“It’s me, Stephanie,” she said. My brain searched through its files, slowly piecing it together.
Stephanie Erickson, the girl I’d been paired up with for more than one project in high school, stood before me.
We weren’t close by any means, but our similar social standings as outcasts led us to wind up together by default after not being picked to partner with anyone else in class.
“Stephanie. Hey. How are you?”
“What are you doing here?” Stephanie’s eyes shifted between Noah and me.
It was possible I was reading into the awkward smile that emerged across her face, but it almost seemed to say, You’re on a date with Noah Elliot?
The boy we each spent countless science periods stealing glances at and wishing would notice us? Good for you.
“Just getting dinner.” I gestured to the menu sitting in front of me.
“I haven’t seen you since high school. I’m just surprised to see you here,” she stuttered, again looking over at Noah for a split second. “And . . . hi, Noah.”
“Stephanie.” He nodded. Stephanie blushed ever so slightly.
“I’m just visiting,” I said.
“From New York, right?”
“Yeah. It’s been a while—what have you been up to?”
“Oh, well, nothing like going off to New York. I’ve just been here.” She looked down modestly, with notes of something else—embarrassment?
“Seems like a fun place,” I said reassuringly, glancing around.
“Yeah, we’ll see if this place lasts longer than Slice of Heaven did.” She offered a laugh.
“Well, it’s really good to see you.”
“You too. Anyway, I’ll, uh, be your server tonight,” she said. “You’re actually right in time for happy hour, if you’re interested in some wine or local beer.”
“I’ll go for an IPA.” Noah smiled at Stephanie before looking at me.
“Pinot noir?” I requested. Stephanie nodded and disappeared.
“Well, well, well . . .” Noah murmured, picking up his menu with a mischievous grin.
“What?”
He shook his head. “It’s just funny, that’s all.”
“What’s funny?” I pressed.
“It looks like I’m not the only one who didn’t immediately remember someone from high school,” he whispered, playfully tapping my foot with his. I cracked a smile and opened my menu, beginning to peruse to focus on something aside from the flurry in my stomach.
The Bistro hadn’t done a half-bad job with redecorating, but its Food Network–inspired menu made me chuckle.
Words like gourmet and deluxe and premier were scattered throughout with the hopes of painting the small-town restaurant as a fancy, high-class eatery.
But its menu, decor, and attitude weren’t that of a swanky New York spot.
Interestingly, that made it all the more charming to me.
Stephanie approached the table with our drinks and set them down.
“I forgot to mention, the soup of the day is an organic bone broth wild rice soup. All left over from the harvest festival,” she said.
I felt a tug on my heart. I hadn’t thought about the town’s harvest festival in years.
Growing up, though, it had been the source of countless memories.
The festival had copious amounts of food supplied by the town’s restaurants and bakery, arts and crafts stations for the kids, live performances, and an appearance from Santa (played by Officer Perkins, the police chief).
“Do you guys need more time, or are you ready to order?”
“I’ll get the steak, please. Medium rare,” Noah said. They both looked at me. A quick debate transpired in my head. The salad had always been my go-to on dates, an attempt to feign not liking food too much. But for some reason, in Noah’s presence, that didn’t feel necessary.
“The fried chicken, please. Thanks, Stephanie.” On an evening as frosty as this one, a comfort meal sounded appropriate. She jotted our orders down and whirled off.
“I can’t believe I just missed the harvest festival,” I remarked, twirling the stem of my glass before taking a sip. I’d had more expensive wine before, but they hadn’t tasted any better than this one—full, bold, and satisfying.
Noah nodded. “Oh, yeah, an Avila Falls classic.”
“Do they still do the pie contests?”
“We actually had more pies entered this year than ever before. So many that I was recruited to be one of the judges.”
I laughed. “Wait, really? You judged the pies?”
“That and ran the wassail table. And built the stage for the performers and even played a few carols.” He took a sip of his drink.
“Sounds like you were really involved.” I’d never known Noah to be that engaged. More often than not, I’d spotted him off in some corner of the festival, cackling with his friends and whispering with his girlfriend. Not that I’d been paying that much attention.
“Well,” he grinned, “there’s not a whole lot else to do around here.”
He wasn’t wrong about that. Which was why his staying intrigued me. And with the trace of sorrow I’d just sensed in his voice, my curiosity only grew.
“You’ve been leading worship at Saint David’s for a while now too, right?” I prompted.
“Yeah. It’s not exactly Red Rocks.” He chuckled, rubbing his beard.
“In Avila Falls, it might as well be.” As was the case with any small neighborhood church, every dad with a guitar wanted to lead worship. It provided a guaranteed weekly audience, after all. The position was a coveted one.
“You make a good point.” He took another drink.
“Well, that must be really fun, getting to do music every week,” I said, picking up my glass.
I still couldn’t reconcile the image I’d had of Noah in my mind for the past ten years—the party boy who sang rock covers and never seemed to have a care in the world—with the man who sat before me.
The man who apparently stood before a congregation every Sunday and sang hymns. How had he ended up there?
“Yeah, I enjoy it.” He nodded, glancing out the window. “It’s an honor. And it’s all thanks to the new pastor.” I couldn’t help but notice there was something he wasn’t saying, an ellipsis included in his statement. I decided to go out on a limb.
“But . . . ?”
Noah’s eyes flitted back over to me, almost as if I’d granted him permission to say the thing.
“It’s a great gig for me as a musician, and it’s also one that feels meaningful.
I’m grateful for it. But to be honest, I wish I could be playing my own music.
” He shook his head, almost bashfully. “I know it’s a pipe dream.
But I still dream of hearing a crowd singing a song I wrote back to me. It’s silly, I know.”