East in Paradise Page 4

  After three sips of coffee, I set my cup down. “The priority at the moment, besides the renovation, is to get a chef on board. We need to follow up with our leads for a Filipino chef who’s willing to teach the basics. I caught wind that Chef Reyes of Asiatica is looking to relocate from Dallas.”

  Vic jots down notes with a purple gel pen. “I’ll find her contact info so you can call her. Also, I can write up job descriptions for the rest of our staff and post them on online job boards. And oh, I reposted the interview you did with Food Business Magazine on my blog, plus some tidbits about Paraiso.”

  “Awesome.”

  “I’d really like for you to do a guest post for me every once in a while. Give an update, a recipe, maybe pictures?”

  My lips flatten into an expression Vic catches immediately.

  “You have to play the social media game, ate. You know, smile for the camera, write for blogs like mine. You’re literally starting from scratch out here. Having a website and joining the chamber of commerce won’t be enough.”

  “I hate to be under a microscope. I don’t want anything like the drama from last year.” I’m referring to the social media fiasco between True North and a food truck owned by my future cousin-in-law, Camille. She’d parked her truck in front of the family restaurant, causing an upheaval that almost ruined her relationship with my cousin Drew.

  Our family still doesn’t really talk about it, and I don’t have any doubt it will turn into a family secret by the next generation.

  The bottom line: social media can hurt as much as it can help.

  The smile Vic returns is reassuring. “I believe there’s a happy medium. You don’t have to put emotion into posts if you choose not to. Facts, dates, location, events. Keep it simple.”

  We plow through the rest of our brainstorming session, breaking only for lunch, and draining our coffee cups twice. We settle on initial job descriptions for our staff and post an update on our growing social media page. And we discuss class descriptions and downtime events for our guests.

  As we call it an afternoon and decide what to make for dinner, my phone rings for the first time in a week.

  The face of my silent investor, Peter Luna, flashes across the screen and my heart hammers in my chest. Peter is a former MBA classmate who decided to invest in my business after he heard my plan pitched in one of our classes. He moved out of California after graduation and is now living in Oregon with his pregnant wife. All of our correspondence has been via email and text, because who picks up the phone these days?

  So I know immediately he’s calling for either fabulous or devastating news.

  I force a cheerful voice when I answer. “Hi, Pete.”

  “Bryn. Hey.” Then, after a protracted beat of silence, he says, “I’ve got some bad news.”

  Fuck. My chin drops to my chest and I shut my eyes. Useless, I know, because deductive reasoning tells me this is about his end of our deal. “What’s up?”

  “Shitty things, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “My financial situation has changed. The money I gave you last month is the only money I’ll be able to give you.”

  “What?” My back leans against the counter. My fingers find my temples as I try to decipher the story he begins to tell: he and his wife bought a house at auction in hopes of flipping it. It’s a mansion, with more problems than they expected. Over the last few weeks, they’ve lost money hand over fist. And now they’re broke.

  “I’m sorry, Bryn. And we’re about to have a baby. Surprise! You know?” His voice cracks, which prompts an answer from me. My empathy is juxtaposed with the panic bubbling through my veins, because I’ve taken on a lease for the next five years I could barely afford with Pete’s promised money.

  And yet, being pissed won’t exactly help the situation now with him bawling on the other end of the line.

  “You’re gonna be okay, Pete. You will. You’ll figure it out.” My voice is robotic, because while I’m trying to console this guy, I’m thinking through how I’m going to hustle for next month’s rent. Pete asks me if I’m okay, and I mumble an answer. We end the call haphazardly, barely a goodbye said between us.

  “What’s wrong?” Vic is pouring herself a third cup of Barako. “Ate?”

  “Remember when I said taking this place was a huge risk? And nothing can be gained without it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s time to test that theory.”

  5

  MITCHELL

  I rub circles onto the steamed bathroom mirror after a long, hot shower, and pieces of my reflection appear. Upper chest, shoulders, neck, chin. Eyes.

  You look like shit.

  I lean closer to the mirror to inspect myself. The whites of my eyes are red. The skin under my lids is dark and puffy, and all the result of another night of sleeplessness, of a foggy brain full of what-ifs. Though my body was exhausted—beat after a day of tending to the vines—my mind would not quit, even as I watched the clock tick into late night, to dawn.

  Twenty-seven nights have passed. Almost four weeks of insomnia or interrupted sleep. I’m not sure how long I can keep this up.

  I tear my eyes away from the mirror and squeeze shaving cream onto my fingers. Lathering the cream over my upper lip and chin, I come to a conclusion.

  I’m going to have to call Adam after all.

  A creak wakes me from my thoughts. I jump backward as the door opens in slow motion. “Whoa, what the hell?”

  My fists position themselves in front of me, ready to defend. No one should be in the house. Housekeeping and groundskeeping don’t come until the afternoon, and even then, they don’t ever come up to my bedroom, not unless I ask. My eyes dart to the only window that peeks out to the backyard, to the attached expansive walk-in closet barely taken up by my clothing. There’s absolutely nothing I can use as a weapon, except for the wooden hangers that are more lush than any furniture I have ever owned. So I jump behind the closet door and peek through the doorway.

  “Mitchie,” a voice says, tentative and small. When the door opens fully, I see the woman standing just beyond the threshold—a petite white-haired lady in khaki pants, a purple sweater, and a pearl necklace.

  “Granny,” I breathe out with relief, followed by a surge of annoyance. Then by guilt, because getting mad at Granny is a sin that ranks right up there with the Ten Commandments. “What are you doing here?”

  “I figured I’d give you a ride into town.”

  “I’m not late, am I? Didn’t you say ten?” Granny insists that now that I’m home, my Sunday mornings should be spent with her. She wanted us to meet at Golden Café where she gathers the week’s gossip over a cup of coffee, to my chagrin and my own curiosity. For a small tourist town, there’s a shitload that happens among the locals.

  “What can I say? I’m just so happy you’re home, and I want to spend all of my time with you.” Her tone is slightly concerning, way too sweet even for her.

  “Okay, well . . . I was kind of getting dressed. And trying to shave.”

  “Carry on, sweetheart.”

  “Um.” I raise my eyebrows at our current situation, my naked body covered only by the closet door.

  “Eh.” She waves away my comment and shuts the bathroom door. “I used to change your diapers.”

  “Granny.” As much as I try not to, my voice comes out exasperated. Because there really is no use arguing with the woman. She was—is still—the Dunford matriarch, and what she says goes. With speed, I glide the razor over my face and rinse off.

  “I should be the one frustrated. When were you going to tell me about that woman?” Her voice is muffled through the door.

  “What woman?” In the closet, I rummage for a long-sleeve shirt and jeans, and yank them on. Finally, I open the door to my grandmother, who is just on the other side, smiling wickedly.
r />   “The one on Lavenderhill.”

  “That’s not a woman. It’s a tenant.”

  “A woman who, despite how shy she is—she practically ran away from me when I tried to introduce myself at Nugget Antiques—is quite a beauty.”

  Her intention drops on me like a sack of potatoes, and I break out into laughter. A true, honest-to-goodness laugh, because what she’s suggesting is so fucking, utterly ridiculous. “Trust me. Bryn Aquino is not my type. To keep it PG language, she’s a mean girl, Granny. Mean. You don’t want your sweet grandson dating a mean girl, do you?”

  The combination of the words Bryn and date feels like I’m biting into a lemon, just before licking salt and downing a shot of tequila. Granny is absolutely right. Bryn’s “a beauty.” She’s fucking gorgeous, actually. Hard to miss when I’ve got to pass her house before I get to my front door and have a full view of her backyard from mine. Since signing the lease and moving in ten days ago, she’s had folks unpack her U-Haul, and she’s been tossing out empty boxes, with supplies being delivered daily.

  Impressive and productive, sure. But that’s where it stops, because the woman has yet to give me a polite smile. Hell, a nod would do it. Instead, she pretends day in and day out that I don’t exist. And I’m the damn landlord. It takes all of me to keep my nose in the air and not cave in and ask her why she’s being such a jerk. The lease signing, the last time we spoke to each other, was straightforward, and I gave my approval for certain renovations and some of my suggestions. She, on the other hand, reacted to my mere presence as if I were the intruder.

  No way. The ice is so thick I don’t even dare pick up the binoculars. With my luck, she has supersonic Spidey senses and will be on my ass for spying the next time I see her.

  If she can’t handle even my little drone joke, then our personalities won’t ever jibe.

  “Well, I’d like to meet her.” Granny shows her pearly whites.

  “I’m sure you’ll get your chance. But it’ll be without me. Ready to go?”

  “I’ll drive. It’s a beautiful Sunday,” she says as I follow her out of the house.

  “Sure? My truck’s all warmed up.”

  “I don’t know why you insist on keeping that thing. It’s one big rust bucket.” She raises her nose and snubs my Ford F-150, no longer a fire-engine red, though a thing of beauty just the same, at the very top of the driveway.

  “Respect, Granny. She might hear you and never start.”

  She rolls her eyes, and I snort. Granny doesn’t head to the car immediately, however. She takes the short path that cuts to the first row of the upper vineyard and appraises the vines. “Oh, Mitchie, I can already tell.”

  “Tell what?”

  “That you’re making a difference. These vines look happier.”

  “We’re getting into the summer is all.”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to? I know when the vines are happy, and they are exactly at this moment. It’s like they know they have someone who’s taking care of them.”

  I let her words sink in. “Just doing my best.”

  “Have you thought about what I said when you first came home?”

  “I have.” Granny had suggested it was time to turn this place back into a winery. Return it to what it was in my father’s time. But while I agree with the sentiment 100 percent—my dream is to see us make our own wine—it’s too late and too difficult. “Besides making wine for his personal stash, Dad ran Dunford strictly as a vineyard since I was fifteen. I don’t have the experience to make it a winery. Besides, Levi won’t agree to it if he’s not here to supervise.”

  “I don’t see Levi here, darling.”

  “You know how this works. Dad treated Levi like a partner, and he feels most invested in Dunford. And Levi ultimately has seniority.”

  “I disagree. Your father’s will gave you boys the option of choosing who takes the caretaker role because he didn’t want to tie you down with Dunford. Now that you’re here permanently, that whoever’s-older-has-seniority rule has got to go. It’s you who lives here now.”

  “The three of us are still a team, and whether it’s me or him who has seniority is moot. I don’t want us to fight. As it is, I had to talk him down from the ledge when he found out I leased out Lavenderhill. Can’t imagine what he’d say if I told him I was turning this place upside down.” I take the lead to Granny’s car. I am not prepared for this conversation, so I change the subject. “How about we grab some chow? I’m starving from my run.”

  Granny doesn’t object, squeezing my elbow before she crosses to the driver’s side. But when we get into her vintage daisy-yellow Lincoln Continental, I’m overcome with an ache: nostalgia. I grew up riding in this car, my mother in the front seat with Granny, while my brothers and I rolled around in the back, sometimes without a seat belt, as we jostled along over unpaved roads. Then my skin tingles with the first hint of anxiety as the memory changes, of my adult self ricocheting in a metal cage.

  So I roll down the window and stick out an elbow. A word materializes in my brain: breathe.

  I will myself to relax. I close my eyes against the breeze and let the ache spread, work its way through my bloodstream. This is what my last therapist told me to do. She said fighting against my emotions makes it worse. Denial would only rebel against my instincts. I perform the exercise she taught me—the same one that didn’t work last night, but I try again.

  I exhale the hurt, inhale the fresh air. Exhale, inhale. Exhale . . .

  The car slows and I open my eyes, fully expecting Main Street’s gas lamps and striped awnings. But we’re barely out of Dunford, just outside the gate. A body—Bryn’s—approaches the car and she ducks into my window. She’s tan and svelte, and her bare shoulders are within inches of my lips. When I raise my eyes to hers, she meets me with her bayonet-sharp gaze, knocking me back to the present.

  Inhale.

  “Hello, dear. Can we offer you a ride?” Granny is practically horizontal across her bench seat and my lap, showing off her dazzling smile.

  Bryn’s lips quirk up, as if she knows she’s got me by the balls again. I return her wry smile to let her know that it was my plan all along to stop. It kills me that I can’t get ahead of what feels like silent negotiations between us. Just once I’d like to get on top of her.

  Not her her, of course. Just the upper hand.

  I sigh audibly to cover up my meandering thoughts. There’s no getting out of this. “Ms. Bryn Aquino, this is Joan Dunford, my grandmother.” My voice is formal, and I fully expect Bryn to shun Granny as she’s dodged me all week long.

  To my surprise, the introduction softens the expression on Bryn’s face. A smile creeps onto her lips, and she extends a hand into the car, bringing in her scent of forest and dew. “So pleased to meet you, though I believe I’ve seen you in town.”

  Granny raises a knowing eyebrow by a hair. “Yes, at the antique store.”

  “Right.” She grins, sheepish. “It surprises me sometimes how friendly people are here in Golden. I don’t expect for anyone to speak to me, or stop. It’s perfect weather—I don’t mind walking at all.”

  And just like that, she proves me wrong in my earlier statement to my grandmother, acting far from the mean girl I’d described. Right this minute, her feisty personality has taken a backseat. The effect is both intriguing and damn vexing, and I can’t help but commit this woman to memory for study at a much later time. She’s behaving like a normal human being who likes people. She’s got a smile that spreads across her face with ease, dimples on both cheeks. She’s nodding, responding to my grandmother in turn. Even laughs once. I notice a mole at the base of her neck, and below that, the faint outline of lace under her tank.

  “Mitchell and I would love to take you in, save you some time, dear.”

  At Granny’s mention of my name, I wake from my trance. Holy hell, I’ve got
the start of a hard-on, so I readjust my seat. Fix my arms so they lay casually across my waist.

  When I glance up at Bryn, her face is wicked and knowing. She raises one eyebrow. “If you’re sure.”

  Actually, no, I’m not, but it’s not me who’s driving. I start to shake my head, but Granny nods. She’s like a kid in a candy store. “Jump on in. I had the car detailed just the other day. They used vanilla this time for the spray. Doesn’t it smell magnificent?”

  The car rocks as Bryn climbs in and shuts the door. “It does smell good. And what timing, because I was just thinking of something that maybe you can give me feedback on. Essential oils. As a guest, would you want a diffuser in every room? It’s an extra expense, but I think it would add to the ambience. I personally love basil and pine. It’s what I use for myself. What do you think?”

  Basil and pine. Interesting. Is it perfume or body wash? Or does she lather it on like lotion? My thoughts creep as the car pulls out from the side of the road.

  Granny looks through the rearview mirror. “That’s a fabulous idea. Would it be included with the package?”

  “Absolutely. I want it to be all-inclusive.”

  “Then, yes. Wow. I cannot wait to see how you transform Lavenderhill, dear.”

  “Actually . . .” Bryn’s voice is hesitant. “It’s official now, since I filed the name with the County Clerk’s office, but I’ve renamed the place.”

  This revelation causes me to turn around. I’m stunned at the idea of the renaming of a residence my father built from the foundation up. He had the name of the home burned on wood, after the flowers my mother loved the most. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Mitchell,” Granny hisses. “You might be twenty-eight, but it doesn’t mean you are allowed to be rude.”

  “We didn’t agree to renaming.” I stare at this woman, who I swear was put on this earth to provoke me.

  Bold and unapologetic, her eyes flash in defiance. “I’m sorry. But this is my business and I can very well name it what I want. The name isn’t permanent to the lease, is it? The sign wasn’t even attached to the door. I simply removed it.”