18. Luke
18
LUKE
C ould that have been any more excruciating?
I’m thinking not. I love my mom but her matchmaking can make me crazy. Usually, it has no basis, but in this case, I’m afraid her meddling will mess up everything. I know I’m on thin ice with Daph, but if anyone’s going to screw it all up, I’ll manage that on my own, thanks.
Maybe I’ve come honestly by my desire to meddle, and not just from the Cavendish side.
We finally escape after lunch and too much talking.
At least she doesn’t get out my baby pictures.
We leave my mom humming happily to herself—probably picking out wedding gifts, but at least she didn’t say anything outright. She just knows me too well, and she knows how closely I guard that guitar. I don’t have many possessions any more. I never did, always having a tendency to travel light, but I’ve gotten rid of almost everything in the past year. This guitar is different, though. It’s my favourite one, and my mom has had custody for a while.
But if I’m going to compose songs again, I need it.
Daph—incredibly, mercifully—didn’t seem to notice the importance of my request, even after Mom made a fuss over it. To my relief, she’s thawed a bit. Maybe it was the homemade bread and soup, but I’ll take it. Life seems a lot easier when Daph is on my side of anything. She’s a great ally, and I like the magic that happens when we put our heads together to solve anything. That analytical thing she does of considering an issue from all sides is impressive and so helpful.
We talk about the details of my pending offer to Sylvia on the drive back to Empire. There’s a moment when she pulls into the parking lot of the motel, a moment when I know she has questions and I could give answers.
But Daph isn’t about compromise and half-measures. I still want to be with her, but I need to get this thing with Sylvia sorted first. I need to prove my intentions. This situation demands actions not words.
The moment passes before I figure out how to explain any of that, then I watch her drive on to her office. The plan is that she’ll draw everything up for me to review by the morning, so I know I’ll see her then, at least.
And she’s talking to me. The temperature in the car was positively balmy. Not warm. Not torrid. But my chilblains are receding.
I’ll take progress where I find it.
I carry my guitar case up the steps to my room, intending to put the afternoon to good use by getting some of this elusive tune down. I don’t have the bridge yet. I’m humming the chorus again, skipping over the gaps in the lyrics, and come full stop when I find a kid leaning against the door to my room.
I don’t know him. He’s maybe fourteen, with hair so red that his buzz cut doesn’t hide the colour at all. He has more freckles than I would have thought possible and is wearing jeans and an Old Navy sweatshirt. He gives me a look that is both stubborn and a little hostile and I figure I understand this kid already.
But I have it wrong.
“I’m Noah McLaughlin and I want to interview you,” he says. “I want the whole story behind your acquisition of the diner and your plans for its future and I want an exclusive.”
“Who are you with? The CBC?”
“The Empire Chronicle.”
“Never heard of it.” The newspaper in town was called The Standard when I was a kid, but it must have stopped publishing. There are no newspaper boxes on the corners anymore.
“Your mistake,” Noah informs me. “You’ll see all the news in this town and even this county first at The Chronicle. I have a website and all the socials so you can follow the news in real time.”
“There’s that much news here?”
He straightens importantly. “News is where you look for it. There’s always something happening, always a story that can be told.”
I have to cede that.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” I check my watch. It’s only two.
“Professional development day,” he informs me. “It’s for teachers but there’s nothing saying I can’t work on my own future today.”
The fact is that I could use someone telling this story. I could blow off this kid and look for someone with more influence and more followers. But I like his initiative and I like that he’s local. I’m thinking that if we help out each other, we could both be stronger forces for change—and that can’t be a bad deal.
“The new bistro will be called The Carpe Diem Café,” I say and he shoves his phone at me.
“Speak loud and clear,” I’m instructed by the youngest reporter ever. “I’ll upload the audio to the site.”
“You need my permission to do that.”
“You give it automatically by granting the interview,” he says, waving off my objections.
Is one of his parents a lawyer? If so, they can’t be working in Empire.
“How big is your audience?”
“Those are proprietary numbers.”
“But your reach is going to influence how long I talk to you and how much I tell you.”
He eyes me, considering how much to confess. I win the stare-down because he blinks first. “I just started. Traffic on the site is slow. I need a good story to launch properly. Something that can go viral, even. I don’t suppose you have any secrets to share or celebrity gossip?”
“No, but I’ll talk to you about the diner.” I’m all for entrepreneurship and initiative, after all.
I invite him in, pull out my phone and check out his website. It’s crisp and clean, well designed, loads quickly, but is lacking content.
“I want to start a podcast too,” Noah confides, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “But I need a newer phone.”
“Who’s paying for your domain?”
“Me. Allowance money.” He gives me a pitying look, probably because I’m too old to know anything useful. “You have to own your domain to look professional,” he confides. “And pay for the level of hosting that turns off the spammy ads.”
I nod agreement.
I offer him the chair at the desk and I sit on the edge of the bed. “Okay. The restaurant is a new venture that I’m supporting. I think you and I can make a deal that benefits both of us. I’ll give you the inside scoop, and you’ll help us build awareness for opening night.”
“An exclusive,” he says again and I have to give him credit for persistence.
“First look,” I counter. “And I’ll get the other players to talk to you.”
“Exclusively?”
“First.”
“When’s opening night?”
“I’m not sure. We could go down and ask Merrie. Maybe you can book an interview with her.”
“Excellent!” Noah forgets to be cool and indifferent for a moment and I smile. “But first, you.”
“First, me.”
I wasn’t ready for this, and in a way, Noah is a great reality check. Success, in my experience, doesn’t just happen on its own. It doesn’t alight on your shoulder like a blessing from above. Maybe that happens to other people. Me, I’ve always had to work for it. I had to do the research, put in the time, go out and coax good things into happening.
And I haven’t started that with this venture yet. As I’m thinking, I reinvigorate my socials, which have been languishing for over a year. The band’s stuff is off-limits for this, a personal project, but I have my own accounts. Some people will unfollow me, inevitably, but some might be interested. It can’t hurt.
I get Noah’s info and link to him, and he links to me. I make a mental note to ask Chelsea, who managed social media for the band, for some advice, then do a search on The Carpe Diem Café. Ha. Merrie is ahead of me. She has a website, still bare bones, but it’s there and it’s searchable. I hook Noah up with it and feel like we’re rolling.
“The story,” he says firmly. “I want the story.”
“All right. Let’s do it.” He holds out his phone as I try to choose where to begin. “I’m Luke Jones. I grew up in Empire and after I left, I started a band called Mad Bad this is a farm with Angus beef; this is a rainbow trout farm. Look how close they all are to Empire. This place is ideally located for cooking fresh.”
“Green is produce,” Noah guesses. “That’s the main Cavendish Enterprises greenhouse.”
“It is. Here’s a market farmer with heritage potatoes, and other root vegetables like parsnips and beets. Here’s one with rhubarb and blackberries, blueberries and strawberries. Here’s an orchard with apples, pears and more by season, and here’s an organic mushroom farm.”
“Lots of green pins,” Noah says.
“Lots of research for me to do. I’m loving it. Yellow is dairy. Here’s a goat farm that makes their own chèvre and also sells the milk. Here’s an indie dairy that makes butter and cheese from local milk. Lots of people with free range eggs—” her fingers fly over the map, touching a sequence of pins “—and chickens raised organically. I love how many farms are selling at their gates. Blue is for other ingredients.”
“Rhodes Vineyard,” Noah says, identifying a pin by its location.
“Mackenzie Rhodes came in to see me yesterday, with a sampling of their wines. They’ll be featured on our menu and in our pairings. Here are three micro-breweries I intend to check out. This place here dries fruit and vegetables, and mixes their own herbal teas from dried local ingredients. This guy works with native plants and ingredients traditionally used by indigenous peoples. I cannot wait for that appointment. Here’s a mill, grinding local grains.” The enthusiasm is coming off her in waves and I wonder how she’s going to check out all of these places.
“Why heritage varieties?” Noah asks when she pauses for breath and Merrie launches into a soliloquy that would make Taylor proud, listing the advantages of old varieties of plants, their flavours and distinctions even within each type.
“Apples are great, sure, but what about all the specific kinds? I’m going to do something different with a Crispin than a Spy, with an Empire or a Jonathan instead of a Macintosh. There are hundreds of varieties of apples, some ripening late, some early, some storing well, some for cooking and some best for eating fresh. The possibilities are fantastic.” She surveys her map with obvious anticipation. “Stir that up with classic French bistro cooking, simple foods, great ingredients, comforting flavours and sometimes surprising combinations.”
“Isn’t that going to be expensive?”
“No! The menu will have a range of options, something to suit everyone. A daily pizza. A daily soup and sandwich. A dinner special. I’m thinking of a fixed price special with soup or salad, the daily special dinner and dessert. Crème brulée with local butter. A fruit crisp with a mix of berries, served warm with locally made ice cream.”
“So, you’d be featuring local farms and their products.”
“Absolutely. Farm-to-table is about fresh. And in time, I’d love to add a retail area, where you can pick up a carton of that ice cream on your way home to enjoy later. I want people to have a great meal, to feel like they can come here and discover something new, but also that we’re all learning more about our neighbours and what they do. I’m going to put a bulletin board just inside the window, where anyone can post a flyer about a local event. I’m not from Empire but I want to be part of it.”
“You have big plans.”
“I have plans. I love plans. What about a farmer’s market in town? What about a grocery store stocking all the ingredients I use and more, or a cooking class once a week, or a food box delivery featuring all this good stuff? What about kids learning how to cook after school? What about everyone learning how to cook? We are in the middle of an area offering a bounty of great food. Let’s dig in. Let’s appreciate it. Let’s eat well together.”
Damn. An impassioned Merrie is impossible to ignore.
“When are you opening?”
“The Thursday before the holiday weekend.”
“May 15?”
“That’s the one. Reservations are available on the website. We open for dinner at six.”
Noah wraps up the interview, visibly excited, and Merrie agrees to share the link on her new website. We part ways with plans for more interviews and I pause before I head back to the motel.
My guitar is calling, that song demanding that I work out the details and write it down. I stare at the law office across the street, though, wishing I could celebrate this moment with Daph.
I’d even risk frostbite, because she’s not wrong to be disappointed in me.
How could I do the one thing I always insisted I’d never do, and not even remember? There is no comeback. There’s only penance and the need to make it right.
Until I manage that—if it even can be done—I’ll leave Daph alone. I want to go back to her with everything together, and I want to start over, show her what it means to want more.
Tomorrow I’ll pick up the paperwork from her and take it to Sylvia. I’ll bet Daph leaves it with the receptionist for me, and maybe that will make it easier to keep my resolve.
For tonight, my company will be my guitar. That’s not all bad. The music is back because of Daph, and this first song is for her.
It feels right and I’m going with that.