Chapter 50 Bouquet Garni
Bouquet Garni
Poppy
Caroline’s bakery smells like sugar and chocolate.
Dad and I snag a table by the window, drinks in hand. A latte for me, plain coffee for him. I take a sip, looking around the
familiar bakery as my heart squeezes tight. Caroline’s trademark is a purple heart, and there are shades of purple everywhere—the
walls, the chairs, the décor, the pastry boxes flying out the door, filled with croissants and Danishes and muffins. A display
case by the counter shows off her famous petit fours, along with all kinds of cakes.
I wonder if Jack has ever been here. If he has, what he ordered. A plain croissant, I bet. Simple and executed to perfection.
My hands tighten on my latte mug.
Caroline emerges from the back, beaming as she wipes her hands on her apron.
“Beautiful in here as always,” Dad says in greeting.
“Hey, you two.” She hugs Dad, then me. “Poppy, it’s nice to see you here again.”
“I know, it’s been ages.” I also know what she isn’t saying. Nice to see me in regular clothes, not pajamas, with clean hair
and even some makeup on my face. Despite the effort, I still feel like a hollow version of myself.
She glances at the counter, where one of her employees is loading a tray with half a dozen kinds of pastries. “I have a surprise for you. I was going to bring them over later.”
She hurries back to the kitchen while the employee drops off our breakfast. Dad gives me first pick. I take a pain au chocolat,
even though, tragically, it doesn’t look very appetizing. Dad chooses a cherry Danish.
“Ta-da,” Caroline says with a flourish as she sets down a plate piled with pop tarts, iced in warm, bright colors. Orange.
Yellow. Pink. “I’ve been meaning to add them to the menu for a while. In honor of you, of course.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Wow. Thanks.”
“Because of the bakery in Carmel,” Caroline adds, frowning at my lack of enthusiasm. “You still like them, right?”
“I love them.” I look up, plastering a smile on my face. It’s not her fault; she doesn’t know that Jack made these for me
first. I choose a yellow one, unsurprised by the lemon curd filling. “Oh, wow, this is delicious.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Totally.” I force myself to take another bite. “You should definitely put these on the menu.”
Dad tastes one too, complimenting Caroline effusively. The pop tart is technically perfect, after all. Flaky and warm, the
right balance of buttery and sweet.
It just isn’t Jack’s.
He gave me his recipe, but I doubt I’ll ever make them. They won’t be the same, just like Caroline’s aren’t the same. Something
is missing. A hint of magic.
Or maybe what’s missing is him.
Eventually, Caroline goes back to work, and it’s just me and Dad, sitting in silence. He clears his throat, sitting back in
his chair. I brace myself under his intense gaze.
“Poppy, darling,” he says eventually. “I need to apologize.”
“Oh.”
Somehow, I wasn’t expecting him to just come out with it. I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten an apology from my father. Come to
think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him apologize to anyone.
“Are you sick?” I blurt.
“Sick?”
“You don’t normally . . . act like this.”
Dad wipes his mouth with a paper napkin, huffing out a breath. “No, honey. I’m healthy. This isn’t about that. This is about
the fact I’m proud of you, and I’m sorry for making it seem like I wasn’t.”
“Oh,” I say warily.
“I love you. I’m grateful that you complete our family.” He shakes his head. “Every time I’ve pushed you, it’s come from a
place of love and concern. But I understand now that I’ve done more harm than good.”
“I know you wish I was more like Julia.”
“No,” he says, a note of urgency in his tone. “Your mother and I don’t want that.”
“But she’s always been so perfect.”
“She’s her. You’re you. And I’ll admit that I haven’t always understood you as well as I would have liked.”
“I am who I am, Dad. I can’t change.”
“And I don’t want you to change.” He takes a long sip of coffee, as if thinking through what to say next. “Jack gave me this
push, you know. Informed me quite sternly that I owed you an apology.”
“He did?”
“I’m sorry I asked him to keep me updated about you.”
“That must be difficult for you to say,” I reply, teasing lightly; it’s that or linger, pathetically, on hearing that Jack
told Dad to apologize.
“I was worried. Sometimes I forget just how grown up you are.” He sighs, hand scrubbing over his jaw. “I didn’t mean for my . . .
arrangement with him to come out like that. And I certainly didn’t mean for it to come between the two of you.”
“That wasn’t why I left.”
“No?”
“We want different things.” My voice is thick suddenly. I occupy my mouth with a bite of croissant.
He regards me with serious, concern-filled eyes. “I’m glad you discovered a passion for the restaurant business. It’s obvious
now, how serious you are about it. Do you want to hear about the project in San Diego?”
“To do what?”
“Be our project manager, to start.” He takes out his phone, pulling up a few photos. “For a new restaurant we’re looking to
put together. Take a look. We’ll have space for corporate events, weddings, parties. It used to be a private home.”
I look at the photos of the property. They show a beautiful manor, picturesque and clearly well-loved, framed by rambling
grounds and a view of the Pacific.
“We already have an extensive network of small farms in California to approach for partnerships,” he adds. “And an excellent
chef onboard—Chef Sydney Strauss. You’d like her. If everything goes well, you could become a managing partner.”
“It could be California coastal chic,” I muse. “Farm to table with a touch of glam. With a location like that, you could emphasize
freshness, healthy eating . . .” I break off, imagining light wood accents, natural fabrics, a sparse and very clean menu.
“That’s exactly in line with what we were thinking.” Dad reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “Of course, there’s
no pressure to take the job, we can discuss other opportunities, but—”
“I want to do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Jack can have New York City.”
“It’s a very large city.”
“I’ve always wanted to spend more time in California.”
“Perhaps you can head out after the new year, then,” he says with a careful nod. “I’m trying to trust that you know what you
need.”
I can’t speak for a moment. Dad doesn’t push me. After a moment I slide out of my chair, giving him a sideways hug. Things
aren’t suddenly perfect, but I feel like he understands me a little more than he did in the past.
“Thank you,” I whisper, against the scratchy wool of his sweater.
Despite the heartache that I’m becoming increasingly convinced will never fade—a permanent wound, a forever mark on my soul—I
feel like I can breathe a little easier for the first time since I left Florida. My family is still my family. I love them,
and they love me. San Diego might not be Diamond Bay, but I’ll find a way to love it.