An Unfinished Story(6)
Ever since opening nearly a decade ago, Leo’s South had been an institution. In the wake of their inability to have children, this café had become Claire’s baby, and she wished her father could have seen it come to life. She wasn’t solving the world’s problems, but she was adding a little light to this already colorful blip on the map. Novelists had penned fine books here. Artists had sold their first works. Eckerd College students had collected their first paychecks. Business deals had been hashed out over avocado toast and huevos rancheros. Countless families had connected for their first meal after arriving for their weeklong beach retreat. No, she wasn’t curing cancer, but she’d created a place that was as much a part of Pass-a-Grille as the dolphins, the seahorses, the stingrays, and even the sand upon which it was built.
David had helped design the building. Though his expertise had been in designing modern condominiums and office buildings for the budding downtown of St. Pete, she wanted beach-town simplicity. Where he was worried about hurricanes and would have designed some sort of Category Five hurricane-proof structure ready to handle anything from weather events to nuclear disaster, she wanted something light and airy with barely any structure at all, a posh tiki hut with sand on the floor.
Her lenses lightened as Claire started into the café. The ping of silverware hitting plates and the laughter of the happy guests met her ears in a glorious symphony. Her father would be so proud of her. Leo had taught her everything, most of all the importance of simplicity. The same one-page menu, along with a fresh catch of the day, was served from seven to two, every day but Mondays, and they were all out the door by three. Keep it simple. Keep it amazing.
She was happy to hear Jimmy Cliff singing through the speakers. Some of the servers had been changing the music when Claire left, and she didn’t particularly share their taste. Leo’s South had a laid-back air, and the music needed to fit the ambience. She played mostly reggae, though she allowed some old-school soul from time to time.
Her café was an extension of her own style: colorful boho chic. The floor was white, powdery sand, and on one wall hung a NO SHOES ALLOWED sign, which Claire had assured the inspector from the health department was a joke. Potted tropical plants filled every available space. One of her favorite ideas to date, an Oriental rug stretched out over the sand, enhanced by an overhead crystal chandelier. The driftwood tables on the rug offered the best seats in the house.
“How we doing?” Claire asked the teenage hostess, who was three days into the first job of her life.
“It hasn’t slowed down once,” she said, wide eyed and short of breath.
Claire flashed a smile. “’Tis the season.” February was the height of snowbird season and was typically one of their best two months.
She walked behind the bar, waved at Chef Jackson frying eggs on the stove and Paulie pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven. She said hello to Jevaun from Jamaica, who was mixing up a line of screwdrivers, the aroma of fresh Florida citrus rising brightly into the air. His long dreads were tied up and wrapped in a net.
In a heavy accent, he said, “That Jimmy Cliff sounds good, yeah?”
Claire had thought she was a reggae aficionado until she’d hired Jevaun. “It’s definitely brightening up my day. What’s new with you?”
“Oh, just the birds and bees, my dear. Mi life irie.” She knew he was working two jobs to pay alimony for a wife who’d run out on him and child support for twin boys he never got to see. But Jevaun still found a way to smile.
“That makes me happy.” She stole an orange wedge. “I’m gonna go make the rounds.”
He looked at the next drink ticket in line, fully devoted to doing his part well. “Do yu ting.”
Claire glanced back at the kitchen and then bounced her eyes around the room at the servers running around trying to keep the guests happy. She would never have made it through losing David without everyone at the restaurant. This was her family.
Coming out from behind the bar, Claire dodged one of her servers, Alicia, who was ushering a tray of food. Claire glanced at the omelet on one of the plates, a mixture of duck and chicken eggs from a tiny farm in Palmetto, topped with fresh mint and dill from the large herb garden surrounding the perimeter of the patio out back. The plating was just as she wanted it.
Claire visited with each table, staying a little longer with the guests she knew. When she stepped outside to the crowded patio, a friend waved at her from a two-top in the corner next to one of the long, raised garden beds spilling over with herbs.
Didi, an older woman from her widows’ support group, was seated across from a much younger man.
“You’re very sweet to come today,” Claire said, straightening her glasses.
Didi looked stylish in her St. John dress, and her dark hair was pulled back, exposing stunning emerald earrings. Admiring her friend’s clear skin and elegant smile, Claire could only hope she’d age so well. Didi set down her fork.
“Darling, I don’t need an excuse to come eat at my favorite restaurant.” Didi’s dialect stemmed from sixty-plus years living within close proximity to Central Park—a lady who’d enjoyed countless performances in her box seat in Carnegie Hall and who’d sent her children to the same private school she’d attended so many years before.
Claire had met Didi at one of the group meetings, and Didi had become her mentor. Along with Claire’s desire to age as gracefully as Didi, she hoped she might one day recover as triumphantly. Not that Claire wanted to start dating again—she wasn’t there yet—but she at least wanted to get her life back.