Page 4 of The Pumpkin Spice Romance
“Of course not. I’m not even sure we’ll talk it over. I feel nothing; I don’t think he does either. It was all so businesslike.”
“Well . . .” Sam sighed. “Sometimes that just happens, Lee. People grow apart.”
“But we worked together, lived together.”
“I know. I’m not saying that’s definitely what happened between you two, but you know . . . you’ve not been happy for a long time. And from what you told me, he wasn’t invested in fixing that, at least not unless there was something in it for him.”
What could she say? Her best friend was right, and they’d no doubt unpack it all over the coming months.
“You’re staying with me, of course,” Sam continued. “I can’t get off work til four, but just let yourself in if you get there first. I moved the key, but you’ll know where it is when you see what I’ve done with the porch.”
“Thanks, Sam. I’m heading to the traino now.”
Leonie averted her eyes as she passed the dental practice. There’d be lawyers to hire and papers to sign, but right now her most pressing concern was her warbling stomach and that loosey-goosey feeling that told her she needed food.
She stopped at an unfamiliar café on the corner of a quaint cross-street. The Spice Pelage—had it always been here? She didn’t recognise it, but then she hardly came this way for lunch, knowing Mark and Marla favoured the Orange Bar only half a block down.
A fat raindrop hit the centre of her scalp, and she ducked inside. As her suitcase wheeled over a jute rug on an old jarrah floor, she got the weirdest feeling that she was in someone’s home instead of an eatery. But sure enough, there was a front counter and someone taking orders.
She breathed deep. The aromas of coffee, baked butter, warm sugar and other people ebbed away her anxieties over what the next few weeks would bring. The café had a cosy way about it. Spherical lightbulbs hung from the ceiling in glowing bunches of golden grapes. A large framed print of a grey wolf peeking out from behind a tree covered the back wall. And a Native American dreamcatcher hung beside the open hatch that looked into the kitchen.
She shuffled along the line of late-lunch patrons to the first display cabinet, filled with rolls and wraps and quiches. She scanned the flour-dusted Turkish buns, glossy brioche buns, and cute potato buns that looked like they’d be super soft once bitten into. A tiny wooden sign with black printed lettering noted that everything on display was made fresh on site.
Leonie’s stomach gave its opinion, but a bad taste in her mouth from this morning—or perhaps the last few years—stifled her appetite. What she needed was quick calories, but not something bulky that dirtied up her hands while she struggled to get it into her mouth. She was tired, the kind of tired you only feel after running on empty for too long. The kind of tired she could finally let herself admit to feeling, now that she was ready to face what was long overdue.
The second cabinet was filled with sweets, with a bottom layer proudly showing two lush cakes, one hexagonal with dozens of fine gold and brown layers inside, and the other a glossy chocolate cake with a layer of desiccated coconut and red fruit paste. Another tiny sign beside it said, “Ask about our new cherry & coconut hot chocolate!”
Across the top layer was a colourful selection of macarons, slices and brownies, the latter almost all gone. But it was the final item that caught Leonie’s eye.
Tucked in the corner closest to the service area was a stack of tiny shortcrust tarts filled with a rich orange-coloured mixture, and dusted with what looked like a brown, gold and red spice. Leonie’s throat tightened as some long-lost memory bubbled up from the deep, a memory of harsh fluorescent lights and cold white tile, stark against a dainty rosewood table that had sat next to her parents’ living room entrance ever since they moved into that house.
She remembered the angry faces, the shouting. “They’re bad news, wild and violent, people like them are involved in all sorts of bad things. Do you really want to be associated with that?” Mum’s voice, fuzzed by memory, as if now spoken through water. But the words, the gestures, the tone, still cut. “Stay away from that boy.”
Leonie squeezed her handbag under her arm, as if it threatened to fall off her shoulder.
“G’day, what can I get you?” A woman’s voice brought her back. She was older with dark, curly hair streaked with grey highlights, and pale jade eyes that seemed to shine amidst her medium-brown complexion. When she smiled, Leonie noticed the boyish sharpness of her canines and the solid opaqueness of strong teeth. The woman waited patiently, even softening in sympathy when another patron grumbled about people taking too long to decide. She leaned forward and winked at Leonie. “Don’t mind them, they’re regulars.”
She tipped her chin at the grumbler who giggled and waved. “Regular trouble-makers, that is,” she added.
Still, Leonie felt embarrassed about not knowing what she wanted. What a metaphor for life that was, and she hurriedly ordered a tart, a macaron, and a cherry & coconut hot chocolate.
“Good choice,” the woman said, ringing up the order. “Have a seat, we’ll bring it out.”
Leonie picked a back table and sat facing the large wolf print. If there was even a slight chance Mark or Marla would walk past, together or apart, she didn’t want to see them. In fact, if she could avoid ever seeing either of them again, that would be great, thanks.
To her right was a four-level corner shelf, loaded with live plants and cut posies in charmingly wonky ceramic pots. She counted at least twelve different types of plants, all healthy and thriving and obviously loved. On the middle shelf sat a plush dingo with a Dingo Sanctuary keyring hanging off its ear and a yellow, red and black ribbon tied in a bow around its tail.
Leonie’s phone buzzed. “Sammy?” she answered.
“So, this is awkward . . .”
“I can’t stay over, right?”
“Well, youcan, but you won’t want to: Tommy’s sick. Apparently there’s gastro going round his daycare, and they’re only just telling me now.”
“Mm, yeah, I’ll pass. No offense.”
“Never. I’m sorry, Lee.”
