She lets out a choked sob-laugh. "I told you to stop comforting me."
"Tsk," I say, brushing her hair back from her face. "Not sure Ican do that. See, I think I like you just way too much to let you beat yourself up over this."
She smiles through her tears and pulls me down for another kiss, and we hold each other in the darkness, the vineyard quiet around us except for the crickets and the distant sound of someone closing up the main building.
CHAPTER 27
Isabelle
It's been four days since everything with my father imploded. And now—as though my life hasn't completely flipped upside down—I'm sitting at a café in Manhattan with Margot, which feels surreal after so much time in Napa. The pop-up has three scheduled nights off this week, and I was supposed to use them to handle NYC restaurant transition meetings, meetings that are obviously not happening now.
Instead, when an old colleague named Camille reached out yesterday saying her restaurant needs a head chef, I figured I might as well use the time for something.
Apparently word spread that I wasn't taking over my father's New York place like wildfire. My father's not one to gossip, but Camille said the contract dissolution information became public after the legal paperwork was filed. The industry talks, especially when Jean-Pierre Beaumont's succession plan implodes. Whatever.
Alex encouraged me to go, and said it would be good to seewhat else is out there, explore my options. Margot jumped at the chance to tag along, admitting she's never been to the East Coast and has always wanted to visit.
The café is one of those trendy West Village spots with exposed brick walls, industrial lighting hanging from black pipes, and succulents in geometric concrete planters on every surface. It's busy even at ten in the morning, the sound of the espresso machine hissing and milk steaming constant background noise, people typing on laptops at every other table with their AirPods in.
Margot returns from the counter with a tray holding pastries wrapped in wax paper and two of those handleless cups, which I take gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. The heat seeps into my palms and I can smell cinnamon and espresso rising in the steam.
"Bless you," I say, sipping the coffee carefully.
She smiles in return, and we both sit quietly for a moment, sipping our lattes and watching the street outside through the window. People rush past in that distinctly New York way, everyone moving with purpose and speed, shoulders hunched against the chill, no one making eye contact or slowing down.
I forgot how relentless this city feels, how it never stops moving, never takes a breath. Even at ten in the morning on a weekday the sidewalk is packed, a river of people flowing in both directions.
"The people-watching is incredible," she says, tearing a piece from her croissant and popping it in her mouth. "I think I could just sit here and watch all day."
I smile. "It's one of my favorite things about the city, though if you like people watching then we'vegotto get you to Paris. That's where it really becomes an art form."
She grins. "Deal. Next trip, alright?"
I lift my latte and we toast.
We got in yesterday afternoon and woke up early today to explore the city before the restaurant meeting. It's fun playing tourist and showing a friend around the city. Especially in late October when it's not sweltering summer hot, or dead of winter when you're slopping around snow or packed-up ice on the sidewalks. The fall foliage is peak right now, Central Park looking like a scene fromWhen Harry Met Sally, one of my comfort movies, and one Margot’s actually seen.
"Alright," she says, brushing croissant flakes off her sweater. "We have an hour before we need to head to Camille's restaurant. So let's talk through everything before you walk in there and have to be professional."
I smile at her, tearing off a corner of the almond croissant. "You're a good friend, Margot. Coming all the way across the country with me for this."
She beams back at me. "Well, we are instant soulmate friends, right? That's what we decided back in Napa when we got wine drunk on the terrace that first week."
I laugh, remembering that night. "Sealed with a bottle of white Burgundy."
"The best friendships are," she says, taking a delicate sip of her latte and then making a face. "Okay this is way too hot. How are you drinking yours already?"
"Years of burning my tongue in professional kitchens. I have no nerve endings left."
She sets her cup down carefully, wiping a few drops from the side of the cup with her napkin, and then her expression turns serious. "So. Still spiraling about the whole future thing? You barely slept last night, I could hear you shifting around."
I wince. "Sorry. I was trying to be quiet."
She waves me off with one hand. "I'm a light sleeper. Always have been."
Margot and I crashed at my tiny apartment last night, muchto her surprise as apparently she was expecting a penthouse. Sadly for her, and me, I live in a shoebox I pay for with the money I earned working at my father's places and occasionally stints at other restaurants.
My father believes in bootstraps and earning your way, which means no trust fund until I'm thirty-five and a studio apartment the size of most people's closets. And I’m starting to doubt I’ll see a nickel of that trust fund. And right now, I don’t care at all.