Wildflowers from Winter (38 page)

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WISHING ON WILLOWS
COMING SPRING 2013

D’APERTURA

T
he first café I fell in love with was a tiny hole in the wall tucked away in an Italian cliff-side village. After three days in La Spezia, we took a train up the coast and came to Cinque Terra—a cluster of five towns precariously built atop cliffs above the Mediterranean Sea.

We stayed at a bed and breakfast in Riomaggiore, and the next morning, instead of sticking with the tourists walking the main road, Micah and I went exploring, holding hands while church bells chimed and warm bread baked and clothes hung to dry outside opened windows.

That’s when we discovered it.

Caffe di Luca.

Small and squat and not nearly sturdy enough to hold up the buildings piled on top. But we went inside anyway and ordered in broken Italian. Then sat by the window and drank the world’s best coffee, wondering out loud how anyone could tend and harvest the vineyards when they grew on vertical hills. We stayed through another two cups, until we were giddy with caffeine.

Finding that place was like coming across an unexpected treasure.

We spent the rest of our honeymoon searching for more. Making a game of who could order in the best Italian and, later, French. Sipping café au laits. Eating
pasticiotti
and
macarons
. Taking silly pictures. And dreaming about our future.

Ending such a magical time in Paris would’ve felt too cliché. Too American. So instead, Micah picked the second-largest city in France. Which is how we wound up in Marseille at Café de Petit, an inconsequential establishment hidden behind a pair of olive trees.

In what I still claim to have been impeccable French, I ordered coffee—black—for me, a double shot of espresso for Micah, and chocolate brioche to share. We brought our treat outside and took a seat beneath one of the trees.

Even now, eleven years later, I can still taste the flaky brioche melting over my tongue. I can hear the canopy of leaves rustling with the warm breeze. I can still feel Micah’s arms around me as I rested my head against his shoulder.

“We should do this,” he said.

“What?”

“This.” He motioned toward the doors behind us, his arms tightening around my body. “A café.”

I laughed. “You’re nuts.”

“No, seriously.” His lips brushed my temple. “I’ve seen you fall in love with every single one we’ve gone to. Your eyes light up and it’s beautiful. I’ll miss seeing it when we leave.” He turned me around and kissed my nose, ran his knuckles across my jaw. “I want to give you a café, Robin.”

I melted into his touch.

“Plus, you’d be the world’s sexiest café owner.” He kissed me then. Long. Slow. Delicious. One of a thousand delicious kisses he’d given me over the last three weeks. And this feeling overtook me. This magical, light, tantalizing feeling.

That even though we would soon be leaving, even though our honeymoon was drawing to a close, this was just the beginning. Micah and I had the rest of our lives to plan. To have children. To open a café. To come back here when we were old and gray, to Marseille and Cinque Terra and every other town we’d stopped in along the way. To celebrate the life we would have built. The life we would have shared together.

ONE

H
er favorite canvas hung slightly off kilter, tilting to the left, as if trying to slip away from the chaos in the café. Saturday mornings were supposed to be peaceful. A slow ease into a day spent with her son. All week long, Robin Price hoped for a Saturday free from the headache of broken appliances and sick employees. She could deal with them any other day. Just not on Saturdays.

A loud sound, like a hammer on pipes,
clang
ed from the kitchen.

The chatter of her tablemates paused, then resumed.

Robin tried to pay attention. She needed to open with a word of prayer and corral the conversation into more productive things, like figuring out who would visit Jed Johnson and bring him meals throughout the month. But instead, she sat twirling her wedding ring, resisting the urge to straighten the crooked canvas, sneaking glances over her shoulder at the empty table next to the counter, where Mayor Ford usually sat reading the morning newspaper and sipping his pumpkin-spice latte.

The kitchen door swung open and out came Lenny, her trusty repairman, a tool belt slung low around his hips, her son trailing him like a motherless duckling. Or rather, a fatherless duckling.

“Just need to grab something from the van,” Lenny said, saluting to Robin and the three ladies with her. Caleb mimicked the salute, his beloved toy combine clutched in his fist, looking so much like Micah with his flyaway cowlick and his mischievous grin that it stole a little of her breath.

“Caleb, honey, why won’t you come over here and color for a few minutes while Lenny gets the oven fixed?”

Caleb’s brow puckered. At nearly four, the boy had no interest in coloring. Or anything that involved sitting still.

“That’s okay, Robin. He’s a good helper.” Lenny scuffed Caleb’s honey-brown hair and opened the front door wide. Shafts of early morning sun poured across marbled flooring. “We should have your oven up and running in no time.”

As soon as the pair disappeared outside, Cecile Arton took a sip of her mocha, her lipstick staining the mug rim. “That Lenny’s a nice-looking fellow.”

“I don’t care if he’s cute or is covered in warts. As long as he fixes that oven so I can have my cinnamon roll.” Bernie poked at the day-old rhubarb muffin in front of her. Just like the rhubarb muffins Cecile and Linda had eaten without any complaint. “The older I get, the more I lose my appetite. That cinnamon roll is the only thing I look forward to.”

“Strong shoulders. A decent head of hair. A nicer guy you couldn’t find.” Cecile took another drink and peered at Robin over the top of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. “What do you think about Lenny?”

“I think he’s a good repairman.” And they weren’t gathered to discuss his hair. “I also think we should get started. How about I open with a word of prayer?”

“You’re avoiding,” Cecile said.

“Avoiding what?”

“The question.” She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Her lips came away paler. “There’s nothing wrong with thinking a man’s cute, Robin. Especially one Caleb has taken such a liking to.”

Robin rolled her eyes. “Caleb takes a liking to anyone who lets him hit things with a hammer.”

“All I’m saying”—Cecile placed her ringed fingers against her chest—“is you could do a lot worse than Lenny.”

Bernie muttered something under her breath about doing a lot better too and massaged the tops of her knees.

Robin peeked at the front door and took a deep breath, an attempt to temper her growing exasperation. “This isn’t a matchmaking group. We’re here to support and pray for one another, not set each other up.”

“Speaking of …” Cecile’s eyes lit up as she turned her attention to Linda. “How did your date go last night? Was he as charming as I promised he’d be? Did he take you to Val’s? I told him to spring for something nicer than Val’s.”

A slow blush crept into Linda’s cheeks.

Robin’s eyes widened.

A year ago, Linda hadn’t wanted to take another breath. She couldn’t imagine leaving the house, let alone going out in public. Now she sat with Robin’s group, ready to offer support to those whose grief was fresher. Like Jed Johnson. Robin loved that Linda was smiling and eating again. But a date? “Cecile, you shouldn’t have pressured her to go on a date so soon.”

Linda smiled shyly, her blush deepening. “It’s okay, Robin. Really. We had a nice time.”

Cecile’s jowls practically quivered with delight. “I knew you would.”

“He’s taking me line dancing next week.”

“See there?” Cecile pointed to Bernie’s uneaten muffin. The old woman scooted her plate over and curled her nose, like Robin had served them rotten fish. “I’m so glad you’re letting go. Moving on. Living your life again.”

The muscles in Robin’s chest tightened. Then in her arms and legs.
Let go. Move on
. What was it about losing a spouse that made people say those things? Robin would never tell Bernie to move on from the death of her grandson. Just like she would never encourage Cecile to go out and find another sister. So why did living her life equate to finding another man? Bernie lost her husband more than twenty years ago, and nobody heckled her about moving on. Robin twisted her wedding ring around her finger.
She understood the importance of healing—that’s why she started this group—but
healing
and
moving on
were not synonymous.

The front door swung open. Lenny and Caleb marched inside, gave them another salute, and made their way into the kitchen.

“Your son reminds me of Jeffrey when he was that age.” Bernie’s usually sharp gray eyes softened into something sad. Something familiar.

Linda reached across the table and squeezed the old woman’s hand. “His birthday was last week, wasn’t it?”

Bernie nodded. “He would have been thirty-five.”

Robin remembered the date. She had it marked in her calendar. “I stopped by your house, but you must have been out.”

“Jeffrey’s wife insisted on having me over for lunch.”

“That was nice of her,” Linda said.

Bernie pulled her age-spotted hand out from under Linda’s. “It would have been nicer if she had a handle on those kids. There’s no discipline in that house. Jeffrey never would have stood for it.”

Robin wasn’t sure what Jeffrey would or would not have stood for; she only knew that beneath Bernie’s grumbling, she missed her grandson. When the café first opened, he would bring her here every Saturday morning. They usually arrived right after Mayor Ford. Robin’s attention wandered toward the mayor’s empty seat but snagged on her only customers—a middle-aged couple finishing coffee and conversation.

The woman stood and hitched her purse over her shoulder while the man brought both cups to the counter. Robin sighed. Her employees shouldn’t be allowed to call in sick on Saturdays. How was she supposed to run her group while working at the same time? “I’m sorry, ladies. I’ll be right back.”

She refilled the two cups with a smile, processed their payment, then watched the couple walk, hand in hand, out the door. When the bell chimed, her curiosity got the best of her.

“Does anybody know where Mayor Ford is?” she asked, coming around the counter. “For the last three and a half years, he’s come in every Saturday morning for a pumpkin-spice latte and a homemade cinnamon roll.”

“He won’t be here today.” Cecile swallowed a mouthful of muffin and paused, just long enough to make Bernie and Linda lean forward in their seats. “My Richard heard it straight from Mayor Ford that he was meeting with some bigwig business guy this morning about building condominiums in Peaks.”

Bernie laughed. “Why in the world would a town the size of ours need condominiums?”

“Didn’t you hear? Fixtel Software Systems confirmed last week that they’re going to build just outside of town. Sure is going to shake things up.”

Robin furrowed her brow.

“Mayor Ford said we can expect a huge population boom.”

“ ‘Population boom’? In Peaks?” She sat down, perhaps a little too fast.

Cecile’s head bobbed, causing her earrings to jiggle. “Richard’s been swamped lately. Town council’s been working on a development plan. Something about revitalizing this old business district. Heaven knows the place could use a facelift.”

Robin frowned. Peaks was perfect exactly how it was. It didn’t need a population boom. Or a facelift. She’d hate to see it lose its small-town charm by way of big-box stores and condominiums.

“I guess that’s the topic of next Thursday’s town meeting.” Cecile nibbled a small piece of muffin top. “It’ll be great for business. At least we hope so.”

“Your jewelry store’s doing all right, isn’t it?”

“If you consider ‘all right’ ending each day in the red, then sure. We’re doing just fine.” The woman rested her chin in her palm and sighed. “Richard has been talking about closing shop.”

“You can’t close.” Arton’s Jewelers was one of the oldest businesses in
Peaks. If they went out of business, it would leave Robin’s café sandwiched between an abandoned building and a rundown antique store.

“We’re ready to retire anyway, especially now that he’s so busy with the town council. And since none of our children are jumping in to take over, what else are we supposed to do?”

“I know business has been slow.” Robin looked around her empty café. Arton’s Jewelers wasn’t the only one suffering from the recession. “I just didn’t know you were thinking about shutting your doors.”

“Honey, you’re our only regular customer. And all you ever do is polish that ring.” She examined Robin beneath a raised eyebrow.