Chapter One
Angel
“Good morning,” I greeted my boss and head chef, Margie, tying my apron around my neck.
She turned in her office chair, revealing a mess of flour all over her face and neck and in her gray hair. My eyes widened and she blew out a breath, sputtering flour in the air. “Hello, dear.” She sighed.
“Uh.” I cleared my throat and took a tentative step into her cramped office. “What happened?”
She threw her hands up and looked to the ceiling.
“My body doesn’t work anymore. That’s what happened.
” She shook her hands, looking at me now.
“I didn’t have the strength to lock the mixer.
It hurt my hands too much, so I thought if I put it on low, things would be all right,” she explained before blowing a gray curl out of her face. “Now look at me.”
I winced. “I’m sorry. If I’d been here on time, I could’ve helped you with that.”
Margie sighed, standing up and dusting the flour off her front.
It fell down to the floor like snow, reminding me of the quiet snowfall I’d had the pleasure of watching just a few weeks ago, my feet curled under me, the fire cracking softly beside me.
Sundays were always a joy for me. I looked forward to them every week.
Wednesdays, however, were a bit of a pain for me due to my doctor appointments.
“I told you to never apologize for that. Your health should always be your number one priority.” She gestured for me to follow as she waddled past me.
“Now, come on. I need you to help me finish making these pies. If I don’t have them ready by the time the fishing crews get back to land, there will be hell to pay. ”
I’d been working at Margie’s Place for the last year and some change, first as a hostess, then a waitress.
Until the night she let me bake cookies here because my oven had gone out.
One bite, and I was her new pastry chef.
She raved all evening, crying out and thanking the heavens for sending her a baker with the skills to replace her.
Margie was well into her sixties and had been running this place for over forty years.
Her desserts, along with her famous home-style meals, were staples in this town.
When she was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, it was a devastating blow, and she was fearful of not finding a replacement.
Then I came into the picture, looking for a place to put down roots.
Somewhere safe and far away from my old life.
“Were you planning on having a special dessert this weekend?” she asked over her shoulders as we weaved through the dining room. The wall of windows on one side gave everyone in the house a perfect view of the sea, blue and everlasting. “Something for the holiday?”
“Yes,” I answered, rushing forward to hold the kitchen door open for her. “Felix and I were pondering over the idea of a pear and apple crumble with a cinnamon drizzle.”
Margie, being the wild woman she was, turned to me with wide eyes and snatched my hand, patting it. “Every day, I thank God for you.”
I shifted on my feet, slightly uncomfortable with the praise—and the attention.
“That sounds marvelous. Will you give me a taste test?” she asked, heading to the stove.
Despite this place being a mom-and-pop type place, Margie had a five-star kitchen.
It was slightly dated, but five-star, nonetheless.
She hobbled over to the prep table, pulling out the menu for tonight, and fished for her glasses in the pocket of her apron.
“Where did I put those darn things?” she mumbled, looking down.
I smiled, shaking my head.
Margie was a nut, but I loved her. Early on, she was one of few people in town who didn’t look at me like I was an outsider. She welcomed me with open arms and gave me a job on the spot when I walked in, my short resume clenched tightly in my hands.
The back door opened with a familiar creak that always made my skin feel itchy.
I grimaced, looking over my shoulder, and found Rachel, a bartender who worked at the Buoy, storming in.
Her dark skin was glowing today, but the anger burning in her dark eyes shifted my usual admiration for her beauty to concern. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
She held up a hand to me. “I just need—sorry that was rude to put my hand up like that,” she breathed, immediately dropping it.
She flipped her braids over her shoulder and took a deep breath before looking at me and then Margie.
“How can I be in love with a man who acts like he wants me but does nothing to obtain me?”
Oh.
This was about Joey.
Joey was the owner of the Buoy, the local watering hole.
It had been around almost as long as this place and had been passed down to him after his father passed.
According to local rumors, Joey was never supposed to inherit the bar.
He had plans to travel the world, but those plans went up in flames.
People say that the Buoy is cursed. That it prevents Joey from ever going after what he wants.
The story is that if he did, the bar would take it from him.
However, Rachel has been the main reason the Buoy hadn’t gone under.
Yes, there were always customers, but Joey, in his grief, let responsibilities pile up.
Rachel was his saving grace.
And she was in love with him.
“It's no fault of your own, my darling girl,” Margie assured in a way that reminded me of the fairy godmother from Cinderella. “He’s just trapped in his own mind.”
“He told me he wanted me.” She let out a sigh that morphed into a regretful groan as she put her hands over her face.
A second later, she let them fall, slapping her jean-clad thighs.
“Anyway, I don’t have the capacity to deal with him or the bar anymore.
” She turned to Margie. “I’m here for a job. ”
Margie slowly lowered her glasses. “You haven’t quit him, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. I’m doing that tonight. Margo will be there to soften the blow.”
Margo.
Nine months ago, any mention of the tattooed barista would’ve had me running back to my little house in the hills.
Not because she was a bad person or a threat to me.
No, Margo was a damn good person, but she was connected to people I couldn’t be connected to.
Or people I thought I couldn’t be connected to, at least back then.
There had been outside forces that unexpectedly made the new chapter of my life a bit harder to settle into.
But now, hearing her name just made me realize that I’d never texted her back the other night.
Shit.
Guilt circled above my head like vultures chanting down at me.
What an inconsiderate bitch. You can’t even text your friends back. Before long, you won’t have any.
“You can’t quit him, Rachel.”
Blinking, I forced myself back to the present. I walked over to the prep table and leaned against it, letting the cool surface ground me.
“You’re just saying that because you’re a hopeless romantic. I was always cautious with your tales of happy endings, and in hindsight, I’m glad I was,” she decreed, folding her arms over her chest. “Now, are you going to give me the job or not?”
“Or not.”
“Margie!” Rachel and I both shot out.
The old woman took her glasses off and wiggled them at us.
“I don’t want to hear it. Unless you come back to me after you’ve quit your long-term position at the bar—and given up on Joey completely—then you don’t have a job.
” My jaw went slack, but she wasn’t done.
“Life is too short to give up on people. Yes, after a time, some people don’t change and—”
“I’ve been there for years, Marg. He hasn’t changed.”
“Not completely, but the difference between Joey and people who don’t change is that he is actually trying.”
“Trying?” she quipped and threw her arms out. “I’m being dragged around by a string behind him while he licks his wounds.”
“They aren’t wounds, dear. They’re lost dreams.”
A stillness settled over the three of us then, leaving only the low hum of the dishwasher to fill the silence.
Lost dreams.
Oh, how I had so many.
The dream of being a zoologist when I was six.
My dream was to be a pop star when I was eight, watching recorded tapes of Britney Spears’s Grammy performances in my parents’ living room for days on end.
The dream of being a heart surgeon when I was eleven after my grandmother had passed away from a heart attack.
My dream to be a world-famous chef with a restaurant in New York or Boston.
It didn’t hurt, losing any of those dreams except the last one.
In reality, they were unattainable. I was afraid of reptiles, so a career in zoology wouldn’t have worked out.
I can’t sing—in fact, when I try, I sound like a dying cat.
I realized I didn’t want to be a surgeon at a high school hockey game when I was sixteen.
The blade of a player’s skate managed to slice open another player’s face and the sight of all that blood made me puke up my lunch right there in the bleachers.
So no, the whole doctor dream had been a bust too.
But a sous chef?
That was a dream I’d held on to. That was a dream I could work for, and I had.
God, how I had. I’d never wanted something so bad in all my life, and just when I was close to it, I lost it.
Now I was here and with every ounce of creative freedom Margie allowed me to have in her kitchen, that dream was slowly reviving itself.
I’d gone to the Culinary Institute of America in New York City, but just after my graduation, my life went downhill.
“Sometimes, Margie, we have to get over lost dreams,” Rachel whispered before letting out a tired sigh. She looked into the dining room and then back to the restaurant owner. “You sure? I feel like the customers would love me.”
“They already love you at the Buoy,” Margie replied, glancing at me. “But should it really and truly become too much for you, then yes, you have a job here. But you’ll have to quit Joey first.”