15. Callum #4
I watch her face. I can’t help it. I’ve always loved watching her taste things.
“Oh my God,” she says around the bite. “This is incredible.”
I watch the way her whole face changes when she tastes something she loves, her shoulders dropping slightly, her expression softening.
I see that face every time I taste something incredible and instinctively want to share it with her.
That look of pure appreciation has been haunting me for five years.
“Margo’s been using the same recipes since before I was born. Everything she makes is perfect.” I pick up my own sandwich. “She’s one of the reasons I wanted to be a chef. She was like an honorary mother to us growing up.”
Vivienne pauses mid-bite. “Honorary mother?”
I take a bite of my sandwich, chew, and swallow, buying myself a second to decide how much to say. “My mom left when I was really young. I don’t remember her. Wesley does, though. I think it messed him up a little.”
“I’m sorry. You never said anything about her. I didn’t know.”
I shrug, trying to keep it light. “It’s just how it was. We had Dad. We had each other. And we had half the town looking out for us. Margo especially.” I take another bite, hoping she’ll let it go.
She doesn’t push. She just nods and takes another bite of her sandwich, giving me space I didn’t ask for but appreciate anyway. I’m grateful for that. It’s not something I talk about much. Not because it hurts, but because there’s nothing to say. You can’t miss what you don’t remember.
“Well,” she says after a moment, her voice deliberately lighter. “She makes a hell of a sandwich.”
The tension in my shoulders eases. “Yeah. She does.”
She takes another bite of the sandwich, and I dig back into my own. The bread is crusty and chewy, the turkey is thick-cut and tender, and whatever Margo’s done with this cranberry sauce — orange zest mixture, maybe with a touch of cinnamon — makes the whole thing sing.
The chowder is just as good. It’s thick and creamy with chunks of clam and potato. It warms me up from the inside out. Just good ol’ small-town cooking.
We eat in comfortable silence for a minute. Just the two of us, the late-afternoon sun streaming through the window, and the sound of Margo humming in the back. Our knees are still pressed together under the too-small table.
I should probably break the silence. But I want to just sit here and pretend for a few more minutes that we’re just two people having coffee and lunch. That there’s no restaurant hanging in the balance and no investors waiting to pass judgment. No past trauma and complicated history between us.
Just Cal and Vivi. Like it could have been if everything hadn’t gone wrong.
“Oh!” Margo pokes her head back out, startling us both. “Before I forget! Vivienne, honey, summer’s coming, and that means storm season.”
My attention snaps to her immediately.
“That cottage is right on the water, and when a coastal storm rolls in —” She shakes her head, her expression serious now.
“The foundation’s old. The roof leaks. The windows don’t seal.
And when the wind comes off the ocean like that, the whole structure shakes.
Last big storm we had, a tree branch came through the kitchen window and the storm surge came right up under the porch.
Flooded the whole place. I had to stay in a hotel for three days. ”
Vivienne waves a hand, unconcerned. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Honey, I’m serious. That cottage is charming in good weather, but it’s not safe in a coastal storm. The waves can get twenty feet high, and you’re only about fifty yards from the water. I want you to be aware of what you are in for.”
Jesus. Twenty-foot waves. Tree branches through windows. I’m already doing the math on how long it would take me to get to her when the storm hits and whether my truck could handle the coastal road in high water.
“I’ll keep an eye on the forecast. Thank you, Margo.”
“Alright, well. You’ve been warned.” Margo gives me a look — the same one she’d give me when I was a teenager and needed to take something seriously — then disappears again.
I look at Vivienne across the table. “You should take her seriously. Storms here can get pretty intense.”
“I’ve been through storms before.”
“Not coastal storms.” My voice comes out harsher than I intended, and I add a small smile to steer away from the panic creeping to my throat. “Not storms that can put tree branches through windows.”
“I’ll be fine, Cal.”
She says it with such confidence that I almost believe her.
But I’m already making plans and thinking about where she could stay if it gets bad.
My apartment is on the water. Not ideal.
But it’ll hold better than that cottage.
It has a concrete foundation and reinforced joists.
Hayes engineered the whole restaurant to take a beating.
It’s way more structurally sound than that cottage.
Or I could take her to my dad’s place. Hell, I’ll put her up in a hotel myself if I have to.
I make a mental note to check the forecast daily.
Just in case.