Chapter 4
4
FILLING IN FOR A HUNGOVER EMPLOYEE was not how I’d wanted to start my day. It was Ash Wednesday, a.k.a. the day after Mardi Gras. I always knew who my dependable employees were based on today. One of the waiters for the first shift had shown up with bloodshot eyes and reeking of booze. I’d sent him home and gone into action, prepping the front of the house, and then stayed on shift since opening at eight. Steadily, for the last four hours, we’d had customers of every variety, from beloved regulars to tourists with flights to catch.
Penny glided past me, pushing through the swinging door connecting the main dining room to the kitchen. It whooshed shut behind her. Dishes and silverware clattered to my right, the busboy on duty clearing a nearby table.
Standing at the server station in the back, I waited for the computer to generate the bill for my final customer. Thankfully, it had been Mrs. Adélaide. I strummed my fingers on the small connected printer. I should have been in my office double-checking the payroll checks that had been delivered against the data I’d submitted to the company that processed our payroll.
The antique gilded mirror on the wall above the computer revealed a middle-aged woman who’d gotten little sleep thanks to Hayley’s BFF, Emma, staying over. My auburn hair lay limp, the edges nearly grazing my shoulders. Maybe I’d do a conditioning treatment tonight. I pressed the Crease and swore I heard it scoff as it puckered right back up.
“Name one good thing.” The words echoed through my mind in Claire and Mawmaw’s voices. We’d tossed the mantra at each other when one of us was looking at the glass as half-full ... of sewer water.
I rolled my neck. One good thing. One good thing . Okay. Emma’s mom had picked up both girls this morning, and she’d be hosting a sleepover tonight. With school out all week for the Mardi Gras holiday, it was nice having another parent share in keeping the kids busy. Another dependable parent, who was vigilant about making sure no one snuck out in the middle of the night or was trying to acquire a body piercing instead of innocently hanging out at the mall.
The printer finally clicked and clacked, spitting out the receipt. I ripped it free and returned it to the leather billfold, along with a pen and Mrs. Adélaide’s credit card. A second good thing came to mind. I hadn’t seen Micah since Saturday. The day he’d learned of my horrendous period, and I’d learned of his murky divorce. Gracious . I adjusted the collar of my button-down café shirt. I’d gone for comfort today, pairing the top with casual capri pants and slip-on Skechers. A waitress apron looped my waist, the pockets holding an order pad and pen.
I dropped off the billfold to Mrs. Adélaide, exchanging good-byes as my phone rang its generic tone. I pulled it from my pocket and read the screen. Trisha Freemont . I answered, holding my hand to my other ear to hear over the restaurant noise. “Hello.”
“I found the perfect property.” Trisha’s bright voice carried through the line. We’d met at a business mixer several years ago, and she’d declared if I ever sold Mawmaw’s house and gave her the listing, she’d change the names of her children to mine.
I retrieved my keys from my pocket, unlocked my office door, and stepped inside to beautiful silence. “Are you calling from the future? Riding shotgun in a DeLorean with MichaelJ. Fox? Because I’ve told you I don’t have the money for a second location right now.”
“I know the timing’s not ideal,” Trisha said. “But as soon as I saw this property, I knew I had to tell you. It’s in the French Quarter.”
“I can’t afford the French Quarter.” I pinned my phone between my ear and shoulder, untying my apron.
“This one’s not so out of reach. It’s a rare one story. On Royal Street. It was a French café that closed ages ago.”
I stilled. “The Vieux Carré Café.” The words rasped from my lips.
“That’s it.”
Claire had adored the spot. Whenever we’d visited, she’d slipped into if mode. “If we owned this place, I’d fill that antique bakery display case with...” and “If we owned this place , I’d paint those French doors to the courtyard a softer green.” Claire had even snuck into their kitchen once for a peek and returned to our table with more if-dreams.
My gaze drifted to a photo of the two of us. The candid, taken by Adrian, rested on the bookshelf behind my desk. We’d been in Jackson Square, eating fresh pralines and people-watching. Claire had been laughing unabashedly at me. An elderly woman had stopped and rubbed the top of my head for good luck (something natural redheads endured from older generations). Claire had loved the French Quarter. The eclectic colors of the buildings, the energy floating in the air. She’d dreamed of a location in the heart of that. The snapshot blurred, my throat thickening.
“It’s not on the market yet,” Trisha prodded.
In moments like this, I really missed my sister. Missed the way her brain worked, the way she evened me out. Considered things I didn’t. Had her accident not happened, I’d walk right into the kitchen and pull her into this call. I could just imagine the excitement she’d exude. Working to swallow, I rubbed my nose with the back of my hand. But I had her, in a way, through the plans we’d made. My focus moved to our goals hanging on the wall. The first two had been completed. Opening the café and renovating the courtyard for special events.
The final task, launching another location, was closing in. I had six years to achieve it on the timeline Claire and I had crafted. The loan from the courtyard would be paid off, and we’d have some breathing room before applying for another one to invest in expanding. But it wasn’t supposed to be for another six years. Five years to carefully plan and prepare. Financially and mentally. And another year to execute that plan and officially open.
“Once this property hits, it won’t last.” Urgency infused Trisha’s tone.
My pulse increased, pounding in my ears. Every beat urged to hurry-hurry-hurry. But somewhere within the rush, an echo of caution murmured. I closed my eyes, drawing in a breath, gathering my thoughts.
A ding sounded from my phone, signaling an incoming text. I switched Trisha to speaker and found the message she’d sent. A picture of a building filled my screen. One that Claire had loved. One that wasn’t too big or too small. One that was just right. “Goldilocks,” I whispered, voicing the word Claire and I would use when describing perfection. Like when she’d refine a new recipe and the first time I’d held Hayley.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Hurry-hurry-hurry palpitated through my veins again. The fear of losing this opportunity pushed that faint warning away. At the very least, I could look at the space. Looking never hurt, right? “How soon can I see it?”
Several hours later, I stood on the sidewalk of Royal Street. Although the Vieux Carré Café appeared to have been abandoned for quite some time, charm still filled her. A sweet little brick structure in the midst of larger, mixed-use buildings. Her cream-painted facade contrasted with the other structures in their burnt oranges, steel blues, and varying maroons.
Intermittent traffic flowed down the narrow, one-way lane, bringing the squeal of brakes and exhaust fumes. I bit the inside of my cheek. Customer parking would be a problem here, but that issue plagued all of downtown New Orleans.
A woman exited the clothing boutique next door, a shopping bag in hand. I took in the other storefronts on the ground level, their businesses touting antiques, art, and jewelry. My gaze tipped up to the residential dwellings occupying the second and third floors of those buildings, their balconies overlooking the street. Intricate, wrought-iron railings trimmed their outdoor spaces.
The slate sidewalk beneath my feet glistened from the brief shower that had fallen earlier. My reflection in the glass doors to the café looked back at me, my expression mirroring the mixture of eagerness and uncertainty tumbling through my stomach. I’d changed into a caramel A-line skirt, beige sweater set, and heels. I smoothed a hand through my hair. If the owners of the building happened to be here, I wanted to make a good impression.
Trisha approached, waving a hand. A wide red belt cinched the waist of her flowing black dress. “She’s special, right?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” And for deeper reasons than Trisha knew.
She laughed, unlocking the front door and stepping in. “Let me find the switches.”
Dust motes caught in the natural light issuing through the windows, and the stale air held a trace of ground coffee. No doubt what had been their signature blend. I closed the door.
The lights flickered on, and my heart pinched. Oh, Claire. I moved forward into the empty space, taking in the exposed brick walls and teeny-tiny black-and-white hexagonal tiles on the floor. The low ceiling emitted a familiar coziness.
Behind me, the front door creaked open. “Knock, knock,” a man’s voice called.
I turned. Horrible, detestable shock gripped my throat.
Ryan Comeaux, my ex, stood in the entranceway.
“Sarah McLachlan,” I swore lowly to myself.
Ryan had always reminded me of a nongreasy version of Matthew McConaughey. Right down to his rascal smile. Oddly enough, he didn’t appear surprised to find me here. Had he watched me enter?
“It’s good to see you.” Southern charm still oozed from him.
My ribs squeezed, as if every emotion were tightening behind them, vying for room. Regret, betrayal, and as much as I hated to admit it ... loneliness. Though not a loneliness I wanted him to fill.
“Who do we have here?” Trisha emerged from the back, walking past the beautiful, antique bakery display case Claire had loved. She held her hand out to the scoundrel, and they shook.
“Ryan Comeaux,” he answered. His tailored navy suit fit him to perfection, his pale blue button-down matching his eyes.
I took note of his bare ring finger and cleared my throat. “An old acquaintance.”
One of Ryan’s brows quirked.
Trisha’s eyes gleamed with all sorts of questions. But thankfully, she was too professional to voice them.
I returned my focus to Ryan. “Why are you here?”
“So you’re not together?” Trisha’s tone revealed her confusion.
“No,” I said.
The front door opened once again, and a stout man in slacks and a polo shirt entered. He introduced himself as Ryan’s real estate agent.
A sour taste filled my mouth.
That spark in Trisha’s demeanor shifted.
I settled my attention on her. “I thought this place wasn’t on the market yet.”
“It’s not.” She tossed a glance from me to the scoundrel and the scoundrel’s agent. “Excuse me a moment.” Stepping away, she pulled out her phone and began tapping the screen.
Ryan’s agent did the same, opting to make his call outside.
Great . That practically left us alone. Me and the man who’d dumped me a month before our wedding. Without an apology. A man who also appeared to be interested in this very property. Questions abounded, but I wasn’t going to give Ryan the satisfaction of showing any interest. Narrow French doors set in the wall overlooked a courtyard. The ones Claire had wanted to repaint. I moved toward them.
Ryan beat me to the side exit, reaching for the aged brass knob. The door slightly stuck as he opened it. He scooted back to let me pass. If only his public chivalry matched his private one. If only I hadn’t wasted all those years blindly in love.
Moving past him, my arm brushed his. I inwardly cringed at the contact. How could I have once craved his touch? I stepped down and into the cool, fresh air. A layer of pollen and grime from a southern magnolia tree coated the ground. The concrete would need pressure washing, and the overgrown landscaping a trim. But the iron railing separating the space from the sidewalk and Royal Street was fabulous.
Ryan followed. “I take it you’re expanding the café?”
I lifted one shoulder, grateful for his cluelessness about Claire’s attachment to this place.
He snickered.
“How long have you been back in town?”
“A few days. I’m partners with Paul Rodgers now, and we’re looking to open a second restaurant.” His flashy name-dropping tone begged for a reaction.
I kept my features neutral. Paul Rodgers was the latest hotshot chef on the Food Network. And this would be their second venture?
When Ryan had broken up with me, he’d left New Orleans for a new job, managing a swanky eatery in Georgia. He now studied the mature magnolia tree, and I studied him. His drawn eyes hinted at a restless night’s sleep. Or perhaps a lifestyle of restlessness. Not my concern.
Eleven years had passed since I’d seen him in person, but it felt like yesterday. I’d been standing in my living room, and he’d hovered near the front door, his declaration reverberating through me. “I can’t do this. This isn’t what I signed up for.”
It had only been three months since Claire had died. Hayley had been two and potty training. She’d stood at my legs, her little arms reaching up, grasping my shirt. “Need to make!” Numbly, I’d lifted her, holding her on my hip. Ryan had walked out the door, and Hayley had peed on me. The next day I’d bought Pull-Ups, and he’d moved to Atlanta.
“So I’m just an old acquaintance now?”
I returned my focus to the present. “Would you prefer I referred to you as something else? Copycat Coward, perhaps? Or my personal favorite, Runaway Ryan?”
His features tightened, and he sidled past me, his shiny loafers avoiding the long-dead magnolia blooms that had dropped.
I took in the outdoor space and eyed the length of the modest building, something not quite adding up. “This place doesn’t seem big enough for a restaurant of Paul Rodgers’s proportions.”
“Yeah, well...” He bent forward, scrutinizing a section of the railing. “We’re planning a more intimate establishment for this project.”
Intimate. Hmpf . Which no doubt meant expensive . I returned inside and found Trisha and the other agent talking near the front entrance. Ryan shadowed me as I surveyed the meager kitchen and bathrooms, both of which needed upgrading, putting this venture even further out of my reach. But the dining area and courtyard were perfection. I snapped several pictures with my phone to torture myself with later.
Trisha glanced at me. “What do you think?”
Ryan butted in, motioning to the floors. “It’s a total gut job.”
My heart flinched. The adorable hexagonal tiles!
He gestured to the rear. “All of that needs to come out for a bar.”
The bakery display case Claire loved!
“And we’d need to raise the roof.”
The cozy, curved ceiling!
His agent nodded. “It’s not a historical building, so none of that should be a concern.”
“We’d only buy it because of the location,” Ryan said. “And the courtyard. Though that would require a full overhaul too.” He moved to the French doors, eyeing the magnolia tree. The one Claire and I had sat beneath the day she’d snuck into the café’s kitchen to scope it out.
I stifled a gasp. Despite my memories, a tree that size in the French Quarter was such a rarity. It seemed like pure wickedness to remove it. If I hadn’t known better, I’d suspect a long red tail with a pointy end hid in the backside of his pants.
Ryan turned, his gaze traveling the range of the space. “Modern, sharp lines. We need to keep to the aesthetic of our brand.”
Which was the opposite of Beignets & Books, and the ambiance of this city.
“Why open a restaurant here if you don’t want it to feel like the French Quarter?”
Ryan assessed me for a prolonged, uncomfortable beat. “I have to say I’m surprised you’re looking to expand.” He loosely held his hands behind his back, an air of arrogance flavoring his tone. “Didn’t you recently complete an expensive renovation on the courtyard at Beignets & Books?”
My lips parted. “Are you spying on me?” Plus, how dare he talk down to me! And in front of others!
“Maybe I am.” His irritating smile held a blend of toying and challenge. As if he had the liberty to flirt with me.
My body tensed, my pulse running wild. I jutted my chin to the courtyard. “Looking to copy my work again? Being in your forties now, I thought you’d be past that.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
That’s right. I went there. He wouldn’t have graduated from high school or college with the GPAs accredited to his name without me. He’d even copied my career path, convincing me to help him get the internship I’d wanted with a prestigious New Orleans restaurant group.
He scoffed with a shake of his head. “If you took out a loan for that exterior renovation, the timing would mean you can’t afford this place. Not unless you went into further debt, which I know you’d hate.”
Ire singed beneath my skin, but I kept the Landry Mask in position. During my entire relationship with Ryan, he’d gotten what he’d wanted. Manipulated and used me. And I hadn’t realized how smooth he’d been until after we’d split. I looked him square in the eye, fire blazing up my spine. “You have no idea what I can afford. And unlike you, I don’t need a business partner to write the checks for me.”
He blinked, three times in rapid succession.
With that I left, Trisha silent at my side. Our heels clicked across the sidewalk, blending in with traffic noise. We turned the corner, and my bravado fizzled like the last bit of Silly String struggling to leave the canister. “He’s my no-good ex-fiancé.”
“I didn’t know you were engaged.”
“It was a lifetime ago.” I slowed my pace, my car coming into view parked against the curb.
Trisha tucked her phone into her purse. “I have a no-good ex-husband. If I had the money for that building, I’d loan it to you.”
Hands on my hips, I pulled in several deep breaths. Had the previous ten minutes really happened?
“The good news is the seller is a bit of an oddity. She’s letting agents show the space, but isn’t allowing offers until after the Fourth of July.”
The Fourth of July? That was over four months away. But at least it somewhat lessened the urgency of rescuing the place from Ryan. “Sounds like she wants to ensure there’s a bidding war.”
Trisha nodded. “But it gives you time to see if you can make an offer.”
“Or start a GoFundMe under the name Sticking It to My Rotten Ex.”
“I’ll contribute.” She flashed a smile with her departing wave. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks.” I sighed and continued on to my car, my attention halting on the bumper. A new magnet stuck to it. One I hadn’t noticed before because I’d been walking away from my vehicle when I’d arrived. A decal with a cartoon canine declared, Life is better with a rescue dog.