Elissa Ambrose - Journey Of The Heart

She was thinking of him three hours later as she sat at a table outside the Café St. Gabriel in Ridgefield, sipping a glass of chardonnay. Although Jake had always preferred to dine at what he called less “artsy” places like Joe’s Burger Hut or Mama Rosa’s Pizza Pub, he had taken her here from time to time to please her. A neighbor to Middlewood, Ridgefield was acclaimed for its restaurants, and the café was one of Laura’s favorites.

The trendy French restaurant hadn’t changed in the time she’d been away. Inside, heavy wooden beams lined the ceiling, and the far wall boasted a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. The décor outside, with its provincial blue-and-yellow tablecloths, accentuated a French country motif and was as welcoming as it was inside. The day had warmed up unexpectedly, and the patio was filled with patrons enjoying what remained of summer.

A voice drifted into her consciousness. “Would you like something with your wine, Madame Logan?”

“Uh, no thank you,” Laura answered, startled out of her reverie by the sound of her married name. She’d taken back her maiden name, Matheson, when she’d left Jake. “I’m waiting for a friend.” She glanced down at her watch, a gift from Edward on her last birthday. The polished stainless steel case of the Cartier gleamed in the sunshine, the numbers on the mother-of-pearl dial showing that Cassie was fifteen minutes late.

“What about an appetizer in the meantime? May I suggest our house smoked salmon? Or perhaps you’d prefer the steamed mussels?”

She looked up at the stocky, well-dressed man hovering over her. They sure pay their waiters well, she thought, taking note of his Armani suit. “I’d like to wait for my friend, if you don’t mind,” she said, growing impatient with his persistence.

“Forgive my impudence,” he said, as if sensing her displeasure. “I was hoping you’d recognize me. You and Monsieur Logan used to come here sometimes. If memory serves me, he always ordered the sixteen-ounce sirloin with fries on the side.” Disapproval flashed in his eyes. “But you,” he continued, now smiling, “preferred our finer selections. As I recall, your favorite was the coq au vin.”

“Michel! Michel Dubois! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” She flushed, embarrassed that she’d mistaken him, the proprietor, for a waiter.

“It’s the goatee,” he said, fingering a sparse spread of whispers on his chin. “It even confuses my wife. Bien, here’s your friend now.” He pulled out the chair for Cassie. “Will you be having your regular?” he asked as she sat down next to Laura.

Cassie was as chic as ever, in a high-neck jade shell and a knee-length black skirt, her outfit complementing her lively green eyes and bobbed dark hair. Next to her Laura felt dowdy. In her shower that morning, it was as if Jake had sneaked in beside her, and afterward she had wanted to cover up as much of her flesh as possible, as though to compensate for having exposed herself to his eyes—and touch. Now, sitting in the golden September sun, she was uncomfortably warm in her gray cashmere turtleneck and black wool slacks. She should have reserved a table inside.

“Yes, I’ll have the regular,” Cassie said. “How are you, Michel? And how is Madame Dubois?”

“I’m fine,” he answered. “Madame is well, too. She’s in her last month, big as a bathtub and still growing. The doctor says twins for sure.” Laura’s back stiffened in her chair. As though he had taken her gesture as a personal rebuke, Michel took on a more formal demeanor. “It’s nice to see you again, Madame Logan. I’ll send a waiter over with the menus shortly. I hope you enjoy your meal.” He nodded at the two women, and after bowing his head, walked off to another table.

There’s something wrong with me, Laura thought. Other than not being able to have children. Other than I’m having wild fantasies about the most wretched man in the world, even though I’m engaged to the most wonderful man in the world. Why is it that everywhere I go, I seem to tick someone off? I can’t go through life alienating people this way. I can’t go through life pretending that people don’t have children.

Cassie instantly picked up on Laura’s frame of mind. “Did you see him bow?” she said, lowering her head as Michel had done, trying to make her friend laugh. “Give me a break! How pretentious can one get? Let me tell you, the man is as French as an English muffin.”

Leave it to Cassie. That woman could probably cheer up a turkey the week before Thanksgiving. “Tell me, is your regular still a gin-vermouth martini, straight up with an olive?” Laura asked, smiling in spite of her mood. “No, make that two olives. Not very French, either, I must say.”

“As if there’s anything French at all about this restaurant. Michel Dubois, my foot! His real name is Mike Dunbar and he’s from New Jersey.”

“Shhh! What if he hears you?”

Cassie waved her hand dismissively. “As if his day could be worse than mine. Last night, after I left your house, I got an offer on an estate for a smooth ten million, and this morning I found out that the mortgage company won’t finance. The whole deal fell through. That commission would have put a guest house, gazebo and pool in my backyard.”

“But you don’t own a house,” Laura said, laughing out loud at her friend’s outrageous fabrication.

“So I’ll buy one. I’ll buy your house”

“My backyard’s not that large, and you hate yard work.”

Eventually the joking settled down. Cassie sat back in her chair, her legs crossed at the knees, while Laura leaned forward, her elbows on the table.

“So tell me,” Cassie said. “How was the meeting with John this morning? Any surprises?” She stared across the table. “Laura?”

“What? Oh, John Collins. The lawyer. It went just as I suspected. No surprises. The money’s all gone. Every red cent.”

A server arrived with the martini, and Cassie took a healthy swig. “If it’s just as you expected,” she said after he left, “what’s got you so down?”

“It’s like you said. My aunt got a free ride, living in the house. I can’t believe she spent all the money from my parents’ insurance! The will stipulated that the money was to be used for expenses, which to me includes the upkeep of the house. It’s obvious she never made any repairs. What did she do with it all?”

“You already knew there was nothing left. John only confirmed it.” Cassie reached across the table and took her friend’s hand. “What’s really going on here? This is me you’re talking to.”

Two doves flew into the courtyard and landed near the next table. “I’ve decided to keep the house,” Laura said, watching the birds as they pecked at crumbs. “I know it’s a mess right now, and it’s dark and gloomy. But it’s not hopeless. I could make it into a kind of retreat. I could spend my spare time there, painting, gardening, relaxing…”

Cassie nodded her approval. “I was hoping you’d sell so I could make a big fat commission, but hey, this is much better. I’d love to have you back again, but what does Steady Eddy say? He doesn’t strike me as a small-town kind of guy.”

“It’s not like I’d be asking him to commute. We wouldn’t actually be living here. And if we change our minds, we can always sell.”

“You mean you haven’t consulted him?” Cassie narrowed her eyes. “Exactly when did you make this decision?”

“When you threatened to buy it,” Laura kidded. In truth, although she’d been mulling over the idea, only now had it crystallized into something tangible, something attainable. It had something to do with the sound of the cicadas in the yard, and the smell of the night air when the temperature dropped. She belonged in Middlewood, where she had grown up, and if she couldn’t move back permanently—Edward was a New Yorker through and through—at least she could visit. And she would paint, on weekends, over the holidays, on her vacations.