S2 Chapter 4: Newcomer Soup

AQUILO Season 2 Chapter 4 Newcomer's Soup. I woke up in a good mood. Who does that? Usually, my first thought when I wake up is to wonder and fear what the next catastrophe is going to be. Actually... That's my second thought. My first one is for breakfast, but the second one is definitely the pessimistic, dark cloud over my day thing. Today's different, and let's not beat around the bush too long. It's entirely because of Peter.

I want to say that it's him as a person. He's awfully charming, and he's cute in a disarming way. It's difficult not to feel safe around him and like you're the center of the world, but... I think it's the idea of him that does it. You think that's enough eggs? Gulliver's voice is as full of anticipation as my plate is full of poached eggs and hollandaise.

He's leaning over the counter taking full advantage of his height to spill over onto my side. There's a twinkle in his eye that quietly demands that I dish. I'm starving but I don't want to have too many carbs. Feels like all I've been eating since I moved here are buttered croissants and brioche. I need some protein and some fiber and exercise. Otherwise, Peter might lose interest. That's the thing.

It's not Peter that's giving me this sunny disposition. It's the interest. As a young woman, it feels good to have someone turn their eye towards me. I don't mind being single. I probably do better on my own. Imagine if I'd had to split my time between the aquilo and a boyfriend for the last few months. Either the cafe or the relationship would have been a disaster in the best of scenarios. More likely that both would have failed like a pair of deflated souffles.

This is healthy, though. I can feel wanted without having to commit to anything or anyone. It's liberating and feeds that part of my ego that's been starving, while I can put the other side on something of a diet.

Who knew balance could feel so good? Peter's fine, I answer, committing to nothing. The morning crowd is being a little quiet today, and I have to admit, a little sparse. Not that I have much to worry about. My regulars are still there for the most part, and I suspect summer makes a few people take vacations and leave town for a week or two. They'll be back to eat out of my hand in no time. I bet he is.

Gulliver comments, leaving little subtlety to his meaning. What did you guys talk about? I dig into my eggs. They taste delicious, with just the right amount of seasoning and not too runny. I wish I had some English muffins to go with them, and make a mental note to make some later in the week. Gulliver looms over me like a shadow, casting his massive silhouette against the Aequilo's front window.

Deliberate and smiling, I take my time with each bite, letting him stew in his anticipation. Truth is, there isn't that much to say. To be honest, mostly about Aquilo. He had so many questions about the town and a few about me. Did you find out where they're from? Ah, there it is again. They. I don't think my big friend has any interest in finding out more about Peter or even what we actually talked about. If I were a betting woman, I'd put all my money that this is about Agnes. They.

I put emphasis on the word, are from the city. But I didn't think to ask which one. I don't think they're from Montreal, and Peter's English is impeccable, so I doubt it's Quebec City. Maybe New York or Boston? How long do you think they'll stick around? I didn't ask. What about Agnes? Agnes? I ask, allowing for as much disdain in my voice as feels polite. Agnes is a brat.

And that's only because I'm too nice to use the real B-word she deserves. That seems harsh, though accurate. It's Olivia who cuts in as she passes the door. She's been working for me for a month now, but it's done nothing to change her habits as a customer. The way she separates her time as a barista and as a civilian is efficient if a little strange.

The Olivia who buys coffee with cream and sugar is a different Olivia from the one who sells them. Customer Olivia is calm and relaxed. Meanwhile, I've seen barista Olivia stare down the coffee machine when it was misbehaving one day. I haven't checked, but I worry what she might do to the raccoons if they were to cross her. That she comes in with a sharp tongue about Peter's sister speaks volumes about her opinion. I think you're both being too hard on her.

Gulliver says. He hasn't touched his copious breakfast of a chocolate croissant and discount pistachio marzipan petit for in a while. To me, it seems like she's dealing with stuff. I put my fork down and take a moment to make Olivia her usual. The coffee machine hasn't been giving me any trouble for a while, but I still approach it with some measure of caution. No sense taking chances with the traitorous contraption.

I can't imagine the stuff she's been dealing with that could excuse her behavior. What? That little outburst? If you ask me, Peter deserved to have his head bitten off. The dig at Peter stings more than it should. Why should I care if Gulliver doesn't like him? What really gets me, though, is this infatuation of Gulliver's.

It's obvious Agnes isn't going to reciprocate, and the last thing I want my friend to suffer is unrequited attraction to someone who's apparently collecting behavioral issues. That little outburst is just the icing on the cake.

I warn him, handing Olivia her coffee. Olivia, what did you tell me about the Aquilo tree when I first moved here? She settles down next to Gulliver, quickly pulling her mug to her mouth to take a burning sip. Wait. It's Gulliver's turn to cut in. What else did Agnes do? I ignore him. I don't want to talk about Agnes, and I'm really hoping Gulliver gets the hint. I wish he could see himself and how he behaves.

Then perhaps he'd have more self-control. You said something about fruits that can grant miracles? Mm-hmm, Olivia says, mugs still on her lips, savoring the drink. I said it feeds on pain and produces miraculous fruits. And those fruits grant wishes, I insist. It doesn't matter, she explains. There's no such thing as an aquilow tree.

I can tell there's more to it than that. Olivia isn't one to avert her eyes in a conversation, but right now she'd rather be looking at anything but my face. Why won't you just tell me what you know about it? Because... she says, stretching the word a little, hesitating with her answer. Another decidedly un-Olivia thing to do. You're not the one asking.

You've been here coming up on a year, and you've never once questioned me about that tree. Why now? Now she locks her gaze on mine. She doesn't let me read her features, but won't allow me the luxury of being as evasive. Gulliver speaks up before I can answer, though. What did Agnes do, Miriam? I ignore his interruption. At this point, he's being more of a pest than anything else. Because...

I stall. Because now I've got time to think about this kind of stuff. You're the one who wanted me to take some time for myself. Now that I get a minute here and there, I get curious. I don't know if you've noticed, Olivia. I lean in, cupping my hand to my mouth as if I'm about to whisper a secret. But this town is really weird. She sighs, then smiles, rolling her eyes in that exaggerated way that tells me she's going to play along.

Olivia opens her mouth, but her answer never makes it out. Miriam. Gulliver cuts in again, aggressive this time. I feel echoes of the first time he and I were here, in the Aquilo. I was afraid of him then for a whole list of reasons that turned out to be misunderstandings. Today, his attitude makes me reconsider the comfort I allowed to grow between us. What did Agnes do? Fine.

I think. You want to know what your precious little subjective infatuation did? Agnes found Peter and I at the Lady Godiva last night. She was pissed at him for some reason, but didn't bother to explain any of it. Want to know what she did instead? Gulliver doesn't want to know. Maybe he thinks he does. Maybe he assumes I'm just resentful to have had my date interrupted, that I'm making a loaf of bread out of a breadcrumb. He nods, a little stunned at how aggressive I've become.

She yelled at Peter to stay away from me, called him all sorts of names, and before he could even say a single word to defend himself, she grabbed a beer bottle from a nearby table, shattered it, and then slashed him across the face. I let the story sink in for a second. That's right, I think again. You have a crush on a psycho. Is he okay? Olivia asks. I...

I try to answer, but only then do I realize that I don't remember. I have no idea what happened after that. Did I take Peter to the hospital? It feels like I might. It's the kind of thing I would have done, the kind of thing I've been brought up to do. So why don't I remember any of it? All I remember is waking up in bed, feeling happier for a morning than I have in a long while.

What happened to Agnes and Peter? Is she okay? The cool, calming voice asking the question is none other than Helen Edna, notary public. She stands at the register wearing a beige pantsuit that would look horrendous on just about anyone else. On her, it looks suitably forgettable. Eyes like blueberry sorbet inspect me with clinical precision.

reading me from unkempt hair to worn sneakers. A clear picture of Peter's face lacerated by a broken beer bottle lingers in the back of my mind, holding me back from doing my job. I don't know. Gulliver answers. She went into a sort of fugue state for a second. Oh? Helen asks, her tone flavored with sarcasm. Is that your official diagnosis, Mr. Kemper?

I'm not in a fugue, I interrupt, trying to cut their inevitable argument short. I'm just trying to remember. Her hands going through the practiced motions of pulling out a wallet and paying for an order I have yet to prepare, Helen frowns at me. Remember what? How my evening ended last night. I remember someone getting wounded, but nothing after that. You'd think I'd remember something like that.

I don't think it's unheard of to forget traumatic events. Olivia puts a hand on my forearm from across the counter. How bad was Peter's wound? Did the police show up? I don't know. Frustrated, I shake Olivia's hand off and busy myself preparing Helen's order. Her explanation makes plenty of sense, but why would my memory betray me like this?

I can pull the recipes for three different kinds of macarons from it without breaking a sweat, but I can't remember what happened last night. Interesting, Helen says, putting away the change I give back to her. I had a client turn up 23 minutes late to an appointment yesterday. Says he couldn't remember his morning. This is too much. I'm sorry?

My mind feels as thick as maple syrup, and I can't understand what she's saying. What's too much? The change. This is more money than I gave you. I thought Miss Fig was working shifts for you, Miriam. Shouldn't you be more rested now? No. I take the money back. I mean, I am, but who was late for their appointment? She pauses and squints.

Her eyes are still on me, but she's not seeing my face. I've seen Helen like this. She's having a conversation with herself, trying to decide something. Hmm. I don't suppose there's any harm in it. Mr. Michael Duhamel, though I can't discuss the nature of our meeting, of course. Michael, the painter. A good client, and I like the guy, but I can't see any overlap between his experience and mine.

He's older and might have just lost track of time. Then again, I'm wary of coincidences in Aquilo. Miriam? Helen picks up her coffee but graces me with a little taste of compassion. Are we going to need to have another talk about your work and sleep habits? But I've been getting more sleep. Just yesterday, everything was looking so good. I had the demon in check and my whole business and personal life sorted out.

I could even contemplate dating for the first time since Trevor. What happened to my memory? No, I answered, defeated. This feels just like when Chef Gagnon would chew me out. I know I'm right, but I have nothing to prove it. All I can do is sit here and take it. Admonishment from Gagnon and pity from Helen Etna. I'm fine. Well, Helen says, turning to walk out the door.

Here's your chance to get some answers and sort all of this out. The door opens before her, pulled by a gentleman's hand. She passes through the threshold, nodding her thanks with a rare smile on her lips. Peter. she says in greeting helen peter answers impeccably polite he's here the way the name helen comes out of his mouth is just as sunny and enthusiastic as anything else i've heard him say if he's wounded

He doesn't sound like it at all. Agnes, Helen's voice says, vanishing into the morning outside. The only answer she gets this time is the bastard child of a sigh and a growl. Helen is nothing if not professional. And I mean that in the most literal sense. I suspect she'd fade away like salt in warm water if it wasn't for her job. She gives Agnes a polite nod, but otherwise ignores the rude behavior.

I swallow hard, a lump like an uncracked walnut lodged in my trachea. I expect Peter to have a line of stitches across his cheek, or, if I'm lucky, a less unsightly bandage. But when he steps out from in front of the light and I can finally get a good look at his features, they're completely unscathed. Not in the sense that the cut is shallow or more superficial than I thought. There's nothing.

His skin is as pristine as the first time he walked into the Aquilo. Pale like the moon, but otherwise as smooth as a ceramic dish. Good morning, Miriam, he says, the most sincere smile painted on his face. Glad to see you're feeling better. Glad that I'm better? I'm as incredulous as I'm outraged. I'm glad that you're better. How?

Without allowing his smile to falter, Peter changes his look to one of confusion, mostly by furrowing his brow with concern. I'm fine, he says. It's you who had a bit of an episode last night. Not that I blame you. You seem terribly overworked. But I'm not. I want to yell at him that I'm not tired.

I've been doing so well since last month. With Olivia's help and all the tips Helen gave me, I've gotten my life in control. I keep strict hours at the cafe and stricter hours in the kitchen making food for customers. I allow myself at least an hour a day of leisure and six to seven hours of sleep each night. I've even started taking daily walks around the neighborhood. It's been wonderful for my health, and I've learned so much about the town.

There's a delicious little Italian restaurant a few blocks away, and I've been dying to talk to the owner about his cabanara. I'm the furthest from a breakdown that I've been in years. But Peter's cheek is as undamaged as the day he was born. Agnes, abrasive and unpleasant, sure, but she's still at his side. Whatever it was I thought I saw last night, I must have imagined it. or dreamed it during a fitful night. I had a breakdown? Words filter through my lips, coming out as a shy whisper.

the gaze of my friends has a physical weight on my skin and i can feel each of their eyes pressing on me oh no his smile cracks revealing worry underneath not a breakdown nothing so dramatic You were just very tired, right, Agnes? The question comes as a surprise to his sister. Her head snaps to look at him, and if I were to translate her expression to words, it would say, how dare you?

It takes a moment for her to turn back to face me, and longer for her to answer, but eventually, with as much effort as pushing the sun up a hill, she mumbles a timid, yes. What happened? I ask. You started nodding off and I escorted you back home. Don't worry. I was a perfect gentleman. His words are meant to reassure, but a shiver crawls up my spine.

Bad enough that I lost the memories of part of my evening, but that I was completely at the mercy of what amounts to a stranger for the duration? It's fortunate indeed that Peter is as much of a gentleman as he claims. Right.

Sorry I ruined our... evening. Our what, Miriam? What do you want this to have been, exactly? While my mind has been struggling, my hands have been busy. Mechanically, they've been putting together an iced latte, filling it up with as much sweet syrup as my own sensibilities will permit. Not at all. It was very pleasant. I'm looking forward to next time.

I damn near drop the ice-filled glass in my hands. Next time? Did I agree to a next time? I catch some looks from a handful of patrons, and I could swear most of them are hostile, brimming with jealousy. Even Ian, the leader of the cloud-worshiping cult, looks furious at this turn of events. Meanwhile, Agnes has snuck around the other customers and found her way to the display under the counter.

Her face is pressed against the glass, and her eyes are almost soft as they wash over each row of pastry, letting her irises flirt with every treat. But it's on the leftover pistachio marzipan petit four that they stop. I'll have these, she says, her voice soft but sufficient to be heard in the awkward silence. Uh, how many? All of them. I should argue. They're not fresh, and there's another five of them there.

Agnes has shown herself to be voracious, but that's a lot of cake designed to fill an unfillable stomach. But if I don't sell them today, I won't sell them at all. and I have to make a fresh batch before next week if I have any hope of fulfilling my duties to the hunger demon. With a shrug, I bend down and start putting the petit four in a box for her, wondering what Peter is doing while my attention is elsewhere. Let me pay for that.

He says, standing at the register, just above my left shoulder. I have to go now, but Agnes? Don't forget to ask. His hand offers a crisp $20 bill, but it moves away when his sister protests. I don't want to. We had a deal, Agnes. I wouldn't say Peter looks mad, but he's all business in a way that would make Helen Edna and Notary Public either jealous or proud. He taps the bill in his hand on his face.

Right where the cut would have been, if he'd received it anywhere but in my dreams. The bill drops on the counter. Peter gives me a final nod before turning away towards the door. We all watch him leave like dogs watch their owners abandon them for the day. I bet a few of us would have whimpered, too. The moment the chimes go silent and Peter is out of sight, all eyes turn to Agnes. My cakes, she insists. Honey.

Olivia leans from her seat towards the girl. Weren't you going to ask something? Yeah, Gulliver adds his voice. Anything we can do, we'll be glad to help. We're that kind of community. Whatever Gulliver wanted to convey, it doesn't work. Agnes recoils from his offer with a disgust you can almost smell. I just want my cakes and coffee. Please.

She says please not for her food, but to be allowed to leave without asking us whatever it was she and her brother had agreed she should. Which makes me all the more curious. I still have the cakes in my hand. It would be easy, and it's so tempting, to hold them and see what a question is. But I'm not a monster. I slide the box across the counter to her, and I keep a finger on top.

She can pull them out from under there and run off with them. I wouldn't put up a fight. It's what I expect her to do. What did you want to ask? She puts a finger of her own on the box. Not enough to take it. Just lay her claim. She doesn't meet my gaze, fixated instead on her sugary meal. A look of sensuous hunger on her face.

Most of the café has gone back to their own business, but the few of my friends and regulars who sit at the counter and hang out with me almost every day are all prisoners of what Agnes is going to say next. Can I have a job? Agnes didn't ask the question. She just stated what the question was. She's not looking for an answer, either. The way she stares me down, like a bored house cat who just puked a hairball on my favorite rug.

she might as well be daring me to refuse. Not an inch of that girl wants to work here. Having to deal with customers and orders all day long. Having to take complaints with a smile, with no authority to even question them. making coffee tossing garbage wiping tables and mopping floors i love every moment because this is my coffee shop each drop of sweat i pour into it is a drop into the shallow pool of my future

Part of me wants to say yes, just to watch her squirm and scramble to figure a way out. It would be amusing to call her bluff, but she could just as easily call mine. I don't need another employee. I certainly can't pay another employee, especially if they expect a living wage. No, I say, following up with a tight-lipped, apologetic smile. Agnes seems to deflate with the answer.

Whatever fear she had that I might actually offer her work, draining out in a sigh. I'm sorry. I continue, also relieved that she and I are on the same page. I've already got someone working here, and there's only so much work available. I nudge my head towards Olivia, who's still sitting on her stool, holding an empty cup and listening to the conversation. I should have kept my damn mouth shut. Oh, me? Olivia pipes up. Actually...

I was going to give my resignation. I'd be glad for Agnes to have my spot if she wants it. As slow and incandescent as molten lava, Agnes and I turn our heads and quiet ire towards Olivia. Why would you say that? I want to ask her. Have I, at any point since this gloomy, pissed-off girl walked into the Aquilo, given any sign that I want her to spend more time here?

That I would trust her with the keys to the register, let alone the use of my kitchen? What, what are you talking about? I ask, maybe a little too outraged. Honey? I said I'd try to help out as long as I could, until you found someone else. Well, Henry needs me to do more work on the road and take care of the books and purchasing for the cider business.

A lot of boring stuff, and I was going to put it off as long as I could, but serendipity, she does provide, don't she? Serendipity can jump off a cliff, or better yet, go on a date with the hunger demon for all I care. I am not hiring a pissed-off teenager. I give Agnes a quick look and a smile, putting up an index finger as if to tell her, don't worry, I'll have this sorted out in a minute. She nods her understanding, and I get right back to it.

but I see that Olivia's already picked up some reinforcements. I think it's fate, Gulliver pipes in. Shut your damn mouth, Edmund. We all know why you want me to give Agnes this job. That's what I want to say. but I'm well aware of the delicate ground I'm walking on maintaining this facade of amicability. Aha, you know I don't believe in things like fate. What do you mean? Gulliver seems genuinely taken aback.

Aren't you a witch? Olivia's eyes bulge out and my fists close into balls so tight they may very well collapse into black holes. I am not a witch. Witch in training, maybe. The café is so far the only part of Doris's legacy that I've fully embraced. The witchcraft is more of a hobby of necessity, not a vocation. Most importantly, though, we do not speak of witchcraft and demons to outsiders. Doris was a witch, I explained through gritted teeth. I'm a chef and baker.

I can see how he'd make that mistake, Agnes interrupts. Oh no, her tone is all soft and has lost all of its edge. Something's changed at the mention of witchcraft. I may have lost my only ally in this fight. What? I ask, hoping for a sarcastic answer, something mean-spirited to reassure me she doesn't suddenly want the job. I've tasted your pastries, and...

She shrugs. They're so good, they might as well be witchcraft. Especially those pistachio things. You bitch, I think. Right in the ego, too. Mm-hmm. Olivia half-squints and smiles the smile of victory. Besides, sounds like Peter would have been happy if you gave his sister a job. A bit of responsibility is a great growing experience for a young girl, wouldn't you say?

And now my best friend goes for my heart. Or libido. I'm not sure which. But bringing Peter into this is a low blow. This will not be forgotten, Fig. Nor will it remain unpunished. Fine, I sigh, then put on my best imitation of a sincere smile. Can you be here at 5 a.m. tomorrow morning, Agnes? I'll give you some training and you can shadow me for the day and learn the ropes.

The girl, Ari a hint of her usual bitterness and anger to be seen, smiles and nods. There's almost a spring in her step as she makes her way to the door. I'm sure it'll be great to discover what it is about working for a so-called witch that made her change her tune about the job. I can't see that backfiring at all. Olivia, I ask without turning to look at her. Mm-hmm. You're fired. Don't I get two weeks' notice first? She asks, barely suppressing her laughter. Don't sass me, woman.

I'm going to have to talk with Helen Edna about what my actual obligations to Olivia are. Of course, I'm not going to actually fire her, but there's all the business of compensating vacation time and what to do about insurance payments and probably a dozen other bureaucratic details I don't even know about.

At least I'm already familiar with the tedium of hiring someone and can probably handle that myself. This is exactly what Olivia meant about how a young woman grows through responsibility, I suppose. A year ago, I wouldn't have dreamt of learning the ins and outs of running a business and handling staff, yet here I am. All stuff that will be indispensable for me when I get my chain of gourmet restaurants. Serendipity, indeed.

I walk into the kitchen, both to have a moment to myself and to do a bit of inventory. I'll need to place orders tomorrow, and I won't have time to count bags of flour, examine my supply of spices, sugar, and check how many bottles of olive oil I have left. not while babysitting Agnes at the same time. When I come out, Olivia's gone. Gulliver is still sipping from his mug, though God only knows what's in it at this point.

I move to offer him a refill when my attention is attracted by someone else at the far end of the counter. A polite, if not very subtle, clearing of the throat reminds me that there were other clients sitting here. This one, wearing a drab, tan-colored cardigan and a pair of wire-framed glasses, is none other than Detective L'Amour. L'Amour doesn't come to the Aquilo often. The café is far too trendy for his tastes, especially since I took it over.

The detective prefers his donuts mass-produced and his coffee black and oily. He's a kind old man, careful of movement and gentle of talk, but he's a traditionalist. Stuck in his ways, if you will. That being said... He'll sometimes drop by. Both as a duty to the community, keeping himself visible and informed, as much as for my Nanaimo bars. Apparently, I'm the only one who makes them with real butter around here instead of margarine.

Probably because I'm not a monster and I don't go about creating abominations. I'm sorry, detective, I say, taking the coffee pot and walking over to offer to warm his mug. You were so quiet, I forgot you were there. He puts his thin, wrinkled fingers over the top of his mug and folds up the newspaper he was reading. Oh, don't worry, Miss Dufour. Not being noticed is something I'm very comfortable with. No more coffee for me. I was just on my way out, but...

Standing up, he leans over the counter. It's something that requires a bit of effort from his old bones, and he adds a nudge of his head to make sure I don't miss what he means. Come closer, I have a secret. I couldn't help overhearing your conversation earlier and... And? I lean in so his lips are almost touching my ears. I can smell chocolate and coffee and a mint lozenge on his breath. And I thought you should know.

We did have a call last night about an altercation at the Lady Godiva. Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoy the show, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. You have no idea how much it helps. Want to support the show? Buy us a coffee. Visit ko-fi.com to donate a cup. Questions? Comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail dot com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.