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“Yes, please.”
I burst out laughing. “But that’ll make eleven marshmallows. You sure you want an odd number?”
“I guess I should just eat one, to keep it even,” Grace replies, holding out her hand.
I drop a blue one into her palm and put a white one and a pink one into her enormous hot chocolate. The cups as big as cereal bowls were Georgie’s idea, and though I wasn’t convinced, certain we’d lose money, it turns out I should always,alwaystrust Georgie’s judgment. Who knew that massive coffees would be a hit with the undercaffeinated public? Although, the espresso still comes in espresso cups, so when someone orders a large coffee and an espresso, it looks ridiculous on the counter—the tiniest cup ever beside a behemoth.
“You want me to take over?” Georgie sweeps in from the kitchen at the back, where she’s been baking like a madwoman, and it takes me a second to realize it’s actually her. She’s not in her self-imposed uniform of a black t-shirt and black pants, but looking stunning in a red party dress, her hair teased out into a voluminous halo that makes her look like a 70s goddess.
Grace gasps. “You look beautiful, Georgie!”
“Why, thank you, sweetness.” Georgie plucks an apricot tart out of a glass display case and slides it on a napkin across the counter to Grace. “You have a bite of that and tell me what you think. I’ve decided you’re gonna be my quality control.”
Grace’s eyes widen as she takes a bite of the tart. Chewing, she says, “Delicious!” and gives a thumbs up.
“You make sure to come on by often, ‘til you’ve tried everythin’,” Georgie insists, turning to me. “As for you—did no one tell you this was a celebration? Now I know that ain’t your Sunday best!”
I cast her a dry look. “Nothing fits. Thisismy party stuff.”
“I don’t believe a word of it! I keep lookin’ at those sweet angels of yours, wonderin’ where the hell you had ‘em hidden.” Georgie shakes her head and points to the staff room. “You go on in there while I hold down the fort. I think there’s somethin’ waitin’ for you.”
I glance over at the “sweet angels” in question. Ms. T and Cybil are smothering them with love, cooing over them like they birthed the twins themselves. It warms my heart every time, seeing how loved my babies are, and how loved they’ll always be by the strange little family I’ve picked up along the road of my life. There’s a touch of sadness that my grandma will never get to meet them, but I like to think she’s up there somewhere, cooing over the twins with the same enthusiasm as Ms. T and Cybil. As for my mom—I’ve tried to picture her in a scene like this, but it’s impossible. She’d have been in the corner of our “Grand Opening,” trying to take a customer home, ruining it.
The café is rustic and bohemian, with low ceilings, exposed beams, exposed brick, and a terrace at the back that cuts through to the gallery’s matching one. The tables are all reclaimed, lived-in pieces, restored with love and alotof beeswax. The chairs are mismatched, the service bar is a 1920s masterpiece, shaped like a curving ‘J’ and carved from cherry wood, lacquered to a high polish. There’s even a reading nook, where customers can take a book from the shelf and read in comfort, watching the world go by. It’s my favorite spot. And, of course, I had Ms. T curate the library.
“Hey!” Georgie clicks her fingers. “Back room, now.”
I roll my eyes and go, terrified of what I might find. As I head through the staff room door, I hear Grace laugh at something Georgie said, and my heart swells in my chest until my ribs ache. I’ve been looking forward to this day for months, and dreading it at the same time, but I was convinced I wouldn’t have a moment to enjoy any of it. Yet, somehow, it has been a complete dream.
We’ve had customers streaming in and out since opening at seven this morning, but never too many to handle at once. The feedback has blown me away, and I keep waiting for the moment where I panic about the huge financial risk of openinganothercafé in New Orleans, but I’m still calm as a cucumber. I know that has everything to do with Georgie, without whom none of this would be possible. She’s my café manager, my business partner, my lead barista, and one of my dearest friends, and I probably wouldn’t be living this particular dream at all if she hadn’t told me to stop fussin’ and get on with it.
“I ain’t workin’ at the Brass Whistle for the rest of my life,” she’d said, “and I’m relyin’ on you to poach me and get me out.”
“What if I didn’t poach you, exactly?” I’d replied, sitting at the counter, trying not to be sick at the smell of all the coffee. The first trimester kicked my ass in a myriad of ways, but having to give up coffee, even decaf, because the smell made me want to hurl, was torture.
She’d leaned forward, eyebrow raised. “I’m listening.”
“What if we opened a coffee shop together? Equal cut, equal partnership, and it won’t cost you a cent.”
It was an offer Georgie couldn’t refuse, and I’m glad she didn’t, as that’s how the Blue Heron Café was born.
In the quiet of the back room, I find what’s waiting for me. A summer maxi-dress, embroidered with daisies, like a dress I owned a lifetime ago. There’s a note pinned to it:Thought you might need this. Can’t have no party if you ain’t dressed for one! Ms. T x
Close to tears, I take down the dress and put it on quickly, glimpsing myself in the mirror on the wall. Between bringing twins into the world, opening up a new business venture, and keeping the gallery running smoothly, I’ve not really had much time to be anything but “Mom”, “Boss” and, to the best of my ability, “Wife.” They’re titles I cherish. “Mom” is a name I wear the most proudly, but seeing my reflection, I see “Summer” for a moment, and I smile at the versions of her that have had to exist and fade so that I can be here, as I am now.
You look happy,Ben’s voice whispers, and I can almost picture the smile on his face. Almost. The memory of his face has faded more and more, the details blurred, but I like to think that’s time doing its healing magic, letting me know whenever I stumble that it’s still okay to move on, still okay to be the happiest I’ve ever been.
“I am,” I tell him, like he’s not just a figment of my overtired, overworked, overwrought mind. “So happy, Ben. I didn’t know I was allowed to be this happy.”
You deserve it.
“Thanks.” I do a little spin, grateful for the gift.
A knock makes me turn, as Rowan’s head pokes around the door. His eyes widen as he sees me, and warmth rushes into my cheeks, my smile stretching so wide that my face is going to ache in the morning.
“You look incredible!” he says, hurrying toward me.
He scoops me up into his arms, swinging me around to finish off the little spin I started. And I hold onto him for dear life, because that’s what he is—my whole life: my husband, the father of my children, the second chance that became my soulmate.
