Scars don’t show in the shadows. It was one of the first things Hans had said to her after the accident. He didn’t mean her to take it so much to heart, but at the time, it saved her. She took the café job he offered, with no experience or inclination. It was a lifeline. A moment of anonymity in the place she still wanted to be a part of. A reason to stay. They’d had some laughs along the way too, it hadn’t all been doom and gloom.
Checking the calendar on the wall behind the large till, she smiled once more. This time a far broader grin, one that Alice in Wonderland might baulk at on sight.
‘Croissant Death Day,’ she declared to herself excitedly. ‘Oh Hans, my friend, you are in for a treat.’ Reaching for one of the files on her recipe bookshelf, she thumbed through her scribblings, looking for something special.
The very fact that she owned a book full of recipes would have been unheard of half a decade ago, but now it felt like home as she flicked through the handwritten pages. An occasional mark from a bit of dropped batter punctuated the pages of cut-outs from magazines and little photos of Rebecca’s handiwork; on some of them, Hans and Holly had rated them Bake Off style. That was back in the early days, when Hans lived here and he was showing her the waitress ropes. She had recovered enough to go home, but the ticket for the flight had been stuck in her bag since her mother had sent it. Hans and Holly gave her the means to stay, and she had fallen right into the gig without really thinking about her next move in life. Little did I know I’d end up running the place. Rebecca smiled at Holly’s moist rating on one of them. Her strawberry tart design had gained the coveted five tongues for supreme moistness, and it still made her laugh every time she saw it. Not today’s chosen recipe though. Today she knew exactly what she was looking for. One of her first creations. The one that made Hans and Holly shudder at the thought of. After the pressure of her morning, she was ready to have a little fun with her friends. Get her routine right back into its happy little rut.
*
Luke ruffled his hand through his sandy-brown hair with an un-gloved hand, the index finger of the thick material dangling from his mouth as he looked up at the gorgeous wood and glass café in front of him. His footwear was now as much use as a chocolate fireguard, and his feet felt like blocks of ice. Or more like concrete, truth be told. He couldn’t feel anything below the waist, so even seeing his boot-clad feet still attached to his legs gave him a flooding sense of relief. Squinting against the bright glare of the snow, he took off his black-rimmed glasses and peered once more at the screen on the phone in his frozen hand. This was the place, and it looked even better than the pictures he’d been poring over in the taxi. This was something that he was discovering more and more in recent days. Luke’s learning curve was not really a curve, but rather more of a vertical incline. He still had nausea from the last-minute white-knuckle plane dash across the world. He wasn’t exactly an experienced flyer, in fact, he’d never really been anywhere before this. Work had always offered him the opportunity to travel, see more of the world, but he’d never pulled the trigger. He’d been busy enough staying close to home.
His phone hadn’t stopped bonging at him since he’d landed either. His clients were in some kind of meltdown, it seemed, and standing there, he could jolly well relate to how they felt. He felt like he could throw up or pass out, or an eye-boggling combination of the two. Right now, he didn’t just wish for better boots, he wished for sparkly red shoes. Christ, he would bang those things together three times before anyone could even utter the word wimp. No wonder his dad hadn’t wanted him around. Luke had called again the second he landed but the news was still the same.
He’s comfortable. No, he’s not talking yet. No, he still doesn’t want to speak to you.
He sighed to himself, putting his glove back on and heading for the entrance. He wouldn’t have the heels anyway. If this was Oz, he’d have the paws of a cowardly lion. Following some crazy dream his parents had before he was born was uncharacteristic, sure, he was crapping his pants at the prospect of actually following it through. But the memory of watching his old man in that hospital bed spurred him on, Luke could see in his withdrawn expression that he had given up on life, and now it was his responsibility to show his dad that he still had something to live for.
Standing right outside the entrance to the café, he gathered himself, taking a breath.
‘Well, old man,’ he muttered. ‘Here goes nothing.’
He grappled
