Page 8 of Just Like Starting Over
“And the lipstick matches my bra.” She pulls back the blouse to reveal my pale pink bra.
“That’s mine, too!”
She grins, unrepentant. “And it’snice.” Her tone is ‘go figure’.
“It’s a date bra. It’s supposed to be nice.”
“A date bra,” Merrie murmurs. “There’s a garment that can’t be getting much action. Does it have moth holes yet?”
“I know, right?” Sierra says to her. “It’s like I’m being raised in a convent.”
“Better than being raised by wolves,” Merrie counters.
“It would be worn out if it was in your size,” I tell Merrie and she laughs, unrepentant.
“Dating is so time consuming. I prefer to just get to the good bit.”
“Tell me about the good bits, Aunt Merrie.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I say and we all laugh.
“Better break that one in before it goes out of style,” Merrie counters. “Tick tock, Sylvia.”
“I like this shirt, Mom,” Sierra informs me and I’m not surprised. It’s a branded one that I scored on sale, and she likes her designer labels. (The surprise is that she hasn’t claimed it already, but she seems to be late to the cult of the tailored white shirt.) “Even though the sleeves are too short. They look okay rolled up, but I might need one that fits.”
“Big surprise.” I exchange an amused glance with Merrie then point to the washroom. “Lipstick. Hair. Apron, then back here pronto, please.”
She rolls her eyes and I turn to lock the door again.
But the entranceway isn’t empty anymore. There’s a big guy – tall, broad-shouldered and gorgeous – with a flat of produce on his hip, a guy who looks like he isn’t going away. He’s wearing a navy T-shirt tight enough to show that there isn’t an ounce of fat on him, with jeans and work boots. He has a short beard that does exactly nothing to hide that he’s square-jawed and extremely blue-eyed. He entered silently and must have been standing there, watching and listening to us.
I should tell him that we’re not open yet, but I just stare at him, so shocked that my heart has dropped through the floor.
Because it’s not just any guy. It’s Mike Cavendish.
The meeting I’ve been dreading is happening right now.
I’ve dreamed up a thousand scenarios for this encounter, seeing as I figured it was inevitable. In each and every one of them, I’m brilliantly articulate, cool and composed. In one ofthem, I’m wearing something like the fabulous retro cocktail dress that Daphne Bradshaw wore to our opening night. In another, IamDaphne Bradshaw, beautiful, aloof, and able to slice men to smithereens with a glance.
In none of them do I stand gaping at Mike like a fish left gasping on the beach.
“Sylvia?” he asks, sounding just about exactly the way I feel, and the familiar rumble of his voice is enough to melt my knees.
Mike.
3
MIKE
I’m in downtown Empire, such as it is, in less than fifteen minutes. The lights are on inside the former diner. The windows are sparkling clean in the sunshine, too.
I park across the street, then notice the new sign. The Carpe Diem Café. There’s another handwritten sign taped to the door.Now Open. I do a search on my phone and find their website. The food looks amazingly good, or maybe I’m just hungry. I can’t remember when I last ate anything substantial. (A snack bag of Doritos from the vending machine at midnight does not count as a meal.)
It’s a bistro, which is an ambitious addition to the dining options in Empire – but then anything would be, when the only take-out is the sandwich shelf at the convenience store. I don’t think The Golden Lotus counts as it’s only open on Friday nights and not every week.
Farm-to-table. How much more perfect could that be? There’s a tab on the website, listing their local suppliers and I don’t see a greenhouse tomato grower there yet.
Maybe something is going to go right for me today.
