Page 55 of Turning Back

“All that school. A PhD and everything. Just to make pastries.”

“Sometimes,” Bric says, sliding out of the booth. “Sometimes the road to satisfaction is long and twisted, Rochelle. Who cares what she does with her education? I’m sure whatever she got out of that degree is helping her now. Even if it’s in some small way not easily identified.”

I watch him as he gets out his wallet and pays for breakfast. It always intrigued me how he pays for things here. Even his drinks at the bar. He always pays his way. “What time are you coming over?” I ask. And then I wonder if I sound needy.

I sorta feel needy.

“Since Quin isn’t coming until later, you wanna to go out to dinner?”

I look down at Adley and shake my head. “I like to stay in, to be honest. She’s still on new baby schedule.”

“OK,” Bric says. “I’ll bring something with me then. Have fun with Chella.”

I watch him walk off, pointing at people sitting at other tables as he makes his way to the front. He stops five or six times before he finally makes his way to the front podium and whispers something to Margaret. They both look at me, then Margaret nods, as Bric disappears to start work.

Margaret comes towards me, pushing my stroller. “He said you were ready to go,” she says, stopping at the table. “And to bring you the stroller.”

“Thanks,” I say, scooting out of the booth with Adley’s car seat. Margaret holds the stroller as I snap it in, then adjust Adley’s blankets.

“Chella is next door,” she says. “Bric says you were looking for her.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks. Is it literally right next door?”

“We have a connecting door,” Margaret says. “Would you like to go through that way?”

“Sure.” I follow her as she leads me into a short hallway, then through a revolving door—a smaller twin of the one in front of Turning Point Club—until we finally come to the tea room. “Thanks, Margaret,” I say. She smiles and disappears.

I bet she is so confused about why I’m back.

Hell, I’m starting to be confused about why I’m back.

“Hey,” Chella calls from across the room. She breaks away from another woman and starts walking towards me. When she’s close enough, she takes both my hands and we do cheek kisses. This is something I have always loved about Chella. She is money. Sophisticated, smart, and wise to the ways of socializing.

It’s a life not many can relate to. But I can. Three years with Bric has taught me a lot about that kind of stuff.

Chella is so put together today. She’s always wearing tailored suits that show off her long legs. And her hair is always pulled back into some sort of fashionable bun or braid.

Today she’s wearing cream-colored leggings with a pale pink fringe cape, and light suede over-the-knee boots. Her long dark hair is pulled back, except for a few curly tendrils that frame her face.

She looks like a fashion model.

I look down at my outfit. I’m wearing an old pair of denim jeans with more frayed holes than I can count, a blue Pagosa Spring t-shirt, shearling winter boots that have seen better days, and an old army jacket that is three sizes too big.

The only thing that saves me from looking homeless is the thousand-dollar stroller I’m pushing and the Prada tote I’m using as a diaper bag.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I was having breakfast with the guys and Bric told me you’re not at the gallery anymore.”

“No.” She laughs, wrapping my hands around her arm and pulling me to a table in the back where there are no workers. “I quit about six months ago, after I talked Bric and Smith into this tea room idea.”

“I heard. Pastry chef? I had no idea, Chella. None.”

“Well,” she says, beckoning me to take a seat. I do, and she does the same, sitting across from me. “You know how you think about doing things, when you’re little and stuff, but it’s so impractical?”

I laugh. “You mean like… playing guitar at street fairs and poetry bars?”

“Yes,” Chella says with a big smile. “I guess you know all about that. Well, to be honest, I was kinda jealous of you for that.”