I’m baking alive in this puffy white coat, so I undo the zipper and gather a lungful of new car scent.
“Isn’t that your nicest one?” I ask. “I’d be fine with just going to a regular coffee shop . . .”
She swats a hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. People drive hours for our soufflé alone. I’m telling you, you won’t be sorry.”
“I don’t know if I’m dressed for . . . sea bats.”
She chuffs. “What are they going to do, turn you away? Luca would never allow that. And neither would I. You’re our guest.”
I may be many things, but reducing my presence in their life to guest status is a slap in the face.
A minute later, we’re parking outside the familiar white-shingled building with the impeccable ocean views. I don’t feel the ground beneath my feet as we walk inside, and I shove my sweaty palms into my fluffy pockets, keeping my chin tucked like it could make me less noticeable.
“Astrid, hi,” she greets the hostess—the same girl who seated me a few hours earlier. “So wonderful to see you today. Could we get table nine, please? And we’re just doing coffee and dessert today, so we won’t need the full menu.”
I avoid making eye contact with the young woman, whose gaze darts between our faces as she slowly reaches for two small menus, silver printed on black.
“O-of course, Mrs. Coletto,” she says with a stammer. “Right this way.”
I hold my breath the entire walk to table number nine, and I release it when she leaves us be without blowing my cover.
“It’s beautiful in here,” I say, ignoring the menu and peering around the expansive place like it’s my first time. “Love the light fixtures.”
“Vintage Spectra crystal,” she says with a rich gleam in her eye. “We pulled them from an old restaurant back in Maryland, one of my mom’s favorites. They were tearing it down, and I couldn’t let them go to waste. All they needed was a good polishing. Plus it’s nice to have a part of her here, watching over us in a way, as strange as that sounds.”
Our eyes hold across the table.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” a male server says as he approaches our table. “Mrs. Coletto, haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Levi.” She reaches, brushing her hand against his arm. “How’s the boyfriend?”
“Amazing.” He beams from one ear to the next. “Going on six months now.”
“Told you.” She winks.
“What are we having today?” he asks with the besotted smile of a payroll kiss-ass.
“Coffee and two chocolate soufflés,” she says. “Oh. Decaf for me.”
“Of course.” His attention flips to me as he takes my menu, and his deep-set gaze widens. He was one of the gawkers earlier, one of the servers who slow-walked past Luca and me in the midst of our exchange. Tucking the menus under his arm, he says, “I’ll be right back with those.”
If it weren’t so dim in here thanks to the fading afternoon sun, I’m positive she’d be able to see all the sweat that’s collected above my brow in the past five minutes. Should Merritt find out I was here once already today and didn’t breathe a word about it as we pulled into the parking lot, there’s nothing I can possibly say to excuse that. It’s not like there are multiple sea bats in Bent Creek or that I’ve got a shoddy short-term memory to blame it on.
Levi returns with two carafes of coffee—one in polished silver, the other a matte gold. He places the silver one in front of Merritt, along with a pristine white teacup on a floral saucer.
“Decaf for the mother-to-be,” he says with a sweet smile that fades when he meets my gaze. “And this one’s regular. Give us about thirty minutes for those soufflés, ladies.”
He doesn’t turn my teacup right side up.
I pour my own coffee, and when it’s cool enough to take a sip, I close my eyes and smile. “This coffee is . . . something else.”
Truth is, I’ve had day-old gas station coffee that tasted better than this.
She bats a hand. “Little trade secret for you, but this is the same coffee we serve at The Coastal Commissary. Same brand and machines and everything. I’m convinced the fancy cup makes it taste better. Packaging is everything.”
“Interesting.” And it is. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect she’s bragging about ripping off the very same customers who pay her bills.
“It’s a shame,” she says. “We have to shutter those doors. Coffee shops aren’t as profitable as one might think. A lot of overhead involved, at least in the early years. Looking back now, our location wasn’t ideal—we were inside a theater. Most of the tourists in town, they go to the Starbucks and The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf—familiar places. And the locals, they tend to gravitate toward the big corner shops with the impossible-to-miss signs and the outdoor seating.”
“It must be hard,” I say, “running all those businesses.”
My attention is laser focused, ready to digest any tidbit of information she throws my way, fully prepared to read between each and every line as if my life depends on it—because in a way, it does. Are they truly struggling? Or are they funneling their money and energy into their most profitable business models? I read once that financial struggles were one of the leading causes of divorce, second only to sexual dissatisfaction.
Judging by the bulbous bump protruding from her Pilates body, I’d say their bedroom life is a nonissue.
“A lot of it is learning as you go.” She sips her decaf, leaving a mark of nude-pink lipstick on the edge. “Everyone makes mistakes, though. It’s just how it is.”
“Do you have help?”
Merritt shakes her head. “Luca prefers to do it all himself. He’s a bit of a control freak when it comes to the restaurants. Heck, it took him months to find a new manager for the deli last year. He always has to find that one perfect person he can mold into exactly what he wants.”
“This place must be doing amazing, though.” I nod toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase a glimmering Pacific seascape. “It’s stunning. Certainly the most beautiful restaurant I’ve set foot in.”
Which isn’t saying much . . .
This location with its epic view. The parking lot full of luxury imports. The soul-sucking prices on the menu. It’s a restaurateur’s wet dream.
She takes another sip, hesitating, examining me for a second. “We do all right.”
We.
“Hey, you.” Luca’s familiar velvet tenor cuts through our conversation without warning.
“Hey.” Her pink lips curl up at the sides, and a twinkle colors her pale irises.
“You didn’t tell me you were stopping by.” He stoops as if he’s going to kiss the top of her head only to change course at the final second.
“Last-minute decision.” She shrugs.
“Where’s Elsie?” he asks. While he speaks to her, he gifts me with a squinted gaze. Is he curious? Captivated? Concerned? I can’t read him like I used to, but his attention is where it should be, and that’s all that matters.