“No. I…” He held onto the steering wheel even though the truck was off. “I think what your mother is doing is brave, even if she’s overwhelmed right now. And she’s lucky to have you helping her.”
“Thanks?” I said, at a loss as to where this was going. The past six hours had been so confusing.
Nick drew a deep breath, and I was suddenly certain he was going to confess his undying love for me – which I wasn’t yet ready to accept – and then when I told him that, he was going to enter the bar and drink the pain away.
I stuffed a fry into my mouth and then another, anticipating using it as an excuse not to immediately reply to his confession.
Nick exhaled and turned to face me. “I want to open a restaurant here.”
I choked on my sweet potato fries and had to spit them into my paper napkin. It took another few coughs to clear my throat and say, “Oh?”
“I know you think I should open a really high end restaurant in a big metropolis. Why wouldn’t you?” Nick looked a bit confounded. “My family thinks that’s the only reason I pursued my culinary education and I’m probably to blame for that because that was my dream when I was sixteen.” He blew out a breath, expression softening as his gaze seemed to focus on me. “But I don’t cook because I love to create new and unique flavor combinations. I mean, I do. But that’s not the only reason.” Nick tugged the brim of his knit cap over his ears, endearingly like the sensitive boy I’d spent my teenage years with. “I like food to fill people, not just their bellies but their souls. And…” He stared at me, frowning. “I’m saying this all wrong.”
“You’re not. I get it.” And I did. Nick had always been the helper in his tight-knit family and to his friends. “You want to run a restaurant where people can come and be comfortable, both with the food and the prices. It’s brilliant because while it makes you happy, it will make everyone who comes through those doors happy.” I gestured toward the vacant restaurant in front of us.
“So…you approve?” He gave me a tentative smile.
“Not that you need my blessing, but yeah.” I set my food bag on the floor on top of the duffel with my dance shoes. “Is this why you acted weird about your Santa breakfast special?”
He scratched his head. “Probably.”
“What does your mom think?”
His smile fell. “I haven’t told her.”
“Oh.” This added another layer of complication to what was going on between us – he’d told me first. “Can you… Can you show me your vision inside?”
The tension in his face eased and he smiled once more. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
We got out and stood in front of the building. It had a brick façade. The faded wooden sign above the old double doors read:Santa’s Eatery.
“I don’t remember this restaurant being open. Ever.” I noticed a small bench in front of one window. I sat down on it, wanting to get a feel for the place.
A couple walked out of Tinsel & Tonic, laughing about something. The sound of cheerful voices in the bar flowed out onto the street until the door closed once more. The couple passed the main window, which had been painted with Santa standing next to a Christmas tree. The jolly old elf was holding a martini glass, raised as if in toast.
What would Nick paint on his restaurant windows next holiday season? Would I be here to see it?
Nick sat next to me. The bench was narrower than our bench on Main Street. Our bodies touched from shoulder to knee. His warmth seeped into me, and it felt right. I didn’t move away, continuing my perusal of the street, trying to keep myself from turning and throwing myself into his arms.
Down the block, Mr. Hardy walked his German Shepherd, heading toward Main Street. Several store fronts were lifeless and dark, but above them were apartments, windows glowing with warm lights or brightly decorated Christmas trees.
“They say this block has been barely making it commercially for thirty years,” Nick told me in a quiet voice. “My realtor seems confident that this street will grow to be as popular as Main Street in a few years, if other businesses open up.”
I looked around. “This street doesn’t have all the decorations on the lamp posts like Main Street. But I suppose the town council will remedy that if businesses and customers make this another bustling part of Christmas Mountain.”
“I can only hope.” Nick settled back, relaxing more. He rested his arm across the back of my shoulders. And that felt right, too.
“What are you going to call this restaurant of yours?” I hoped not Santa’s Eatery, which seemed entirely too plain for a restaurant run by a widely-traveled and well-trained chef.
“Don’t laugh.” He touched his nose and gave it a wiggle. “But I was thinking of calling it Bowlful of Jelly.”
He thought that name was magical. I glanced up at the sign overhead. “Maybe Santa’s Eatery isn’t that bad.”
“Hey.” Nick poked my shoulder. “There’s a concept behind the name.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Okay.” He fidgeted next to me. “I want to create menu offerings that mostly include chutney.”