Chapter 10
Caleb
Two hours and, for the Quincy family, three rounds of whiskey sours later, we’re heading back to Spencer Soirees. Brooke did a much better job of getting into the car this time. It helped that I insisted on holding her bags.
Once Brooke took control of the meeting, it went better than I’d expected after those first few minutes.
Despite the short amount of time to plan, and the chaos of the coffee table that made Brooke visibly anxious, Hannah and Preston have a beautiful vision.
And Mr. Quincy—I can’t bring myself to call him Doug, old habits and all—has the deep pockets to bring his daughter’s dream wedding to life.
I knew there was a chance Jennifer would be there, but I didn’t believe life was cruel enough to throw that into the mix.
Jennifer and I ended things mutually the summer before I left for San Francisco, despite what Mr. Quincy seems to think.
Our short relationship was such a textbook cliché: The rich country club girl sneaks around with a member of the staff for the summer to piss off her parents.
It wasn’t the relationship that made me react the way I did.
We had a fun summer. It’s how it ended and the emotions that often come with remembering.
Mr. Quincy wasn’t wrong that Jennifer’s dad wasn’t thrilled to learn about us.
I remember his words to Jennifer as if I heard them yesterday: “Fooling around with a line cook, Jennifer? You could’ve at least aimed for the tennis pro.
” It still stings. And it brings up other feelings about a different person that I don’t want to think about.
Even without any further mention of my relationship with Jennifer, I couldn’t relax. I was restless the entire meeting, shifting in my chair and struggling to focus.
I turn on the radio as soon as I start the car, hoping for a quiet ride back.
It’s a short enough ride that I might get away without divulging too much.
But Brooke is her mother’s daughter, and she might love the drama and gossip as much as Judy, though she never did before.
Brooke writes feverishly in her notebook as I drive.
At the rate she’s writing, she must go through four or five notebooks a month.
We pull up to the building and I cut the engine. Brooke puts her notebook in the bag at her feet.
“So….” She clasps her hands in her lap and turns to me.
“You barely know Jennifer, huh?” She cocks her head, raising a brow.
She’s wearing her hair down today and the short strands in front fall across her face.
She’s quite satisfied to witness me in this situation, but there’s a kindness in her eyes.
The same kindness that interrupted Jennifer’s hug and kept today’s meeting on track.
I loosen my grip on the steering wheel, blowing out a breath. “Here I thought you were letting me off the hook after that quiet drive back.”
“Based on that meeting, she’ll be involved with the planning,” Brooke says.
“I don’t need the whole dramatic saga, but a little background might be helpful.
I’m the last one to know about anything with this wedding.
It’s getting old. I need to know what I’m dealing with here.
I can’t create a plan without the details. ”
The pit in my stomach urges me to tell her everything.
About Jennifer and what her dad said. How that’s all connected to Brooke and why I did what I did before leaving for San Francisco.
But I can’t. It will make this whole situation even more complicated than it already is. So I go with the short answer.
“Jennifer’s great, I mean that,” I say. “And so are Hannah and Preston, as I’m sure you can tell. But Hannah’s parents are…they mean well, but they’re…”
“…affected…WASP-y…pretty fucking rude?” She says it all with a hint of indignation.
I love seeing her when she’s not playing the part of perfect wedding planner. The side of her that isn’t trying to be polished or polite and says fuck regularly. The side I used to see a lot more of.
“Sure, a little bit of all those things.” I laugh. “Jennifer and I dated for a couple months the summer before I left for San Francisco. But it ran its course and we ended things.”
Her blue eyes narrow. “The summer before you left?”
Shit.
I’ve been so caught up in my own feelings that I forgot about Brooke’s. I may have been dating Jennifer, but Brooke and I were inseparable at the weddings we worked that summer. Just friends, but…
“Mr. Quincy made it sound pretty rough,” Brooke says, moving on from things she may want to forget about, too.
“It’s not that dramatic, I promise,” I tell her. “There’s no need to try to keep her away from me. This wedding is as big of a deal to me as it is to you and I’m going to treat it that way.”
“You better, Caleb.” She offers a smile. “But if anything changes, let me know. I don’t need a heartsick caterer ruining this one, so I’ve got your back. Not for your sake, obviously. My mom wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.”
A heartsick caterer. She has no idea that’s what she’s already dealing with.
“Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t. Looking forward to unpacking that relationship with you.”
She gives me a puzzled look. “What do you mean? There’s nothing to unpack. My mom and I are great,” she says, all too fast.
“If you say so.”
“Goodbye, Caleb.” She hops out of the car on her own and I hand her the ridiculously large water bottle she seems to drag everywhere. “I’ll send you a meeting recap tonight.”
“Will it be color-coded?”
She smiles. “What do you think?”
Of course it will. I turn the engine back on.
“See ya later…babe!” I call from the car.
As expected, she rolls her eyes but with a soft laugh. It feels good to be the one making her laugh again. It’s been a draining afternoon, but that sound will carry me through the rest of the week.
Between moving back, getting reacquainted with Foley’s, and the Quincy wedding, my first week home has been a complete whirlwind.
On top of that, I’ve got a four-year-old corgi to take care of.
If Brooke is my pseudo-rival this summer, then my parents’ dog, Wendell, is my nemesis.
He’s never been a fan of me, but Mom’s focused on taking care of Dad and Wendell’s a little needy.
I wasn’t here to help right after Dad had his heart attack, the least I can do is take care of the dog now.
After scooping Wendell up from my parents’ and struggling to get him buckled into the safety harness Mom insists I use, I’m running late for my meeting with the real estate agent.
Thank god this meeting isn’t with Brooke, she’d have my neck.
But it might be worth it to see the look she makes when she’s mad.
Does she know she bites the inside of her lip and her cheeks go pink when she’s angry?
This isn’t the look I envisioned if I ever had a dog in this car.
It’s a Jeep. I should have a real dog, a German shepherd or golden retriever, not a little corgi in a baby-blue harness.
It’s not doing great things for my brooding caterer-slash-chef persona.
When he’s finally settled in the passenger seat, I text the agent that I’m on my way.
The drive away from downtown and into the backcountry is beautiful.
The smell of fresh cut grass in the air.
I take the backroads so I can drive slower with Wendell in the car.
He must smell a lot more than me because his nose leads his head in every direction as we drive, but he’s content and not nipping at me (for once).
Maybe the harness was a good idea after all.
It’s nice to get away from downtown. It’s stifling sometimes.
It sounds ridiculous when I was in a bustling, crowded city for years, but at least there I could be anonymous.
Just another guy in the city doing my job.
Charter Oaks, as much as I love it and have missed it, is a place where everyone knows me and my business.
They know I’m the one who gave my parents a hard time and fucked around with my career in my early twenties.
They know I’m the catering guy’s son. The help.
In San Francisco I was still me, still that guy, but no one knew that, so they couldn’t judge me for it.
Charter Oaks will always be home. Whether I want it to be or not, my future is taking over Foley’s. Running the market and catering. It’s what my parents—and everyone in town—expect of me.
I don’t want to let them down, but I do want to see what I might be able to do for myself. Even if I never get to actually do it.
“The main house is move-in ready. The guest house and barn, which is what you seem more interested in, need renovations. The current owners sold most of the acreage to the nearby working farms, but you’re still looking at about five acres,” Melissa says.
She’s the real estate agent I impulsively messaged before setting my phone to airplane mode on my flight back.
For years, I’ve casually searched properties in the area to see if anything felt right.
A few came up here and there, but I never did anything about it.
Now the dream of my own farm-to-table restaurant is just that—a dream.
Maintaining operations at Foley’s will keep me busy enough. My path has been chosen for me.
I shouldn’t have made this appointment, because now I know what’s possible. Seeing the vision I’ve been curating in my mind stretched out before me makes it so much harder to not forge my own path.
The main house is set back further on the property, with a guest house between the main house and the barn.
It must have been the main house originally.
I bet Joey could help me find out some of the history.
It’s older, with a beautiful, wide wraparound porch.
In need of renovations is perfect. I can work to keep the historical farmhouse charm but install a state-of-the-art kitchen.
Nearby farms would be our vendors, and the menu could change seasonally.
Between the barn and the guest house are rows of overgrown garden beds. A small kitchen garden for seasonal vegetables and herbs would be a nice touch…if I knew how to garden. The barn—well, I don’t know what I’d do with the barn, but it’s got potential.
“So, a restaurant?” Melissa walks up the guest house porch stairs. The porch could fit half a dozen two- and four-tops. Calling this a guest house implies it’s significantly smaller than the main house. It is, but not by much.
“That’s the plan.” We walk through the first floor.
There’s an addition in the back that I’d gut for the kitchen.
I’d update the rest to keep the charm of the space.
In the corner built-ins of what was once the dining room, I’d display local artwork.
The living room fireplace, if we can get it working, would help the restaurant feel much cozier in the winter.
“Let me know when you’ve made up your mind,” Melissa says when we get back to my car.
If only it were that easy. I’m expected to carry on the family business as it exists today. Maybe if I hadn’t lollygagged my way through my twenties, my parents would support an addition to the Foley’s brand. But I did, and it’s time to make it up to them.