1. Jake #4
When he still doesn’t leave, I look pointedly at my watch. He takes a fortifying breath and off he goes to his happily-ever-after.
I, in contrast, have work to do.
Me, a romantic? I don’t think so.
My gut is a train wreck by eight that night when I give it up for the day.
It’s been intense.
I did take a break from the familiar and hunt Mike down to talk about the forward path for Cavendish Enterprises.
He was at Sylvia’s place, a refurbished trailer parked beside Una’s cottage.
(Una is Sylvia’s grandmother.) Mike had a lot of great ideas, a whole plan in point form on his phone.
It was beyond expectation and really good.
On a whim, I ended up offering to be Mike’s finance guy at the greenhouse, because he needs the expertise in that arena to make it happen.
I don’t know what the hell got into me. Maybe it was the pair of them holding hands in that trailer, looking as cute as a Hallmark movie, and some crazy-ass idea that I could help to make their dreams happen.
I rationalize that I can fulfill that obligation remotely.
Mike will be the feet on the ground. I’ll find him an operations person once we get some financing.
With Mike’s ideas for the future and my connections, that should work out just fine.
An intense summer, then I’ll be clear of it. That’s not such a big deal.
Plus, I get the fun of suiting him up, probably for the first time ever. I like buying clothes, good clothes, and this will be even better since Mike will be picking up the tab. My tailor will have a blast.
I also learned during that interval that Sylvia works at a new restaurant in town, The Carpe Diem Café. (I did not meet the daughter. Yet. I have a niece. Huh.)
By the time I’m ready to give it up at Candace’s, seizing the day sounds like exactly what I need. I back the car out of the driveway at the big house without saying goodnight to any of the occupants, leave my tie in my pocket and head downtown.
Downtown. Ha. Empire’s core is two blocks on a single street, with a big old maple tree growing at the intersection of Nowhere and Irrelevant.
The bistro is supposed to be in the old diner, the one that Leon and Dotty ran for years, the one they sold to my dad when they retired to Florida.
It’s pretty much the only place with lights on.
Of course, there’s parking right in front.
This is still Empire, after all. But if I didn’t know the address, I wouldn’t recognize the old diner.
It’s got a new lease on life. Even from outside, it looks warm and inviting.
When I open the door, the smell of good cooking engulfs me and leaves me a bit dizzy.
I step inside and just breathe, realizing how famished I am.
Sylvia appears and smiles at me, gesturing me toward an empty table. She’s telling me the specials when I see something that shakes my world.
Someone.
There’s a table near the back with a group of women seated there.
They’re laughing and talking like old friends.
I can’t hear the conversation and I don’t care.
It’s good to be around some happy people.
It’s when one laughs and I glance up that I realize one of them, the blonde facing me, is the woman I’ve been hoping to see again for almost a month.
It’s Isobelle of the glorious night of unfettered passion. One-time-isn’t-enough Isobelle, as I’ve called her in my dreams. Maybe even one-night-isn’t-enough Isobelle.
And there she is.
Here she is.
I’ve been looking for her in restaurants and in crowds everywhere I’ve gone in the past month, with no luck at all. I have seriously thought about going to Montreal to stare into crowds there, which has to be a long shot of the most improbable variety.
Yet, here she is, in the last place I’d look for anyone interesting, in the last place I’d even think of finding her.
Isobelle.
I don’t stare. I don’t think she realizes I’ve noticed her. She’s doing her best to hide that she’s noticed me. But as I study the menu without really seeing it, a few points get together to make a line.
· I met her at a function celebrating local food producers.
· Mike asked me to attend the event for Cavendish Enterprises.
· That means that she was at the party because of her link to a local producer, which means she can’t really be from Montreal. It’s in a different province and that wee fête was hosted by the province of Ontario.
Chances were actually quite good that she might be from Empire, if I’d thought it through.
(I did not.) There are three locales particularly known for their food production in the province, notably Prince Edward County east of Toronto, Niagara, kind of south and west of the Big Smoke, and Empire, way west of the city. She had to be from one of them.
If she’s not really Isobelle from Montreal, and she’s here in Empire, chatting with the locals like she belongs here, she must be local herself. The conclusions are coming fast and thick as I choose my dinner from the array of tempting possibilities.
Given that she is tall and blonde and in possession of classic good looks, she can only be one person.
She’s Mackenzie Rhodes, the granddaughter of my dad’s arch rival, Augustine Rhodes.
We were neighbours when we were kids.
I strain my ears just a little and hear her voice, a wonderful throaty contralto that I remember very very well (albeit with a French accent), and then her words. She’s talking about the wine. Of course, she is. Augustine’s family business is Rhodes Vineyards. I’ve got it in one.
Turns out the elusive Isobelle was never that far away after all.
That may be the best news I’ve heard in a while, which is remarkable when you consider everything else that’s happened.
I order the lamb with the gratin, a big-ass glass of red wine from Rhodes Vineyards, and prepare for my day to show significant improvement in its final hours.
Maybe my whole life will turn around.
I can’t wait to find out.