Page 93 of King of Praise
“Excellent choice.” The server turns to me. “And for you, sir?”
“Same soup to start. Then the venison, medium-rare.” I hand her our menus. “And perhaps another glass of wine for the lady?”
The question is directed to the server, but my eyes focus on Naomi’s for her approval.
“Yes, please. The Pinot Noir was lovely.”
As the server departs, I notice the slight flush on Naomi’s cheeks—pride at navigating the interaction independently combined with pleasure at the small luxury of midday wine. It’s a milestone in her recovery.
“So,” I prompt, settling back in my chair. “Tell me more about these bakery plans. Did you make any new decisions this morning?”
The question transforms her. Excitement animates her features as she leans forward, hands gesturing expressively while she outlines her vision. The bakery has evolved from a vague dream to a concrete plan, with the start of business projections, menu concepts, and marketing strategies. Her research is thorough, her planning meticulous.
“I’m thinking Brewery District,” she says, naming a trendy area of Columbus undergoing revitalization. “The demographic is perfect—young professionals with disposable income, families on weekends, and enough foot traffic to generate walk-ins alongside regulars.”
I nod, mentally reviewing the properties I know in that area. “Commercial rents are climbing there. Might stretch your initial capital.”
“True, but I’d rather start with the right location and build a solid customer base than save on rent somewhere with less visibility.” Her business acumen surprises me—another aspect of herself she must have suppressed around Lucas. “Besides, I have my trust fund. My parents can’t block access now that I’m over twenty-five.”
The mention of her family brings a momentary shadow. Like mine, Naomi’s family relationships are complicated—wealthy parents who prioritized appearances over their daughter’s welfare, who encouraged her marriage to Lucas despite early warning signs, who dismissed her dreams as frivolous hobbies unworthy of serious investment. Their failure to protect or support her ranks just below Lucas’s abuse in factors that shaped her vulnerability.
“The Brewery District makes sense,” I concede. “Good parking options, visibility from major thoroughfares, potential for outdoor seating during warmer months.”
“Exactly.” Her enthusiasm returns full force. “And I was thinking about offering more than just pastries and bread. Maybe a small lunch menu with seasonal soups and sandwiches. Create reasons for people to visit throughout the day.”
“Smart. Diversified revenue streams provide stability.”
She tilts her head, studying me with renewed interest. “You know a lot about business operations for a…”
The unfinished sentence hangs between us—a reminder of my complicated profession. Though we’ve developed remarkable honesty in most aspects of our relationship, my work remains a carefully edited subject. I refuse to give her information that could make her legally vulnerable. It’s bad enough she had to experience my world first-hand with the shooting.
“I’ve picked up a few things over the years,” I say. “Observing various enterprises. Some legitimate, some less so.”
She nods, accepting this partial truth with the same grace she’s shown toward other complicated aspects of my life.
“I need to develop accurate cost projections for equipment,” she continues, steering us back to safer territory. “Industrial mixers, ovens, refrigeration—it adds up quickly.”
“I know someone who specializes in restaurant equipment.” I hesitate before adding, “Legitimate sources, though he occasionally handles liquidations from establishments that didn’t comply with various regulations.”
“Would he give me a fair price?”
“He would give you an exceptional price,” I assure her, “especially once he tastes your baking.”
This draws another smile, the genuine kind that reaches her eyes and creates delicate crinkles at the corners. “You’re veryconfident in my skills, considering you’ve only tasted a fraction of my repertoire.”
“I’m a good judge of quality.”
The arrival of our soups provides welcome distraction from the sudden heat in her gaze. The server places steaming bowls before us, each garnished with a swirl of crème fraîche and toasted pumpkin seeds. The presentation is elegant without being pretentious—rustic refinement that suits the setting.
I watch Naomi’s assessment with amusement. Her baker’s eye evaluates the dish critically, noting texture, color, arrangement. She inhales the aromatic steam before taking a careful taste, then closes her eyes briefly in appreciation.
“Nutmeg and a hint of apple,” she murmurs, more to herself than me. “Clever addition. Cuts the sweetness of the squash.”
“Good?” I ask though I already know the answer from her expression.
“Very.” She takes another spoonful. “Though I might use a touch more black pepper. And perhaps ginger instead of nutmeg.”
I hide my smile behind my own spoon. Her competitive edge shows her ambition. Every glimpse of her untamed spirit reinforces my determination to ensure she never faces suppression again.
