The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Thirty-One
June 5
Susan is checking someone in when I bring my luggage downstairs.
My phone beeps and it’s a text message from a local number.
Good morning. Your paperwork is done, and everything looks good. I’ve left a key for you under the front doormat if you want to drop off your luggage before work. I’ll see you soon. Celine.
This is a great way to start the day.
“Good morning,” says Susan. “What a lovely day. The sun is up, the coffee is made, and biscuits are in the oven,” she declares, satisfied.
“That’s what that is,” I say with a smile. “I smelled something delicious the moment I opened my eyes.”
“Do you have time for breakfast?” she asks.
By the time I took a shower and packed it was already seven.
“I have to be at work soon, but thank you.”
“I didn’t know you worked in town,” she says. “Thought you were just visiting.”
“I just started at Café Azure.”
“Celine’s place?” she says, sounding surprised. “That’s lovely.”
She asks me to wait a couple of minutes and returns with a paper cup with a lid on and a food container. Both are hot and judging by the smell… it’s coffee and fresh biscuits. I don’t think Susan is used to taking no for an answer. She puts them on the desk and winks. “You can share them with Celine,” she says, pointing at the food box, “compliments of the chef. Ask her if my biscuits are better than hers; she’s always welcome to borrow my recipe.” She chuckles.
“I will,” I say.
I check out and after Susan hugs me once inside the inn and a second time in the front yard, we wave goodbye.
“You sure you don’t need a ride? I can call a cab for you.”
“I’m sure. It’s close.
“OK. Well, don’t be a stranger. We’d love to have you back,” she says and gives me a pamphlet. “We have all sorts of fun activities planned this summer.”
I get to Celine’s house and drop off my suitcases by the door.
It’s a ten-minute walk to Café Azure, at least that’s what the maps app on my phone says. I don’t remember how we got here last night; I was just following Celine and not paying attention to street names. I’m probably taking a longer route, but I’m so enjoying this right now. I pass by places that are familiar from last year and find myself smiling. I see the beach and I’m so tempted to go to that spot—THE SPOT—but I’m not yet ready to see it again. I turn right on Tenth Avenue, then left onto Monte Verde Street and before I know it, I’m on Seventh Avenue, in front of the coffee shop. At the corner, I see him. The Lift driver from the other day. He’s wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a Hawaiian shirt and aviator sunglasses. He’s going into a small restaurant across the street from Café Azure, and without even thinking, I follow him. I look at the name above: Bellini. Are you kidding me? The first breakfast choice he gave me last year. Does he work here? Does he own it? Is that why?
My heart is beating out of my chest. I pretend to be looking at the menu while I scour the inside of the restaurant, but I can’t see him anywhere.
“Hi, can I help you? Would you like to be seated?” a young woman asks as I see him, from the corner of my eye, back out on the street, getting into his car.
I point to him. “Is that the owner?” I ask her.
She looks in the direction I’m pointing then back at me.
“Would you like to see the owner? Something wrong? I can ask her to come,” she says.
I shake my head. “No, no, it’s fine. You don’t know who he is?” I ask again.
“Who?”
He’s long gone. Ugh, never mind. I make my excuses and drag my feet to Café Azure. I will find him. If that’s him, I will find him. He’s here somewhere.
Café Azure is already busy, not as bad as yesterday at lunch, but it’s pretty crowded.
“Good morning,” I say to Celine the moment I reach the counter.
A couple is debating muffins or cereal for their kids and not paying attention to us.
“Go-o-o-o-d morning,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
She nods at the long line and whispers, “Don’t you dare ask how I got on without you.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” I say. “What do you need me to do?”
“Hold the front of the house, please. I have things in the oven,” she says.
“On it,” I say, trying to remember everything I learned from her yesterday.
“By the way, this is for you,” I say, and give her the food container. “From Susan.”
“Freshly baked biscuits? Some things never change,” she says with a strange smile and takes the box in the back.