15. Callum #3
“I had to, I guess, if I wanted to be a real chef. Culinary school, working in real kitchens, you can’t do that in a town this small.” I shrug. “But I always knew I’d come back and open something here.”
We start walking again, and I can feel the conversation shifting.
This is rocky territory. But I can’t seem to stop.
“Do you ever regret it?” she asks quietly. “Coming back? Sometimes, do you wonder if you’d stayed in a bigger city, you could have —”
“Could have what? Worked myself to death in someone else’s kitchen? Chased Michelin stars I don’t even care about?” I shake my head. “This is what I wanted, Vivi. My own place in my hometown. You know that. I wanted to cook food I actually believed in.”
“The kind of place where you can actually taste what season it is,” she murmurs. “Where everything on the plate came from somewhere you could point to on a map.”
My breath catches. Those are my words. Those are the exact words I said to her on graduation night, sitting at that bar in Paris with cheap wine and the excitement of the future making anything feel possible. I remember being so nervous saying what I wanted out loud.
She remembers.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out gritty. “Exactly that.”
“You did it,” she says, and the way she says it — almost reverent — makes it hard to breathe. “You built exactly what you told me you would.” She’s quiet for a moment before speaking again. “I think that’s really brave.”
“I wouldn’t call it brave. Silly, maybe.”
“Building the exact thing you dreamed about when we were young and naive? Even after everything tried to destroy it? That’s brave, Cal.”
We’ve reached the end of Main Street now, where it opens up into a wider road that runs along the waterfront. And just ahead, on the corner, is a small bakery and cafe with cheerful yellow awnings and flowers in window boxes.
My steps slow without meaning to.
“Oh,” Vivienne says, stopping beside me. “That’s —”
“Margo’s place,” I finish.
She’s looking at it with that same attention she’s been giving everything today, like she’s trying to store it away for later.
“I didn’t know she had a cafe.”
“Best coffee in town.” I point to the window where Margo’s hand-painted sign is propped up. Coffee That Doesn’t Suck, it declares in cheerful letters. “Also the only place that makes a decent breakfast burrito.”
I’m already walking toward it before I fully think it through. I want her to meet Margo. I want Margo to see her. Which is dangerous, because Margo doesn’t miss anything, and she’s going to take one look at us together and get ideas.
But I don’t care. Maybe I want the town to get ideas.
As if on cue, the door swings open and Margo herself appears, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s in her sixties, with wild gray hair pulled back in a messy bun and the kind of face that’s seen a lot of living. She spots us immediately, and her whole face lights up.
“Callum Reid!” She beams like I’m her favorite person in the world. “I haven’t seen you here in weeks.”
“I know. I’ve been busy, Margo.”
“Too busy for coffee? That’s a crime.” Her eyes shift to Vivienne, and her smile gets even wider. “And you must be my tenant! Vivienne, right?”
Here we go. Margo loves to matchmake. She’s been trying to set me up with various women in town for years — her niece, the girl who works at the bookstore, that server from the Italian place down the street.
The second she clocks me with Vivienne, walking down Main Street in the middle of the afternoon when I should be at the restaurant, she’s going to know.
“That’s me.” Vivienne steps forward and shakes her hand firmly. “The cottage is beautiful. Thank you so much for allowing me to stay in it.”
“Oh, honey, it’s my pleasure. Nice to have someone staying there who actually appreciates that old place.
” Margo looks between us, and I can practically see the wheels turning.
Her smile turns cunning. “You two hungry? I was just about to close up, but I’ve got some soup left over. And fresh sandwiches.”
“That sounds perfect,” Vivienne exclaims, and I can hear the relief in her voice. She’s probably starving.
“Come on then.” Margo holds the door open, grinning at me like she knows exactly what’s happening. “In you go.”
The cafe is small and cozy, with mismatched furniture and local art on the walls, and it smells incredible.
Coffee and fresh bread, butter and herbs, the lingering scent of whatever she served for lunch.
It smells like every morning before school when Margo would sneak us cinnamon rolls.
And every time I’ve needed somewhere to go that wasn’t the restaurant or my apartment.
Margo bustles behind the counter, already pulling out bowls. “I’ve got clam chowder! Cal’s favorite since he was a kid. And turkey sandwiches on rye. Sound good?”
“Sounds amazing,” Vivienne practically moans.
“Sit. Both of you. I’ll bring it out.”
We sit at a small table by the window. It’s tiny, meant for two people who don’t mind being close. Vivienne settles across from me, and our knees bump under the table. She shifts, trying to make space, but there isn’t any. Our legs end up pressed together, warm even through our jeans.
I’m hyperaware of every point of contact.
Margo brings over two perfect lattes with actual art in the foam and two steaming bowls of clam chowder with sandwiches on thick bread. Turkey with cranberry sauce and greens, cut in half and arranged on a wooden board
“There,” she says, setting everything down with satisfaction. “Now you both look like you’re withering away, so eat. And don’t argue with me, Reid. I changed your diapers.”
Vivienne chokes on her coffee.
Damn it, Margo.
“She’s exaggerating,” I groan, my face heating.
“I absolutely am not!” Margo’s eyes are dancing. “You and your brothers ran around in nothing but diapers every summer. Little wild things.”
“Okay, thank you, Margo.”
She’s cackling now, clearly delighted with herself. “You’re so easy. Now eat. I’ve got to finish closing up. You two can let yourselves out when you’re done.”
She disappears into the back, still laughing.
Vivienne is grinning at me across the table, and it’s not the careful professional smile or even the genuine laugh from earlier. This is pure delight, full of mischief. “Diapers, huh?”
“We were toddlers. That’s what toddlers wear.”
“Running around town?”
“The beach. We ran around on the beach. Which is totally normal.”
“Uh huh.” She’s trying not to laugh but failing.
She picks up half of her sandwich and takes a bite. Her eyes close in that way they do when she tastes something good and she’s soaking in that little moment of appreciation, completely focused on flavor.