Waterfront Café Page 7

  Jools stared at the binder and blinked a few times.

  “Right,” the old man muttered finally, took the binder and walked over to a table.

  Five minutes later he asked for a pen and paper.

  Half an hour later, he’d scribbled a long list of things but still not said a word.

  Brody gave in when an hour had passed.

  “Jools?” he asked. “Coffee?”

  “Can you make me a Latte Macchiato?”

  Brody blinked and looked at the ancient coffee maker which the old man had purchased himself at least fifteen years earlier.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  Jools nodded and pointed at the list he had in front of him.

  “I put that as number three,” he said. “After the trim around the windows and the glass covered fridge for takeaway.”

  “Takeaway?”

  “Sandwiches and salads. People are always in a hurry these days. Don't want to wait. So, a glass-covered fridge-thing where you could put readymade stuff would make sense.”

  Brody glared at his uncle and said with no little degree of steel in his voice, “I will not, and I repeat; not have any wrapped up fucking sandwiches in any restaurant of mine.”

  “Café.”

  “What?”

  “You should.”

  It took two hours of discussions to hash through Jools’ suggestions, but Brody had to admit that the old man had come up with some good ideas, not that he planned to share that with the old coot.

  The espresso machine would definitely be added to the plans, and after a heated argument, Brody agreed against his better judgment to have custom made wooden boxes for condiments to put on the tables.

  “Won’t serve any fucking ketchup,” he grunted, hoping to get the last word.

  “Sure, you will,” Jools protested. “You don’t know how to make your own fancy and also tasty ketchup, boy?”

  Well, fuck it. That wasn’t a bad idea at all. Homemade ketchup, mayo, and mustard. A dressing or two. Perhaps that honey-mustard with a hint of thyme?

  “Huh,” Brody huffed out instead of agreeing.

  “Exactly,” Jools said jovially, as if he was a goddamned mind reader.

  Brody closed his eyes briefly and wondered if there was a special place reserved in heaven for patient nephews of smug morons. The old man had helped him clear out his head, though, and that deserved recognition.

  “Thanks, Jools,” he muttered. “It was good to talk through all of this with someone.”

  His uncle stared at him under brows so low his eyes were barely visible.

  “It’s good to have you back, Brody,” he said and cleared his throat.

  The bell above the door jingled, announcing that a group of customers had walked in, and when Brody was done taking their order of rolls, Jools had left.

  Later as Brody walked through the grocery store, he thought about the old man. Marie had said that they were a lot alike. If someone else had told him that, he would have told them to go to hell, but the fuck of it was that she had a damned uncomfortable point. He should –

  “Hey, Bro. Sleepwalking?” Pat called out, looked into the basket Brody was carrying and started laughing. “Or daydreaming?”

  “The fuck?”

  Patrick pulled out the toothbrush Brody had thrown in there a minute earlier and raised his brows.

  “Pink.”

  Well, shit.

  “Shut up,” Brody grunted and moved toward the dairy section to pick up the milk he knew Marie wanted in her coffee.

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have wine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She likes lemonade.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you shave your balls?”

  “Ye – What?” Brody stared at his brother in complete disgust. “Fuck no.”

  “Maybe you should. They get more prominent as one grows older you know.”

  What the fuck? More promi –

  “Whatever. My dick is still bigger than yours,” he rumbled, but couldn’t hold a snort of laughter back when he saw the look in his brother’s eyes.

  “And that’s a piece of information I could have lived my whole life happily without knowing,” a female voice chirped next to them.

  Their cousin was apparently shopping too.

  “Ah, Shel,” Pat said. “We were just... you know.”

  “Measured them, have you?”

  “No need,” Brody said calmly, and added, “I’m done, have to head home.”

  He walked toward the exit, and they were apparently also done which made Brody wonder why the hell karma had decided to hit him with their presence at this exact moment. He braced for the mocking he’d get, but before he could move, Shelly leaned forward to survey the content of his basket and grinned at him.

  “Here you go, Brody,” she said and threw a box of condoms in there with a cheeky grin.

  “Shelly,” he murmured and rolled his eyes. “It’s not –”

  He cut himself off because he did not want them to joke about what he might do with Marie, but he did want that box of condoms.

  “We’re all grownups by now, Bro,” Shelly said calmly. “Besides, I’ve been shopping with your date.”

  “Shopping?”

  She leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “Black lace, sweetie. It would be rude to let her wear it all in vain.”

  The snort from Patrick told him Shelly's whisper had not been hushed enough.

  “I can handle a date all on my own. I’m fifty-two, you know,” he said exasperatedly.

  “Then you should know that you don’t want those,” the cashier said, stretched an arm out and grabbed a box of Magnums. “If my sister were to be believed back in high school,” she added with a wink as she scanned the box.

  Brody closed his eyes and wondered again why he moved back to the small town where he’d grown up. He had indeed dated her sister for a brief period more than thirty years ago, and she was indeed right about the condoms, but still. Fucking embarrassing.

  Marie

  I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered why the heck I had agreed to buy the skimpy underwear. They were in no way as comfortable as my usual cotton ones, I'd have to wash them by hand, and weren't there an air of desperation over the whole ensemble?

  They looked good, though, and I felt good wearing them.

  Shelly and I had agreed that a soft, knee length skirt and a flouncy top with a wide neckline would be suitably casual for dinner with my neighbor. The black bra-straps showed if I moved carelessly, but we'd have dinner, presumably sitting serenely on chairs.

  Why was I so damned nervous? It was Brody. Dinner. We had shared several meals already. I knew how to eat without making a fool out of myself.

  I was ready to go but didn't want to look too eager by showing up early, so I looked around for something to keep me busy for a few minutes. I checked my email but had not received anything since the inquiry my sister had sent that morning, asking if I’d attend a charity dinner at the country club the coming weekend, which I had already responded to, sharing that since I was some distance away, I would regretfully have to skip the blessed event. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t understand my thinly veiled sarcasm but also didn’t care if she did because the question had been stupid.

  My gaze hit the pile of sketches, and I smiled, remembering how Brody had looked through –

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  My drunken bucket list.

  Surely Brody hadn’t seen it? He would have said something if he did. And even if he saw it, he wouldn’t have read it. Or?

  I flipped through the papers, found the damned thing almost at the bottom, and blew out a puff of air in relief because Brody wouldn't have gotten that far into the pile. I looked at the list and snorted out laughter. Dear God, I must have been more drunk than I realized. Then I folded the paper an
d put it away, wishing I had a shredder and vowing to burn it later.

  “Hey, Marie! Looking good,” Patrick called out as I was locking the door. “You're bringing wine?”

  “Thanks, and yes.”

  I raised the bottle of red I’d judged to be suitably neighborly to bring for a casual dinner.

  “Come,” Pat said, and since he was suddenly halfway to his own house, I followed him. “Brody drinks wine, but he prefers beer.” He opened a fridge in his mudroom and pulled out a box. “Local,” he said cryptically and held out the box toward me. I juggled the wine and the beer in my arms and just stared at him. “I, on the other hand, love wine,” he added with a wink as he pulled the bottle from my hand.

  “Um,” I mumbled stupidly.

  “Have fun,” Patrick said, gave me a gentle shove and closed the door behind me.

  “Okay,” I whispered to no one in particular. “I’ll try.”

  Then I moved past the cars and walked up the steps to Brody’s door.

  Brody

  He’d prepared everything so the actual cooking would only take a few minutes and turned around to survey his home. Reasonably clean. No clothes thrown anywhere. Table set with big, deep plates. Wine glasses. No fucking candles because he didn't own any and had forgotten to pick some up at the store, but he'd remembered paper napkins which were good because ripped off pieces of paper towel wouldn't exactly have been romantic. Not that he was a romantic guy, but still.

  He usually took dates to a restaurant somewhere, but it hadn't felt right. He also knew what he wanted Marie to eat that night, and there wasn't a place within driving distance which would serve it the right way.

  Boone bounced off toward the door, so he knew she was coming even before the soft knock.

  “Hey,” he said and started laughing when he saw the box she held out in front of her. “Thanks. You talked to Pat?”

  “What? Oh, the beer,” she said. “I had a very nice bottle of red, but he said you’d prefer this.”

  He ushered her inside and noticed a thin black strap on her shoulder when she crouched to greet Boone.

  Black lace.

  “Okay,” he said hoarsely, cleared his throat, and decided that dinner would be on the table in five minutes. “Let’s –”

  His phone cut him off, and he cursed himself for not putting it away. Then he saw the name flashing on it and turned.

  “I’m sorry, it’s my daughter. I’ve been trying to reach her for days...”

  “Take the call,” Marie said.

  “Pour yourself some wine, it’ll only take a minute,” he said with a grin as he raised the phone. “Hey there, Thea. Decided to finally call your old man back?”

  There was a brief silence, and then he heard his daughter’s surprised voice, “Dad?”

  “You called me.” There was another silence, and he felt his brows go up. “Is something wrong, sweetie?”

  “No,” she said, but the way it came out just a little too quickly made him straighten his back and turn to look out over the water.

  “Thea,” he said warningly. “I’m gonna find out so you might as well just tell me.”

  “You’re a grandfather.”

  Brody felt his knees buckle and sat down, luckily hitting the couch.

  “Say again?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You adopted a kid?”

  “Um.”

  “Thea.”

  “No. I gave birth to a daughter three days ago.”

  He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain shooting through him, blending with confused wonder.

  “You were pregnant when we last met but didn’t tell me.”

  “I –”

  “We’ve talked on the phone since then, and you still didn’t think this was something you should tell me.”

  He hadn't been a great father, but he hadn't been bad enough to deserve this. A small hand squeezed his shoulder, and he moved his own to take hold of Marie's. Their eyes met, and he winced.

  “Thea... Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked hoarsely.

  “You... would you have listened?”

  Anger shot through him, and he growled, “What the fuck, Thea? If you told me I was gonna be a grandfather, then I would have listened goddamnit. You know I would have, so that was a low blow.”

  “Okay, but you were unhappy,” she said quietly and went on quickly. “No, not unhappy. Frozen. It was as if a part of you weren't really there. Weren't paying attention. I want my daughter's grandfather to pay attention, and if he can't then yeah, I wasn't going to tell.”

  “It didn’t occur to you that you might ask me why I moved back to Bakersville? That I know fucking well what you’re talking about, and if you’d asked then I would have told you?”

  “I –”

  “I haven’t been a fantastic dad, Thea. I know this. Was I so fucking horrible that I deserved this?”

  “No! Dad, no it wasn’t like –”

  “I can’t do this. I’ll call you tomorrow instead.”

  “Dad –”

  “Congratulations, sweetie. I’m happy everything went well. I’ll call you.”

  Then he closed the call and stared out at the ocean.

  “Brody...” Marie caressed his cheek gently. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No. Shit. Give me a sec.” He took a deep breath, hit the screen on his phone a few times, waited for ex-wife number two to pick up, and snarled, “Fuck. You. Don't for a second think I don't know where this comes from.”

  Then he closed also that call abruptly, feeling marginally better but still pushing back on both sadness and anger.

  “What can I do to help?” Marie asked quietly.

  “I’m a grandfather.”

  “I got that.”

  “Let’s open that bottle and sit for a while. I’m pissed off, but it’ll pass.”

  “Okay.”

  He opened the bottle of pink wine in silence and poured two glasses. Then he carried them over to the couch and looked at Marie.

  “Well, that killed the mood,” he murmured sourly.

  “Brody...”

  “Here.”

  She took the glass and looked at him calmly.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  No, he didn't want to fucking talk about it, mostly because he didn't want what had happened to have happened at all. He'd wanted to watch Marie get a little tipsy and then seduce her.

  “Let’s sit,” he sighed. “I’d planned to save this for later, but yeah. We should talk.”

  She sat down, and he decided that the decent thing was to sit in one of the chairs while he explained his past, but still sat down next to her on the couch. She leaned in a little and tilted her head back.

  “Brody, I could leave. You should call your brother and we can –”

  “I was a shitty husband and a pretty crappy father,” he murmured. “Ex-wife number one hates me, and I lost touch with my son. It's been better with ex-wife number two, but only marginally. I had some kind of relationship with my daughter, or so I thought, at least. Seems I was wrong about that.” He sighed and pulled a hand through his hair, and restarted. “I started working in Jools' café when I was twelve. He had me peeling potatoes and bussing tables, and I loved it. Never wanted anything else. There's nothing like the energy in a restaurant kitchen. The... adrenaline. The rush. Even as a kid, I felt it.”

  “Okay,” she said when he paused, and he felt her hand squeeze his thigh gently. “But you moved away from Bakersville.”

  “I was so fucking ambitious. God, how much I wanted it, that rush of pride. Walking out in the front to get praise and admiration. The reviews, rewards, and the stars. The fame, I guess, but it was more than that. It was like a drug, that adrenaline rush.” He took a deep gulp of wine and looked at her and tried to explain. “Creating food is like creating art in many ways. You work in that mayhem, that bubble of crazy, and at th
e front of the restaurant, people are sitting. Anticipating. Celebrating an occasion, or their loved ones... Food is life so in a way they celebrate life. And you’re a part of that.”

  Their eyes held, and she nodded silently. Brody felt himself relax because of course, she would understand.

  “Eventually it becomes routine, so you move,” he went on. “There’s always a new place where there’s new energy. New art. For me, though... It got to a point where there wasn’t any more energy to tap. My world turned dull and gray. I stopped caring. Thea –” He gulped down some more wine and sighed. “Thea said that I was frozen and didn’t pay attention, and she was right. I wasn’t so fucking awful, and she should have told me, but in a way, she was right.”

  “Bro –”

  “Last place I worked... Two fucking morons broke into the restaurant kitchen one night. Don't know what they thought they'd get out of it. They were high as kites and waving guns, and I didn't care, not about them and not about myself. Took one down and pushed the other kid up against the wall with a knife against his throat. Got the waitresses to call the cops and went right back to check the veal I was frying.” He made his mouth form a smile but knew it didn't reach his eyes. “Got a lot of praise from everyone, and I still didn't care. I could have killed that kid, and that scared me more than their guns.”

  He looked at her then and moved the back of his hand over her cheek.

  “So, in a way, Thea was right,” he repeated.

  “What did you do?”

  “Mom called a few days later, and she knows me so well. I explained what happened in general terms, but she read between the lines, and she ordered me to come back here. So, I did.”

  He turned to watch the water outside and how darkness settled over the waves, thinking that his life was one fucking mess.

  “Can I say something?”

  He turned back slowly and murmured, “Of course.”

  “You're not frozen. You listened to my stupid stories about Tallahassee, and the discount I got on Pete's last romp. You pay attention, and you laugh with me. So, I don't know how you were before, but I don't see that man. I don't think your family sees that man either. Moving back was perhaps a good thing?”