The Enchanted Garden Cafe (South Side Stories Book 1) Read online

  Sometimes changing the subject was better than having a discussion that could lead to an argument. Scott didn’t like my mom, and I suspected the feeling was mutual. They both put on a brave front for my sake, though.

  He smiled. “I made a few calls and got a table Le Mont. Nothing’s too good for my girl.”

  He opened the door of his Jaguar for me, and I slipped in, relaxed and happy for the first time all day. Scott had that effect on me. Being around him made me feel calm and safe. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only thing I could count on, the one stable, normal element in my chaotic life. And I needed stable and normal. I’d never had it before. I’d never even come close.

  Kate once said I spent so much time trying not to be my mom I had no idea who I truly was. She suggested meditation, journaling, and self-realization techniques, but I didn’t need any of that. I had dreams and plans of my own, and I had Scott.

  As the sun set over the river and we sped out of the South Side, I closed my eyes. As soon as I finished my last class in the fall, I planned to move out. I’d already talked to a friend who needed a roommate, so things were lining up. I just had to wait until everything was settled with Anderson Solutions and then find a way to tell Mom without breaking her heart.

  Chapter Two

  Even the worst dinner party can sometimes

  be saved with the right amount of wine.

  ~Aunt Francesca~

  Scott forgot to mention his coworker, Harrison, would join us for dinner with his girlfriend, Mindy. Scott and Harrison worked together at Burgess and Garrett, a big real estate investment firm downtown, and Harrison was a bit of a drinker. As they waited at the bar for us, he already looked slightly toasted.

  “Sorry we’re late.” Scott rolled his eyes and ordered a drink.

  “Women.” Harrison raised his glass in manly agreement.

  Mindy fluttered her eyelashes. “But we’re so worth the wait.”

  We’d gone out with Harrison and Mindy many times before, and I hadn’t enjoyed it. Harrison, a stocky redhead with a thick neck, had an opinion about everything. Mindy, a bleach blonde with a fake tan, seemed to have no opinions at all.

  The restaurant, elegant and expensive, sat high on Mount Washington and overlooked the entire sparkling city of Pittsburgh. The bright-red cable cars of the Duquesne Incline slowly moved up and down, connecting Mount Washington to the South Shore area below. Although the inclines had been created to take steelworkers to the mills in the morning and back home in the evening, now they were used mostly for tourists. I loved to watch them inch up and down the mountain, and I adored the view of the city from Le Mont. The three rivers joined together just below us, where the fountain of the Golden Triangle burst up into the air in a beacon of light. As a bonus, the Pirates were playing at PNC Park that night, which meant there would probably be fireworks later, and we were in the perfect spot to watch the show.

  Scott and Harrison hadn’t even noticed the view. They immediately got wrapped up in a conversation about work. Mindy gave me an awkward smile.

  “How’s work? Are you still waitressing?” she asked, taking another sip of wine. We’d gone over this before, many times, but Mindy had the short-term memory of a gnat.

  “I’m getting my MBA, but I work for my mom part-time. She owns a café in the South Side.”

  Scott leaned forward with a smile. “It’s where old hippies go before they die.”

  Harrison and Mindy laughed. I forced a smile onto my face. “Now, Scott . . .”

  Scott held up a hand to stop me, enjoying himself. “You should have seen what Fiona was doing when I walked in. She was filling a shelf with stone schlongs.”

  Harrison almost choked on his drink. “Why?”

  “Fertility charms.” I picked up the menu and pretended extreme interest in the selections. “Imported from Japan.”

  “Her mom gave me fertility tea.” Scott and Harrison laughed so hard their faces turned red, and Harrison had to wipe his eyes with his napkin. “She’s a character. The tea was called Fertile Myrtle.”

  I didn’t like the way he made fun of my mom, even if she kind of deserved it. “She’s famous for her teas, and the shop is one of the most popular places on the South Side.”

  “I love the South Side,” said Mindy. “I’ve been to some fun bars there. We should go to your mom’s place after dinner.”

  Imagining Harrison and Mindy at acoustic night made me cringe. “Or we could go to that nice place near Station Square with dueling pianos.” Station Square, also located on the South Shore, was just an incline ride away. I tried to sound enthusiastic, and it worked.

  “That would be awesome,” said Mindy. Harrison and Scott launched back into their work discussion again. Mindy and I were stuck with each other. I tried to think of something to talk about as minutes ticked by.

  “I love your dress.”

  A lie, but I’d gotten desperate. Her dress, so short I could almost see her panties, was an awful shade of green that looked like the sludge we sometimes had to clean out of the fountain at the Enchanted Garden.

  “Thanks. I bought it at the new designer shop in Shadyside. Expensive, but worth every penny.” She whispered how much it cost, an enormous sum that would have been enough to pay the shipping on that box of phalluses ten times over.

  “Wow.” The idea of spending that much on a dress made me ill.

  “Harrison doesn’t mind.” She smiled. “He likes to buy me nice things. I’m sure Scott is the same way. You met in college, right?”

  She’d heard this story before as well, but at least it was something to talk about. “I saw him on campus a few times, but we didn’t meet until later.”

  I’d admired him from a distance. He’d been the student government president at the University of Pittsburgh and in a popular fraternity. I was the wide-eyed freshman who nearly swooned every time he smiled at me. He’d been my ideal, my dream man, for years. Even before I knew his name.

  “I was a big, bad senior,” said Scott with a wink. “And stupid. I should have asked you out years ago.”

  “How did you two finally end up together?” asked Mindy.

  “He got lost a few months ago in the South Side and came into my mom’s shop to ask for directions.”

  “I ended up asking her out instead,” he said, kissing my hand.

  “And the rest is history,” said Harrison, raising his glass to us. “You two are perfect for each other.”

  For once, I agreed with Harrison. If I had a checklist of every single thing I wanted from a man, Scott met each requirement. Smart, handsome, and employed, he was not an artist or a musician or a stoner. He didn’t believe in alternative medicine. He’d never been to a reiki therapist. He had no idea what ear coning was or why anyone would do it. He was perfect and normal in every way. My only concern came from the fact my mom didn’t like him.

  When I first started dating him, she’d gotten right to the point. “Do you think you could fall in love with him, Fi?”

  I’d never said as much, even to Scott. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Judging by the expression on her face, I assumed she could think of several reasons, but wisely, she didn’t mention them. She chose a different tactic. “Is he good in the sack?”

  “I am not going to talk to you about my sex life.”

  I had no sex life, and she probably knew it. Other than two boyfriends when I was an undergrad, neither of them exceptionally remarkable, I’d been too busy studying and working to have a serious relationship. When I met Scott, I thought he had potential, but every time we’d even gotten close to having sex, something went dramatically and horribly wrong.

  Once, after a particularly romantic dinner and several bottles of wine, Scott had gotten food poisoning. Another time, I broke out in hives. The last time, he tripped on his way into the bedroom and ended up at the ER with a badly sprained ankle.

  I wasn’t about to share this information with my mom, however. She’d say it was the universe
’s way of telling us we shouldn’t be together. If so, the universe was wrong, and the less my mother knew about my relationship with Scott, the better.

  He interrupted my thoughts, pulling me back to the fancy restaurant and the company of Harrison and Mindy. “So what do you want, Fiona?”

  I stared at him blankly, and he laughed. “You’ve been looking at the menu since we sat down. What are you going to order?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The prices weren’t listed, making me a little uncomfortable. Scott always insisted on paying, but I didn’t want to take advantage. I went with vegetable pasta, certain it was one of the less expensive items.

  We ate in a comfortable silence. Harrison and Scott drank heavily. I sipped on my glass of wine, and Mindy chugged hers. The evening would have been more enjoyable if I’d been drunk, but I was painfully sober and very tired. Even the fireworks didn’t perk me up.

  A dull headache took root, and when the others wanted to go to a bar for after-dinner drinks, I begged off and said I’d take a cab home. I knew one bar would turn into two and possibly three or four. Unlike Scott, Harrison, and Mindy, I had to work in the morning. Scott gave me a sweet, sloppy kiss and paid for the taxi.

  I gave him a stern look. “Don’t drive home. You’re sloshed.”

  He kissed me again. “Sloshed? It’s so cute how you’re always taking care of me. I love that about you, Fiona. I love everything about you, in fact. You know that, right?”

  “Thank you, Scott.” My standard answer. He’d been hinting around to telling me he loved me for weeks, usually when intoxicated, but I’d never quite been able to say it back.

  Scott waved as I sped off in the taxi; he looked a little unsteady on his feet. Luckily, his apartment wasn’t far away. He lived in an elegant downtown high-rise with big windows, shiny stainless-steel appliances, and a great view of the Monongahela River. After barhopping, he’d take a taxi home, sleep it off, and pick up his car in the morning, his usual routine. It didn’t bother me, but I had no desire to join in.

  The cab let me off right in front of the café. People sat at the small tables we’d set up on the sidewalk, and others hovered near the door, listening. It was quite a crowd, and as soon as the sound of the music reached my ears, I understood why.

  Matthew sat on a barstool, strumming his guitar. Mom softly kept the beat with a set of bongos she had tucked between her legs. Moses played his saxophone, the sound twisting and winding though Matthew’s music like an intricate quilt. A young woman with braided hair and skin that glowed in the candlelight belted out a soulful melody about love and loss and hope.

  I stopped, as enthralled by the music as the others. The woman had a lovely voice, and Moses was a genius, but Matthew grabbed my attention and held it. His black shirt and jeans accentuated his sleek, muscular body. A necklace with a yin and yang symbol carved in wood hung on a leather cord around his neck. His dark hair brushed his shoulders, as soft and smooth as silk, and his elegant fingers flew skillfully over the guitar, making it moan and sing and cry with a hauntingly beautiful sound. I’d never heard anything like it, and Matthew was as mesmerizing as his music.

  As soon as the song finished, Matthew’s eyes met mine. I’d been caught watching him but couldn’t look away. This time he didn’t smile. He stared back at me, his expression as haunted and sad and beautiful as the song he’d played.

  Mom came up and touched my arm. “Isn’t he amazing?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I managed to pull my gaze away from Matthew with difficulty and turned to my mom.

  “How’s it going tonight?”

  “Quite well,” she said, giving me a worried look. “You’re back early. Did something happen?”

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. My headache was gone, but Matthew’s music had put a spell on me. I felt foggy and strange.

  “I had a little headache, but I’m fine now. I’ll help in the kitchen. I’m sure Chad is going nuts.”

  On acoustic nights, my mom closed the kitchen for hot food, selling snacks and smoothies instead. She didn’t have a license to sell alcohol, but she put a complimentary shot of vodka or rum in the smoothies if the customer wanted one. Most of them did. Some of them wanted the shots without the smoothies, so I had to be strict.

  Chad Wallace, a college student, helped us out on acoustic night since Kate couldn’t work evenings. He had his Afro tucked into a slouchy hat, and he wore an old “Free Mandela” T-shirt. There was a line about ten people long when I headed back, and he looked relieved to see me. “Thank goodness. It’s been crazy here.”

  The kitchen was the most modern room in the house, a gourmet’s dream, with top-of-the-line appliances and a marble slab for baking. We’d spent a great deal of time and money remodeling it, even turning a small butler’s pantry into a room for my mom to mix her teas and herbal concoctions, but tonight the kitchen wasn’t used for any of those things. It served as smoothie central.

  I pulled on a white apron that said “Kiss the Cook” and set to work. Soon, the line dwindled down to a more manageable number. As we made the smoothies, I listened to Matthew play and I swayed to the music, sometimes singing along when I knew the words. Chad did the same.

  “I don’t remember it ever being this busy on a Saturday night,” said Chad as he cleaned out the mixer. “It’s the guitarist. He’s great.”

  I frowned as I thought about it. He was great. Maybe even a little too great. That idea stuck in my head as we worked, and the more I thought about it, the more worried I became.

  My mom gave the last call for smoothies, and we cleaned up the kitchen. We ended the night with a piña colada smoothie and a shot of rum for ourselves, and I made one for my mom and Matthew too. Moses never drank, so I made one for him without alcohol. I took off my apron and carried the smoothies to the main room.

  It was packed, and I had to push my way through the crowd. Mom and Matthew chatted like old friends, so I set their smoothies aside and looked for Moses.

  He winked when he saw me. “Thank you for the soup, Fiona. It was wonderful. It warmed my heart as much as it filled my belly.”

  “There’s always a place set for you here, Moses.”

  I knew he’d never ask for anything. He had too much pride. I’d finally gotten him to the point where he accepted a cup of soup from me without trying to pay for it. I handed him a bag of cookies, and he grinned. “The cookie monster strikes again.”

  “Snickerdoodles. Your favorite. And I made a smoothie for you too.”

  I put it on the table next to him. He took a cookie out of the bag and moaned as the first taste of cinnamon and sugar hit his tongue. “You have magic in your fingertips, Fiona.”

  “You know how I feel about magic, Moses.”

  He laughed, taking a sip of his smoothie. “Having a mother who sees magic everywhere has made you into a cynic, young lady. Just because you can’t see it, count it, or quantify it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. The way you bake, the way you create such wonderful things to eat, if that isn’t magic, what is it?”

  “High-quality ingredients and lots and lots of butter.”

  “Call it what you might, but it tastes like magic to me. Tonight was an evening to remember, but it’s time for me to pack up my rusty old saxophone and head back home.”

  “I put your saxophone case next to the door to Mom’s office so it wouldn’t get trampled. It’s a full house tonight.” I gave him a hug. “Be careful out there, Moses.”

  He laughed. “The only things I have on me of any value are these cookies. Goodnight, baby girl, and thanks for always taking care of me.”

  “Goodnight, Moses.”

  I surveyed the room. Although crowded, the customers seemed to be having a nice time, and no one looked trashed. A good sign. I saw several people take flyers for our upcoming poetry nights, reiki sessions, and even for the tarot readings. Mom went back to the kitchen to help Chad close up, and I turned to Matthew.

  “I hop
e you like piña colada.” I took a sip. Cold, sweet, and tropical, it had a slight warm kick from the rum.

  “My favorite,” he said with a grin.

  Charming. Another bad sign. No reason a charming, handsome, sexy-like-a-French-pirate, incredibly talented guitarist would host an acoustic night for free with the smoothie being his only payment. It didn’t make sense. He could easily get a paying gig at any of the bars in the South Side.

  “Have you seen the garden yet?” I asked.

  Matthew shook his head. “I haven’t.”

  I led him back to the garden. It was mostly deserted. We sat on a bench near the crumbling stone fountain, sipping our drinks. There was hardly any mess, no broken beer bottles or piles of vomit. No one had passed out on a bench or slept half-naked under a table. Everyone had thrown away their trash, and it looked like it had even been recycled. Other than a few random candy wrappers and empty glasses, it appeared I’d have little to do Sunday morning. I might even be able to sleep in.

  “It’s so nice back here,” he said softly. “Did you do this?”

  I looked around. When my mother had inherited the house from Aunt Francesca, the garden had been a completely different space. In old photos, I’d seen nothing but a patch of lushly manicured green lawn, surrounded by rosebushes, with just the fountain in the center.

  The fountain looked ancient even then, and Mom suggested it might be older than the house itself. Of course, this played conveniently into her whole mystical spring theory, which I absolutely dismissed, but I had a feeling she might be right about the age of the fountain. It did seem pretty old.

  Aunt Francesca was in those faded photos, too, wearing flowing organza dresses, with her blonde head tilted back in laughter as she held a glass of champagne or a cup of tea in her hands. She always seemed to be throwing a party, and even as a child, I’d been obsessed with the platters of delicious-looking foods shown in the pictures. She’d been like me, a baker, not a gardener, and it had taken the loving care of my mother to truly bring this place to life.

  It really was a beautiful space now, with winding pathways, hanging plants, and eclectic artwork sprinkled throughout. The entire area wafted with the sweet aroma of flowers, some exotic and some as plain as black-eyed Susans and daisies. There were shady trees, colorful bushes, and room for ten good-size tables, which came in handy for our Sunday tea parties. The idea for those parties had come from Aunt Francesca’s weekly soirees, but the plans for the garden had come entirely from my mother. She really was a horticultural genius.