Everything We Keep: A Novel (6 page)

“You make specialty coffees?” A smile spread wide across my face. I shook his hand, sealing the deal. “You’re on.”

“You should open a coffee shop in Joe’s old place, especially if you can cook as well as you claim to blend coffees,” he said with a crooked grin that made my insides dance upside down. “The stuff those chains serve is crap, pardon the French.”

“Your French is horrible.” I mimicked the
Voilà, fini!
I’d heard him say earlier.

“Tell you what”—he leaned closer—“I’ll stop speaking French if you serve your coffee.”

I folded the napkin on my lap and ducked my head to hide a smile. That was exactly what I’d been planning an hour ago.

Our pizza arrived and Ian ordered one to go for Wendy. Lunch flew by and when the waitress brought our check, I opened my wallet.

Ian dug out his from his back pocket. “I’ll take care of this.”

“This wasn’t a date.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. He seemed amused. “If you say so, but you are a potential client. You’re coming Thursday, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“You’re going to want one of my photos. You’ll need spare change for next week.”

I gave him a direct look. “You’re that confident I’ll buy one?”

“A guy can dream.” Ian tossed a credit card onto the table and I zipped up my wallet. The metal teeth snagged on something. I tugged out the offending paper and felt the color drain from my face. It was a business card from Casa del sol, a resort in Oaxaca, Mexico. No employee name or title. Just the resort address, phone number, and website. Lacy must have put it there.

“Are you OK?”

I looked up at Ian. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Did I say something to offend you? If you really want to pay—”

I shook my head. “No, no, I’m good.”

Ian lowered his gaze and watched me fidget with my wallet. His eyes dimmed and I felt his withdrawal. I wanted to explain my mood swing wasn’t his fault, but then I would have to explain what bothered me. Telling him a psychic had slipped a mystery business card into my wallet sounded too strange. By the way, she thinks my deceased fiancé is anything but deceased.

Ian paid the check and we returned to the gallery, stopping outside the doors, which were now closed. I held out my hand. “Thanks for lunch.”

His expression was guarded, but he smiled and took my hand. “You’re welcome.”

“It was nice meeting you.” I turned to leave only to pause when he said my name.

“See you Thursday?” He smiled the warmth back.

I returned his grin and nodded. “See you Thursday.”

CHAPTER 6

Nadia called and cancelled our evening. She had a new project under way and the client had asked to meet over dinner to discuss the plans before he flew out of town. “Wendy mentioned she invited you to the opening next Thursday. Are you going?”

“Probably.” I thought of Ian. I wanted to see more of his photos.

“You can come with me. We’ll be each other’s date.”

“As long as you don’t kiss me good night.”

She snorted. “Deal. So what do you think of Ian?”

“I loved—” the design scheme. Or that was what I’d planned to say until her question registered.

She laughed. “He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”

“Your design scheme is gorgeous.”

“Do you like him?”

“I like the work you did in the gallery.”

“Aimee.” She dragged out my name.

“OK. I like him. He seems really nice.”

“Ask him out.”

“What?”
I’d never asked anyone out before. I’d never dated and James didn’t count. He and I had always been a couple. “I can’t. It’s too soon.”

“James died almost five months ago. You have your whole life in front of you.”

“I’m not ready.”

She sighed. “All right. Fine. I won’t push. But one day you’ll be ready. The human spirit is amazingly resilient, and the human body is surprisingly horny.” She laughed and I rolled my eyes. “We’ll go shopping next week. Pick up something hot for you.”

“Sure,” I said, more to placate than agree.

“I have to get ready. We’ll chat later.” Nadia said good-bye and disconnected.

Several hours later, I found myself staring at the business card Lacy tucked inside my wallet. I sat at the computer in the front bedroom we’d used for James’s art studio. His supplies were still scattered throughout the room. An unfinished painting waited on the easel. I turned on the monitor and brought up the resort’s website. Casa del sol. Tiled roofs sloped over hacienda-style arches that rose above Playa Zicatela. The hotel was located in the town of Puerto Escondido on the Emerald Coast of Oaxaca, Mexico.

I flicked the corner of the business card. It didn’t make sense. James hadn’t been anywhere near Puerto Escondido, which was almost a thousand miles from where he should have been according to the map app on my phone. He’d flown into Cancún with plans for dinner in Playa del Carmen after spending the day fishing off Cozumel. Thomas had gone to Cancún to retrieve James’s body. Or so he told me.

Call Thomas, Aimee.

I felt more than heard the words in my head.

James?

Don’t turn around,
I told myself. He wouldn’t be there.

As for Thomas, it had been over a month since his last visit. He’d stopped by to see how I was doing and ended up staying for dinner.

I called him.

“Hey, Aimee,” he answered with a raspy voice.

I heard rustling through the phone line, then a steady, low hum in the background. It sounded as if he’d moved outside, or stood by an open window.

“Where are you?”

More rustling. He cleared his throat. “Overseas.”

Europe? It would be dawn. He must be tired. “Sorry, did I wake you? I’ll call later.”

“No, I’m good.” He groaned. I imagined him rubbing his forehead. “What’s up?”

“Did you . . .” My voice trailed. Asking Thomas if he had retrieved James’s body from Cancún and not someplace else like Oaxaca, Mexico, didn’t seem like a logical, thought-out question. Neither did “are you sure you brought home the right body and not some other John Doe?”—which would have been my next question.

I had no proof other than a business card and the word of a psychic that James was not dead.

“Are you still there?” Thomas broke into my thoughts.

“I’m here. Sorry to disturb you. It’s just—” I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

“I miss him, too,” he confessed after a moment.

“I know, thanks. I’ll let you go. Good night, Thomas.”

“Take care, Aimee.”

I set the phone on my desk beside Thomas’s check. I stared at it, thinking about the lease sign downtown.

Do it, Aimee.

I snagged the phone and called Dad. It was late. His voice mail answered. “Hi, Dad. Um . . .” I held the check. “I just called to say . . . well, I’ve figured out what I want to do. So, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m going to be OK. No . . . I
am
OK. That’s all. I love you. Mom, too. ’Bye.”

I flipped the check over and my stomach followed. I was a culinary school graduate and could plan a five-course meal for hundreds of guests, but the thought of brewing coffee and baking muffins for one customer in my café was daunting. But at the same time, I felt liberated.

Aimee’s Café.

James had suggested the name. He’d even sketched a logo the night before he left. If he intended to pursue his passion and open a gallery, he wanted me to do the same. Quit The Goat and start my own restaurant. Cook what I wanted, not what the type of restaurant dictated. Did I want to cook Irish pub food the rest of my life?

I spun the platinum engagement band around my finger. The diamond solitaire glittered in the monitor’s glow. Even with James by my side, the idea was intimidating. But it was time to move forward. Nadia would say I was entering the next stage of grief. Onward and upward.

I endorsed the check, then I called the leasing agent and left a message. When I hung up, reality set in. My birthday was next week. I’d be twenty-seven and well on my way to becoming the proud, naive owner of a business with no plan, no employees, and no product.

Brenda Wakely met me in front of Joe’s Coffee House at ten Monday morning. She was tall and lean, and wore a white silk blouse tucked into an electric-blue skirt with heels to match. Her bobbed white hair, dusted with silver streaks, curled around her ears.

She cleared her throat and introduced herself while unlocking the door. The alarm system counted down a warning. “Have a look around while I shut this off.” She rushed down the hallway, past the restrooms to the back door.

Joe hadn’t removed anything since he closed. Formica tables crowded the room. Vinyl chairs stacked against the back wall. Linoleum flooring, stained and peeling in heavy-traffic areas. The air was stale. A faint odor of burned coffee beans and bacon grease filled my lungs, stirring memories.

My gaze settled on the table in the corner. How many Sunday mornings had James and I sat by that window, watching passersby as we drank bitter coffee and ate omelets doused in Tabasco sauce?

Turning in a slow circle, I looked around the dining room. While the world had changed around Joe, nothing about Joe’s had changed. Black-and-white pictures dating back fifty years decorated the rear wall. Plastic menus stacked by the cash register listed the same food selections he’d offered since I started eating here twenty years ago.

“What do you think?” Brenda asked.

“I loved Joe’s. I miss this place.”

“Me, too, but he had too much competition from those trendy spots. I do love their drive-throughs, so I can’t complain.”

I walked behind the service counter.

“The appliances need to be updated.” She pointed toward the grease-stained commercial range through the kitchen service window. “Frankly, the entire place needs to be stripped and power washed.” She held her hands away from the dingy countertops. “What did you say your business is?”

“A café.” I pushed the keys on the antiquated cash register. The “2” key stuck. “Well, more a boutique coffee shop and gourmet eatery.”

She smiled wryly. “Another coffee shop. A risky business, if you ask me.” She tapped the leather-bound portfolio she held. “The owner wants the tenant to sign a long-term lease, fifteen to twenty years.”

That was a long time. I inspected the cabinets. “Who owns the building?”

“Joseph Russo.”

“Joe’s the owner?” I should have known. Maybe I could call him directly, arrange a deal.

“Do you know him personally?”

“My parents owned The Old Irish Goat. They’ve known Joe for many years through the Chamber and other associations. Has anyone applied for the lease yet?”

“I have two other applicants. This space will go fast. Joe wants to make his decision by Thursday.”

Three days to decide. I felt rushed, but I could miss out. Then what? I wanted my café downtown. The corner location was ideal, but more important, I felt a connection here to James.

I twisted the ring on my finger. “How much is the monthly lease?”

Brenda rattled off a number, more than I’d anticipated. One more reason to call Joe.

I should do more planning, and I shouldn’t hurry into any decisions. But I didn’t want to lose this location. I smiled at Brenda. “I want to apply.”

“Wonderful.” She opened her portfolio and handed me a few forms. We discussed the terms some more and while I completed the lease application and credit report, Brenda moved to the other side of the restaurant and sat down, tapping vigorously on her smartphone.

When I finished, she thanked me. “I’ll run your credit report, and if your history checks out, I’ll follow up with your references.” She shook my hand. “I hope everything works out for you.”

Brenda locked up behind us and waved good-bye. I returned home feeling giddy. Over the next few days, I researched, planned, applied for a business license, and put my finances back in order. For the first time in five months I had something to look forward to.

Nadia woke me late Thursday morning. I dragged myself to the front door. I’d been up late drafting business and marketing plans.

“My God, you’re not shopping in that.” She made a disgusted face at my rumpled shirt and PJ bottoms and pushed past me.

“Good morning to you, too.” I yawned and closed the door. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to dress. We have less than two hours to find an outfit for tonight’s opening party before my lunch meeting.”

“I’ll wear something I already have.” I returned to the bedroom.

She followed me. “Like what?”

I shrugged.

She yanked open the closet doors and stilled. She blew out a breath as she glanced over James’s side of the closet. His clothes were still there, undisturbed. She shut the doors. “Get dressed. You need something new. We’re going to Santana Row.”

“I have to shower.”

“No time. Spray on perfume.” She made a fluttery motion with her fingers around my head. “And brush your hair.”

Twenty-five minutes later, dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, my wild curls banded in a high ponytail, I stood beside Nadia as she flitted through a clothes rack. She roughly pushed hangers aside, giving each dress in my size a quick inspection. She pushed three into my arms and dragged me into the dressing area.

“I still don’t understand why tonight’s such a big deal.” I toed off my sneakers.

“Hello! Ian will be there.”

“Not interested.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“Nadia,” I warned. I shimmied from my jeans and dragged my shirt over my head. A plain bra and boring panties stared back at me in the full-length mirror.

“Then forget about Ian. Do this for yourself. It’s time to jump-start your social life. You need to date.”

“I’m not dating,” I said icily, and tugged the first dress off the hanger.

“Whatever. Hurry up, though. Time’s running out.”

I zipped up a dress, a cobalt sleeveless silk blend with a tailored bodice and straight knee-length skirt, and turned before the mirror. Would Ian think me too pretentious? The dress was gorgeous, but too showy for an art exhibit. Too over-the-top for Ian.

James would have loved this dress.

I unzipped the back and gave the dress a dirty look as it fell to the floor.

Why do I even care what either of them would think?

The next one was a black A-line with a full skirt, fitted bodice, and slim sleeves that capped my elbows. My black patent heels would be perfect with this dress. This dress would be perfect for tonight.

My phone rang. I spun away from my reflection and dug the distraction from my shoulder bag. “Hello?”

“Aimee? This is Brenda Wakely. Sorry for the delay.”

“That’s all right.” I managed to sound casual even though my heart raced.