JULIA WOKE UP after only a few hours of sleep, and instead of rolling over and drifting back off, she found herself staring at the ceiling and thinking. Alone with her thoughts didn’t always feel like a good place to be. Not when her head was filled with worries about the restaurant. Or worse, like this morning, memories of her mother.
Julia had always planned to come back to Vancouver after she got all her European living out of her system, her various training at both Michelin-starred and nonrated establishments. She’d thought she’d have years left to live in the same city as her mother. And instead, she’d received a phone call one hot August afternoon just before her twenty-eighth birthday. Only, instead of hearing her mom’s cheerful voice on their weekly phone call, it had been Alain telling her that she needed to come home because her mother wasn’t well.
It had scared her. Badly. And when she’d gotten hold of her mother—while sitting at the Orly airport in Paris, waiting for her flight to Vancouver to board—she’d heard the truth in her mother’s voice. That she’d been sick for some time. That she hadn’t wanted to tell Julia because she’d believed she was going to get better and hadn’t wanted to worry her. And that the doctor’s prognosis had been dire during her last checkup and he’d recommended that Julia return to Vancouver. Now.
But her sudden return had given Julia something besides the fear that she was about to lose her mother. It gave her the chance to get to know her mother through the eyes of an adult instead of a teenager. The opportunity to share their love of food and each other. Most important, the time to say goodbye.
Which was still hard to accept some days. When the ache in her heart refused to be eased, Julia went to the restaurant. The one place that felt truly instilled with her mother’s essence. Her joy of cooking and spirit of life. And in those moments, she truly saw what La Petite Bouchée had once been and could be again.
So she pulled on her favorite jeans, the comfy ones that had been broken in just right and didn’t require her to wear five-inch heels, a simple silk T-shirt and a cashmere cardigan that she’d gotten 80 percent off years ago and still wore on a regular basis.
Her mom had been the same way with her clothing, choosing quality over quantity. Julia’s closet wasn’t bursting at the seams with the latest styles and trends, and she didn’t have a different outfit for every occasion. What she did have were classic pieces that fit any situation. A little black dress that could be dressed up with sleek heels and pearls for a night of formal dining or paired with colorful flats and a printed scarf for a casual drink on a sunny patio. A beautifully cut blazer that she could wear with a skirt and kitten heels for a business meeting or skinny pants and leopard-print ballet flats for drinks after work.
And it meant that she didn’t need to update her wardrobe every season or even every year. She simply added a few inexpensive accessories to keep her look fresh and in tune with what was in the fashion magazines.
She made coffee, deciding to forgo the stop at one of the many artisan coffeehouses that dotted the Vancouver landscape. She was a woman who needed to save her pennies, not for another pair of shoes, but to purchase her restaurant. Though her pennies weren’t ever going to amount to the asking price, the more she could contribute to the pot, the larger the stake she’d hold.
She also felt it increased her bargaining power. She wasn’t going into meetings with nothing to her plan but her name and a dream. She had her own hard-earned cash to put down, too. It helped not only to prove her own seriousness and determination in taking on the project, but also invited the same from her backers. She exhaled. Of course, that was assuming the Fords put the place back on the market.
But she had no reason to think they wouldn’t. Donovan had seemed serious about wanting to sell and he’d never been afraid to share his true feelings. He certainly hadn’t spared hers when he’d talked about the current decor.
She probably shouldn’t enjoy his company as much as she did. He was a distraction and one she couldn’t afford. But when he wasn’t insulting her restaurant’s looks, he was charming and interesting. He’d traveled a fair bit—not as much as she had, but then, he hadn’t lived overseas for six years, either.
Her heart didn’t feel quite as heavy when she slipped into the back door of the restaurant. She expected to be greeted by cool silence, the kind that floated over her and soothed her irritations. The kind she could bask in for a couple of hours or longer since La Petite Bouchée was closed on Mondays. Instead, she heard voices coming from the dining room.
Someone was here? Her heart thumped once and then calmed. There was no need to worry. Although she hadn’t expected company, the restaurant was a busy place and she wasn’t the only person with keys. Sasha had a set, as did her floor manager, and the Fords would have a set. And whoever was inside certainly wasn’t making any attempt to be quiet. She thought she recognized the low timbre of Donovan’s voice.
Julia pushed open the swinging doors and found Donovan in gorgeous black wool pants, a blue dress shirt and a charcoal sweater, standing with a trio of strangers. The trio were nodding and draping bolts of fabric over everything that stood still. The designers.
She felt a small niggle of apprehension. Donovan hadn’t mentioned anything about the designers coming in this morning. And he’d been here after closing last night. Of course, he didn’t have to tell her everything.
He must have heard the doors because he looked up when she walked into the dining room and smiled. Julia felt a low thrum run through her. “Julia. Come in. Meet the design team.”
The team of three, two men and one woman, all looked the same. Three variations on tall and skinny, with sable hair and blue eyes, clad in black with one single focal point, or as they would probably phrase it, “a pop of color.” One of the men had a striped purple tie, the other wore sapphire-colored cuff links with matching shoes, and the woman, who seemed to be in charge of the trio, had a gorgeous scarf in red, pink and orange, as if the sunset had been swirled onto the fabric before being draped around her neck.
They each greeted Julia politely if a bit indifferently. She wasn’t sure if that was because they didn’t like anyone who might have an opinion on their style selections joining them or they were simply going for that mannequin effect. There wasn’t a wrinkle or a hair out of place on any of them. By comparison, she and Donovan both looked as though they’d just rolled out of bed after some hot and sweaty sex.
Julia felt her cheeks heat and pushed the thought away. Donovan and her bed were two things that didn’t mix outside her fantasy life.
“Are we picking colors?” she asked when she reached the group.
“No. We’re merely getting a feel for the space.” The woman started talking while the two men began gathering up the bolts. Her words were full of terms like “flow” and “maximizing table space.” Whether the new bar should be in dove gray or champagne and questions on whether the accents should be silver or gold. It sounded beautiful but cold and a clear imitation of the Fords’ other bars.
Julia listened, gathering information and context. When the designers finished extolling their grandiose plans and gathering their materials, they left. Julia waited until the door clicked shut behind them before she looked at Donovan. “I thought we agreed that I would be a part of the design discussions.”
Donovan pulled out a chair that had been draped with a burnt orange—no, just no—and sat down. Julia sat down, too. “It was unplanned. The designer called this morning with a free block of time, and I took her up on it so we could get things moving.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“You said last night that you were looking forward to sleeping in today.” He reached out to touch the back of her hand. “Nothing has been decided yet. It was only an initial meeting to get a scope of time and cost. I didn’t think you needed or wanted to be involved in those aspects.”
“Well, I do.” She wanted to have a