When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (26 page)

I, myself, am starting to feel tired, but I’m hoping for a second wind, hence the coffee refill. With such a happening party, I can’t retire at shortly after ten o’clock! I thank the barista for the refill and begin to make small talk with him.

“I’m Oliver,” says the handsome middle-aged man behind the counter. He has hazelnut hair and grey eyes. He extends a hand to me, and I oblige. “Pleasure to meet you, Claire. You must be the ‘Claire, Sophie’s Best Friend.’”

I pick up on his thick French accent in a flash and say, “Why yes, that’s me. And you’re…” No. He can’t be one of Sophie’s French hotties. That can’t be it! No—the scarf-giver is—oh…what’s his name? Pierre? Pete? Harold?
Henri!
That’s it! But this is Oliver…

“I worked with Sophie,” Oliver informs me. “I’m the head cake designer at Katie’s Kitchen.”

I make an ah-ha motion, tilting my head back.

“I am complete in support of Sophie finally getting up…doing this…” Oliver gestures around the room. “…This
magnifique
dream of hers. So happy for her. So happy she finally got up and did it.”

“You and me both,” I say.

I blow on the coffee, a small formation of rings skirting to the edge of the antique pink teacup. I was there with Sophie when she was trying to decide on dishes and serving ware. She wanted to either go with an IKEA-ish look—a very sleek and simple, straightforward kind of thing. Her other option was the total opposite. Given the rose pattern on my teacup and its mismatched gold-filigree saucer, she went for the frills option, and I love it. Like the chandelier, the dishes give that extra bit of special charm that is unique to The Cup and the Cake; and if I know Sophie and her drive, it will eventually become iconic of The Cup and the Cake.

“So,” I say in the midst of my chitchat with Oliver, “you’re from France, I take it?”

“
Oui Oui
,” Oliver says, rapidly turning a knob on the heavy-duty espresso machine. A stream of spray shoots out loudly. “I come from Saint-Chamond, a city in the Loire.” He cranks the knob again, the sound ceasing, and wipes the steaming wand with a cloth. “Studied in Paris. Moved to Seattle. Here I am now, helping out Sophie. Such a fantastic opening, is it not?”

Oliver tosses the cloth aside and leans his weight on one arm against the countertop. I take note of the subtle, small yellow tiles that cover the counters. There’s a soft gold or sparkly sheen to them, and the grout that Robin paired with them couldn’t be more ideal.

“Fantastic, for sure,” I say. “From Paris to Seattle.” I sigh, and Oliver nods his head. “What’s next?”

I’ve read somewhere that Europeans, specifically the French, think it odd to chat about what one does for a living or where one might see themselves, career-wise, in the future. Something about how it’s too personal during the initial meet-and-greet, and how it’s so prying and so…well, not really interesting, I suppose. I read that they’d much rather chat about the small town where you were raised, what book you’ve read recently, what rare finds you picked up at the outdoor market yesterday, a good cheese you’ve tasted—that kind of stuff.

But, I come from a small town in Oregon, and I know it has only a fraction of the appeal that I’m sure any French town has, small or otherwise. As for reading, I haven’t had much time to pick up anything other than bridal magazines, and, as the lead wedding cake designer, I’m sure Oliver knows all about what latest trend is buzzing in the wedding industry. Although, I did drop by Pike Place Market the other day, and while I didn’t buy any cheese, I did pick up a beautiful bouquet of wild flowers.

When Oliver begins to tell me of his plans, that he’s rather clueless about what will be next in his culinary career, I figure he’s Americanized enough to roll with the round of small talk that’s common among strangers over here.

“You think you’ll ever move back home?” I ask. I sip on my coffee, leaning in to the countertop comfortably.

“No,” Oliver says adamantly. “Seattle is home. Maybe not forever home, but no. No, I don’t see myself returning to home in France.”

“You have any family here?” I ask. Oliver shakes his head. “Wife?” I like the sound of the word, since it will soon have some personal meaning for me.

Oliver shakes his head and softly laughs. “No, no,” he says. “I had a boyfriend.” I nod slowly, and Oliver says, “Now I’m…what do you
Américains
call… Ahh, yes…on a prowl? In the hunt?” I smile. “No, no,” he says. “It’s prowl.”

“On the prowl?” I suggest with a wide grin.

“
Oui!
” He rolls his eyes.

“Well,” I sip on my coffee, “good luck to you, Oliver. I’m sure your dream man is out there somewhere.”

Oliver takes my drained teacup and offers me a freshly filled one. This time the cup is white with a bird on it.
Hmm, would be cute at my wedding,
I think.

Oliver leans over the counter, nearer to me, and says in a hushed voice, “I just might have.” He pulls back, winks quickly, and dispenses some ground espresso beans into the machine’s basket.

I raise my brows, both curious and happy that Oliver’s prowl—or hunt—for true love might be coming to a lucky end.

Oliver makes a motion with his head, and I look behind me at the still very full room. I look back at him. “He’s here?” I ask.

Oliver shrugs casually and says, “Just prowling…”

I lift my head higher, trying to see if there’s anyone who has his eyes locked on the barista-of-the-night. There’s no one—just a sea of men in suits, and none of them looking directly our way.

Oliver begins to brew a fresh batch of espresso, and, as I’m about to wish him good luck and goodnight, he discreetly points in a vague direction towards the crowd. I try to follow, and he says, “Over there. Had my eye on him all night. Not bad at
all
.”

I squint into the collection of people, not really sure who he’s talking about, so I ask, “What’s he wearing?”

“Armani.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“Black, pin-striped, two-piece.” Oliver hands one of the freshly prepared espressos to a woman nearby. “Cerulean blue tie,
very
well-groomed. Tall, brunette…”

I’m searching and searching, and then, now wait a minute. I can only see one guy who fits that exact description. And it’s—

“Him?” I look at Oliver with a twisted expression. “That guy? There?”

I turn back around and point at the man in question, and Oliver makes one swift nod.

I try my best to contain my laughter, but Oliver’s barking up the wrong tree here.

“Oliver, not to burst your bubble—”
 

His face twists confusedly, and I’m afraid I’ve thrown an unfamiliar Americanism on him.
 

“Not to disappoint you,” I correct. “But…that’s John.”

“So you know him? The Armani-wearing man has a name.” Oliver’s cheeks flush a light shade of pink.

“Yeah,” I say in bewilderment. “His name is John. That’s Sophie’s brother.”
 

Oliver makes a long, comical face.

“And he’s not gay. Sorry, Oliver.”

However, despite the news that I was certain would “burst Oliver’s bubble,” Oliver is grinning slyly. My news doesn’t seem to faze him one bit. Oliver passes off the second espresso. “And you’re one hundred percent sure about that, Claire?”

The way Oliver poses this question makes me think that this is not a question. This is a “check your facts, sister,” kind of thing.
 

I giggle unsettlingly and take a quick sip of my hot beverage. Stepping back from the counter, I say, “Well…good luck with that, Oliver.” I give him a warm smile. “It was very nice meeting you.”

“You too, Claire.”

As rapidly as Oliver is working the controls of the wheezing and whistling machine, I turn on my high heels and trot over to Jackie and Lara’s table. Girl gossip just got hot.

Chapter Seventeen

I know why I’ve never waitressed. I also know why the first and only shot I had at waiting tables at a dark and dank diner back home in Oregon in high school was a total flop. I can’t move fast enough on my feet, because my head is in one place, my feet yards ahead (or behind) me, and then…what was that order?

It’s not even like I’m at a real restaurant or even a simple diner that has a very standard menu. No, I’m at The Cup and the Cake, where I know
all
of the items like the back of my hand (and can even make stellar recommendations), and where the day’s specialties are either written obviously overhead on a huge chalkboard or displayed right there behind the glass case.

Yet somehow I’ve already managed to fudge three orders, forget one entirely, and undercharge customers twice. I won’t blame Sophie for saying, “Thanks, but you can just be a patron,” when this first day is done.

The day’s going really well—my flops aside—and the traffic has been unbelievable! If today’s robust patronage is any indication of the future days at The Cup and the Cake, then Sophie’s sure to be a huge success.

With a grand opening going extremely well the night before, topped off with a little late-night after-party over at a club that came well-recommended by Jackie, I’m surprised any of us have the energy to tackle opening day. But we’re here. We’re all taking shifts: some baking in the kitchen, others cleaning up tables, or serving, or operating the cash register, or at the espresso machine.

I haven’t had to pull serving or ordering duty in a while, and I think Sophie made it public knowledge that I was not to be included in that circulation. Can’t say that I blame her. I was doing really well helping Sophie make new batches of baked goods, until I started to pinch off the tops of muffins and cupcakes, forgetting for a moment where I was and thinking sampling while cooking was commonplace. Whoops.

Now I’m washing dishes. Although it was drab at first, dozens of tiny cups and saucers and silverware later I’ve found a rhythm and have been using the time to think of the things I want to cover with Melissa at our next meeting.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m sort of scared about the meetings with her. I mean, I’m always looking forward to planning a new stage of the wedding or getting all the little details hashed out. The chances that Melissa will screw something up or tell me that my dreams will have to be dashed because of some God-forsaken reason, however, makes me grit my teeth and drag my feet to that familiar Starbucks table.

“Claire?” Sophie says, popping her head around the corner.

“Yup?”

“I need help rolling the croissants.”

I realize that all of the dishes have been cleaned and I’ve been, for who knows how long, aimlessly swirling my hands around the murky dishwater.

I unplug the drain and rinse out the soap bubbles clinging to all sides of the deep, stainless steel sink. Sophie had the countertops built for her height—five foot nine—so for the half-a-foot-shorter me, I needed a stepstool. I descend from the stool and rub my wet hands across my apron.

“You want my help?” I ask her.

“If you promise not to pinch and pick, then yup.” Sophie disappears around the corner, and I follow.

“It’s going really well, wouldn’t you say?” I ask as we begin the prep for the croissants.

“It’s more than I could have
dreamed
,” Sophie says, sounding baffled.

“Everyone seemed to really love all of the food,” I tell her. “And did you see that ballot box?”

“Mmhmm. Lara took them home and is going to tally them for me.” Sophie hands me a bowl of dough. “I can’t wait to find out what the top recipes are.”

“All of them,” I say with a giggle. “All of your cupcakes were amazing. You can trust me—I tried all twenty-two.”

“I also think the coffee went over well, don’t you?” Sophie lightly coats her fingertips in flour, and I follow suit.

Sophie and I used to make croissants or
pain au chocolats
(my favorite) when we lived together. It was hard work but always worth it. We had to outfit ourselves with rolling pins then, and labor
forever
with the rolling, but now Sophie has this really neat electric roller thingy that takes all of the work out of it. It’s super cool.
 

Sophie sets the rolled disc of dough onto the cutting board and, using a pizza cutter, she mechanically begins to make triangular cuts.

Okay…I remember this. I can do it. I give it a go with the roller and,
voila!
It actually works.

“Oh, yeah,” I finally answer Sophie. “The coffee was great. You offered all of the stuff I imagine coffee connoisseurs would want.”

“Now I just need to make sure
I
know how to make all of those drinks,” Sophie says. Her cutting is at two, maybe three, times the speed of my own. “Oliver was
so
helpful last night. Don’t know what I would’ve done without him. You got a chance to meet him, didn’t you?” Sophie doesn’t look up from her task.

“Oh…uh…” Goodness. Oliver. What am I supposed to say? That is, if Jackie and Lara haven’t beaten me to it, yet.

I know Sophie has her suspicions about her brother’s sexuality, and I’m fairly certain that John isn’t gay. But the possibility was one that Sophie had been considering because of John’s lack of commitment to any one woman—always finding something wrong with them. I thought she was acting silly, but after Oliver last night… I mean, can’t gay guys tell when other guys are gay? Isn’t there some unwritten gaydar rule or something? I think I read that in a magazine. Yeah! It was in a magazine. In one of Conner’s issues of
Maxim,
I think.

“Uhh,” I stutter. “Yeah, yeah. I did meet him.”

“Nice, huh?”

I suddenly become aware of the significant weight of the pizza slicer in my hand and the cold feel of the metal, even though it’s been in my warm hand for a while now.

“Claire?” Sophie asks, looking up from her perfectly sliced dough.

“Yes,” I say, coming to. “Oh, yeah. Yes. He was really nice. We talked for a while, actually. Small talk, really…” I slowly return to cutting my croissant pieces, not sure how I should broach the topic. I
have
to tell her. I can’t just share the gossip with the girls behind Sophie’s back. I mean, this is her brother—and her former co-worker. And I’m Sophie’s best friend!