Page 8 of The Uncomplicated Café
CeCe sighed. “I’ll work on it.”
Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it from her back pocket.
Hi, sweetie. Dad called. He won’t be home tonight after all. The expedition has been extended by a few more weeks, maybe months.
CeCe stared at the screen, her fingers clenched tightly around her phone. He’d canceled. Last minute.Again. Did he even care what he put them through?
“Well,” she said, her throat hoarse. At the crack in her voice, she swallowed her emotions. “I may have to work a little harder on not being bitter. Dad isn’t coming home.”
Spock sat back on his haunches, his amber eyes soft, almost sympathetic.
She blinked hard, fighting the urge to cry.Indifference, CeCe. Don’t let him get to you. “It’s fine. It’s not like it’s a big shock.”
Spock hopped onto the counter and nudged her hand.
She smiled weakly, sliding her fingers through his silky fur. “You’re more of a softy than you let on. You know that, right?”
Spock purred.
CeCe sniffled, already feeling bolstered by his uncharacteristic bout of affection. “On the bright side, if Dad isn’t coming, that means more curry goat for me.”
Spock mewed.
“And you,” she added with a laugh. She quickly composed a response to her mother and hit Send.
Sorry to hear that, Mama. I’ll be over soon, and I’m bringing dessert.
She’d made an extra four-inch Toto cake with lime glaze, knowing her parents would love it.
It’s Friday night. I’m sure young people have better things to do than have dinner alone with their mother. I’m fine. I’ll pack up the leftovers for you. Go out and have a good time. Maybe call that boy who asked you to dinnerafter church last Sunday.
Her mother added a winking emoji to her text, but CeCe knew an attempt at deflection when she saw one. She also knew her mother didn’t want her to come over because she planned to spend the entire evening crying into her curry—the curry she’d slaved over for hours in loving preparation for her husband who, once again, didn’t have the decency to fulfill a promise.
The familiar flame of protective indignation burned hot inside her stomach. When would her mother realize he wasn’t worth her tears?
I’m coming over. We can watch a movie or work on that puzzle you got last week.
She hated to think of her mother alone, wallowing over a man who probably wouldn’t give her a second thought.
Really, sweetheart. I’m fine. I got a new historical fiction novel from the Unbound Bookshop that I’ve been dying to read.
But you won’t actually read it tonight, will you?CeCe thought but decided not to press further.
Okay. Love you, Mama.
Love you, too, ma chouquette.
CeCe’s chest squeezed at the sight of the familiar nickname—the nickname given to her at birth by her father, who’d been born in France. The endearment translated tomy little one, and more literally referred to a small choux pastry. A pastry her father had taught her how to make, along with several other delicious French desserts. In truth, her love of baking began with those lessons, rare fond memories of her father from her childhood. But now, CeCe attributed her culinary passions to her mother and her mother alone.
After fixing herself a simple meal, she drew a hot bubble bath infused with coconut milk and lavender essential oils. While the tub filled, she threw her hair into a messy topknot and slathered a mixture of oatmeal and honey on her face—another one of her mother’s DIY beauty treatments.
As she looked in the mirror, she tried not to notice the features she’d inherited from her father—her slightly lighter skin tone courtesy of her biracial heritage, the smattering of freckles across her nose, and the dimple in her left cheek. She was her mother’s daughter, through and through, and that’s all she wanted to be.
She slid her toes into the steaming suds, then paused when her phone buzzed on the bathroom counter. Balancing on one foot, she checked the message.
Just left some curry goat on your doorstep. Love you.
CeCe gazed longingly at the mound of fragrant foam calling her name. The curry would be fine outside for a few hours, wouldn’t it? With a sigh, she slipped on her well-worn bathrobe, deciding it wasn’t worth the risk.
