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“Thought I’d check out the new neighborhood.” He puts on a smile, but it doesn’t reach his sweet eyes. And he’s sweating bullets; I can see the glisten on his brow.
“Pardon?”
Georgie leans closer, soaking up the discomfort with a smile of satisfaction. “I was gonna say, I ain’t never seen you here before. Hand to the Lord, I’d remember you if you’d waltzed in here before.”
Now she’s flirting!I realize it’s a friendly test to see if I bite, so she can confirm whatever theory is coursing through her head. I wasn’t hungry before, and I’m definitely not now. She’s not going to catch me.
“The office isn’t too far from here.” Rowan thumbs back at the door. “I was on the hunt for a good espresso, when I remembered you telling me about the Brass Whistle. Couldn’t resist checking it out.”
I take a breath, worried I’m going to topple off the stool, I’m so dizzy. “It’s the best café in New Orleans, just don’t say that too loud.”
“Say it as loud as you want, darlin’,” Georgie corrects, sweeping a hand around the establishment, flashing a showgirl smile. “We got pastries, sandwiches, cakes, and any sweet treat that might tickle your fancy, too. Settle down for a while. I’m of the mind that you ought to drink your espresso while you’re sittin’. Enjoy it, savor it, strike up a conversation while you’re at it. You never know what might happen.”
Rowan blinks, visibly stunned by the sales pitch before his expression softens into a smile, his lips parting to exhale a nervous laugh. He doesn’t know what to make of Georgie. Few people do when they first meet her.
“She starts to shine on the fourth or fifth impression,” I tease, casting my friend a pointed look.
Georgie chuckles. “And this sweet ducklin’ charms right off the bat,” she replies, catching hold of my hand and pressing a kiss to it, before she breezes off to retrieve a tray of tasters—otherwise known as the cake she couldn’t sell yesterday, cut up into bitesize chunks, though it’s always just as delicious as the fresh stuff.
“Is it… okay, me being here?” Rowan places his hand on the stool beside me, clearly uncertain as to whether he should sit or scram.
I force myself to look him in the eyes, and there’s a quiet flutter that I can’t definitively prove has nothing to do with the caffeine. “I wouldn’t deprive you of Nawlins best café and best barista. Anyway, serves me right for telling you about it instead of gatekeeping.”
“Is this what you had in mind?” He sits down and I hear him expel a relieved breath, as the tension melts out of his body.
“Meeting you by chance on a Monday morning?”
His smile takes on an air of mischief, his eyes shining with amusement. “I meant this place. The décor, if that’s the right word. Is this what you had in mind for your own place?”
“That would be plagiarism,” I tell him, though it’s exactly what I want when I daydream about my little coffee shop. However, in place of endless cups and saucers, there’d be books upon books. Books that you can take down as you please and read with your cup of coffee, or take away as long as you replace it with something else. Of course, Georgie would have to be there, but I haven’t quite gotten to the point of poaching her yet.
Georgie reappears, offering up the tasters. “You take a morsel of that and tell me it’s not the best lemon drizzle your tongue has ever had the pleasure of tastin’,” she instructs, lifting a piece of cake straight to Rowan’s lips. “And don’t worry, if you don’t like it, you’ll only be offendin’ the woman who watched it bake in the oven like it was her own firstborn.”
“Georgie makes the cakes,” I explain redundantly. “The Garden Patisserie is responsible for the life-changing pastries, though.”
She nods and takes Rowan’s order, sliding over to the espresso machine where she hums along to the music that plays over the radio. It’s “Hallelujah”—the Leonard Cohen one. But the way Georgie sings it makes it all the more haunting. I can feel the tears coming, and gulp down my coffee, hoping it passes.
“You left pretty early yesterday,” Rowan says, stealing another couple of pieces of cake from the vintage silver tray. “Hope it wasn’t anything I said… or anyone else said? Who said something, huh? Lemme at ‘em!” He puts up his fists, and drops them almost immediately, as his nervous laughter bubbles up from his throat again. “Sorry, I… don’t know how to navigate this. Might have to sketch out a flow chart on this napkin and try again.”
I rest my chin on my hand and do my best to be honest. “What are you trying to navigate?”
“How to talk to you after… uh… you know. How to not say the wrong thing to someone like you—I mean, someone who has… um… been through what you have,” he fumbles, eating more cake the more he struggles to find the right words.
I sigh and glance over at the leaded windows, where an elderly couple are strolling by, hand in hand. She’s well-dressed in cream-colored trousers and a pale green polo shirt, with a sweater draped over her shoulders. Cashmere, probably. He’s dressed just as snappily, almost matching, like they’re on their way to a senior tennis tournament. It’s a sweet, jarring sight—these people who get to grow old together.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “People don’t know how to talk to me.Idon’t know how to talk to me, so how could anyone else stand a chance? Just… speak to me, I guess, like I’m normal.”
Georgie jumps back in to put down the little espresso cup. “That’s what I do. I bet we’d make a great team, workin’ together to coax her out of that shell of hers.”
She flits away just as quickly, leaving Rowan and I alone again. I know she’s only pretending to clean tables and dust surfaces, since she almost never comes out from behind the counter, but I appreciate it. She’s my cavalry, and if she spots me getting stuck, she’ll come winging her way back over to bulldoze through any tension.
“How’s your day?” He starts there with a sweet smile that creases the corners of his eyes.
I can’t help but smile back. “Getting better. How’s yours?”
“Already looking bright, and,” he inhales the aroma of the brew in his cup, “you were right about this place. I might have to make it my local joint, but if you get sick of the sight of my face, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
A hesitant laugh whispers out of my chest, taking us both by surprise. “You sound like you’re writing an e-mail you’ve got no intention of sending.”
