Slices of Life (7 page)

Mike chuckled. “I’ll put some coffee on. You look like you could use it.”

It took a very special kind of human to do what Mike and Cammie and all the wonderful people she’d met along this journey of Keith’s did. They didn’t show pity or over-sympathize. They were simply gentle and nurturing and compassionate. Their touches, their voices, their expressions, everything radiated kindness and warmth. Kate would never understand how they could be around so much sadness, sickness, and death all the time and not want to just crawl into a hole. Or scream. Or break things. Whatever the answer, she would be forever grateful to them. At least Keith would pass away with some modicum of dignity thanks to the humanity of the caretakers surrounding him.

***

After two mugs of Mike’s excellent coffee and a quick shower, Kate kissed her brother on the forehead, stroked a hand over his now clean-shaven cheek, and worked hard to tamp down the sudden feeling that she didn’t have a lot of time left with him. Honestly, it would be a relief to not have to care for him on such an intense level—it was emotionally and physically draining, and she felt like a limp dishrag so much of the time. But the thought of life without her little brother put a lump so solidly in her throat that it felt permanent. Standing next to his bed for a few extra moments allowed her to collect herself and blink back the sudden tears that threatened. She took a deep breath and thanked Mike, then headed out.

The restaurant was open for lunch and Charlotte usually had no trouble handling things, but Kate liked to wander in and sit in the office. She looked at potential new dishes for specials, updated the website, talked to suppliers. Sometimes, she just read the paper. It was her second home, and lately, it was her escape, her sanctuary. On her way, she made her usual stop at her favorite local coffee shop and was greeted with a huge smile by the same young girl who worked there every day.

“Morning, Lindsay,” she said as the girl flashed her that cute smile. She couldn’t have been more than twenty or twenty-five, but Kate thought she was adorable, often joking with Jason that she felt like a dirty old man whenever she ordered there. That was funny because Lindsay was
so
not her type, regardless of age. She had a funky, angular haircut dyed jet-black, a hoop in her nose, another in her eyebrow, and a tattoo on the back of her neck. But there was something about her energy, her smile, and positive attitude. Kate never once saw her without that smile; customers loved her. Kate absently wondered if Lindsay’d be interested in waitressing for her. She’d make more money, Kate was sure about that.

“Good almost afternoon,” Lindsay said. “The usual?”

“Yes, please. As large as I can get.”

“You got it.” She took Kate’s money and turned to the counter.

As Lindsay went to work on Kate’s drink, Kate gazed out the window at the passing traffic. The sun was shining; it was turning into a beautiful fall day, and she wished she could show Keith, maybe play hooky for the afternoon and make him go on a hike with her. It was a little game they played before he got sick; she’d ask him to go with her and he’d whine and complain the whole time, while simultaneously picking up cool rocks and pointing out different species of trees or birds. He loved nature. He just didn’t want to admit it.

The lump returned and Kate tried to shake her head of the sad thoughts that seemed determined to fog over her today. Her mind suddenly handed her a picture of Cassidy Freeman.

Oh, that’s much better
, she thought, not bothering to hide her grin as Lindsay called out her coffee.

“Well, I’m glad my coffee makes you so happy,” she said with a wink at Kate.

“Oh, it does,” Kate told her, meaning it. “Thank you.”

She left the coffee shop with a much springier step than she had when she arrived and the sun seemed a little bit brighter as she drove to the restaurant.

It was time to plan a brunch menu.

Lindsay Curtis knew two things really well: coffee and people. It was her knowledge of people that kept her mind occupied throughout the day as she served them the best coffee in the city. After all, being a barista wasn’t exactly brain surgery. But she loved the different personalities that she got to observe as they came and left the shop, especially her regulars. Those were the people who interested her most.

Like the chef. Lindsay didn’t know her name and only knew she was a chef because she’d come into the shop more than once in her white chef’s coat. She never arrived earlier than ten a.m., she always ordered the same thing—a double latte with a shot of espresso—and she always looked just a little bit sad. There was something very attractive about her, and that made Lindsay chuckle because the chef was probably older than her mother, but she was very striking. She had great skin, a simple but classy haircut, and kind eyes that peered out from behind her rimless glasses. She was little—maybe five-three—but her presence seemed bigger, and when she smiled, like today, her entire face lit up. Lindsay found her intriguing.

The oversized, coffee-mug clock on the wall above the door told her she had one more hour of work. Today was Lindsay’s favorite day of the week. She got off a little earlier than other days and her girlfriend, Cara, had a late meeting and wouldn’t be home until seven. That left Lindsay nearly four full hours in Cara’s apartment for her favorite pastime: writing erotica.

A tall, reed-thin man ordered a cappuccino and Lindsay went to work on it, her mind wandering as she did so.

She fit the bill pretty well as far as looking like a writer of lesbian erotica, or so she thought. She had an edgy appearance. Her mother hated the severity of her haircut—short, all sharply cut angles—but Lindsay loved it, felt it fit her perfectly. She was, however, tiring of the jet black and was toying with what color should be next. Electric blue was high on the list. She thought she’d been pretty tame with the piercings—though the one in her eyebrow almost sent her father to the R wing of the local hospital. She had a few more in mind for her ears, but she was going to let things die down a bit before she shook them up again; her parents weren’t getting any younger. Most of the time, though, she was proud of the fact that she
looked
like what she
was
. And by “what she was,” she meant, “what she wanted to be.” Writing erotica wasn’t a simple pastime for her; she wanted to make a career of it. Hey, the chick who wrote
Fifty Shades of Grey
did it. Why couldn’t she?

Early afternoon was generally a slow time at the shop. The lunch rush was over and the early evening rush hadn’t begun. Lindsay busied herself for her last half hour wiping down tables and stacking clean mugs.

She was young to be writing what she wrote, and she knew it. At twenty-three, she hardly had scads of experience to shape her erotic stories from. What she did have was a love of reading, a large collection of lesbian movies—including an impressive array of porn—and one hell of an imagination. The combination of the three worked wonders for her as far as ideas went. She had no clue where her love of erotica came from; her parents certainly weren’t free spirits or raging liberals or anything of the sort. They were still pretending she hadn’t told them she was gay. They’d come around, she was sure. They always did; it just took them a while. In the meantime, she was going to keep her writing a secret from them. If they couldn’t handle a tiny hole in her eyebrow, there was no way they’d be able to accept that she wrote stories containing words like
pussy
and
nipple
and
orgasm
. Her mother would simply keel over.

Frankie Moore.

She smiled as she said the name aloud softly while she packed up her things and got ready for the walk to Cara’s. It was a good name for an erotica writer and she’d thought long and hard before settling on it. Frankie was masculine and feminine at the same time, ensuring she’d appeal to both the butches and the femmes and every lesbian in between…and maybe some straight women too. Moore was, of course, a play on words—she hoped after reading one of her stories, a reader would want more.

The chef had given her something to think about, namely a story with older characters in it. Unlike many of her peers, Lindsay was mature enough to see that the world did not revolve simply around her generation. Hello, there
are
lesbians who are middle aged and older; they have sex too. Don’t they deserve their own stories? It seemed to her that the overwhelming majority of erotica she’d read included characters ranging from early twenties to mid-thirties. Oh, sure, there was an occasional one with an older character, but they were few and far between. Many of the e-mails she received in response to some of her work had pointed out this very discrepancy and asked if she could remedy the situation.

The chef could certainly help her do that. She just had to figure out the right scenario for her…

Lindsay used soy milk and made herself a tall Chai latte with extra spice, then put it in a to-go cup, donned her jacket, and swung her backpack over her shoulder.

“See you tomorrow, Linz,” Chet said to her as she headed for the door. He was the owner, had been for nearly ten years, and Lindsay adored his kind heart and easygoing manner.

“Bright and early,” she replied with a wave.

The breeze was a little chilly, but the sun was shining sporadically and Lindsay had plenty to occupy her mind as she made the trek to Cara’s tiny apartment. She loved the city, loved being close enough to walk just about anywhere. She didn’t officially live with Cara—they’d only been together for a few months and frankly, Cara’s apartment was too small for two of them—but she hoped that at some point down the road, she’d have a place nearby that she could actually call home. Would that place be with Cara? It was possible. She certainly hoped so. Cara hadn’t given her a key yet, but Lindsay knew where the spare was hidden and Cara didn’t mind that she used it. Lindsay was pretty sure her own key would be coming soon.

They’d met at a party where they each had mutual friends. Lindsay could still remember the exact moment when she laid eyes on Cara, her chestnut hair loose around her shoulders, her startling green eyes catching Lindsay’s and holding them. She’d gotten a friend to introduce her. Cara was older than Lindsay, worked as a massage therapist, and her aura of confidence was nearly visible—a complete and utter turn-on for Lindsay. A couple of beers, a tequila shot or two, and they’d ended up making out in the bathroom.

Cara was a fabulous kisser, her mouth soft and warm, the kiss equal parts giving and taking. Lindsay had simply floated away.

The smile that came to her lips couldn’t be helped as she walked along and reminisced. Lindsay had had other relationships—though, admittedly, not many—but her love for Cara was different, ran deeper, was much more…mature. Lindsay actually felt as if she’d grown up while she dated Cara. If that was because of their nearly fifteen-year age difference, she wasn’t certain.

“Ha,” she said aloud to nobody. “Look at me, thinking like an adult. What would my parents say?”

Cara’s one-bedroom apartment was one fraction of an enormous house on a tree-lined street of enormous houses. At some point in time, it was broken up into six separate units, and Lindsay often wondered what it must have looked like a hundred years ago when it was a one-family home. The lobby was certainly once part of the grand foyer. Its huge staircase, elegant in its simplicity, demanded the eye as you walked in. The owner and landlord lived in the ground floor apartment to Lindsay’s right. He was a stickler about some of his rules, but he kept the place in tip-top shape. The wood banister gleamed in the gentle light of the opulent chandelier that hung from the high ceiling. The burgundy carpet runner on the stairs had been recently vacuumed, and the leaded glass windows sparkled in the afternoon’s sunlight.

On the second floor, Lindsay stopped in front of Cara’s door and felt up along the molding, a painfully obvious place to keep the spare key. She opened the door, returned the key, and went inside, breathing in the lingering scent of Cara’s perfume. The apartment was small, but brightly sunny, with gleaming hardwood floors and large windows. Lindsay once inquired why Cara didn’t have a house and she replied simply that she loved her little apartment, so why make a change? Directly in front of the door along the wall on the left was a kitchenette that was open to the living room, a roomy enough space with windows on two sides. Cara didn’t have a lot of furniture, but what she did have was of decent quality. She liked to save her money and buy the best rather than buy cheaply to get more. The couch was soft burgundy leather and there was a matching oversized chair and ottoman. Small oak end tables, a matching coffee table, and an oval area rug in earth tones brought the room together—modest in size but elegant in design. Cara had a great eye for color and layout. Lindsay was always telling her she could fall back on interior design if massage therapy didn’t work out for her.

The bedroom was generous for such a small place. Cara was able to fit her queen-sized bed, a dresser, and a small desk without it feeling too cramped. Lindsay dropped her bag on the bed, shucked off her jacket, and booted up the laptop that seemed to be waiting for her on the uncluttered surface of the desk.

Not the most comfortable of desk chairs, it would do, and Lindsay sat down, facing the window. It was the only request she made; she needed to be able to gaze outside while she was writing. Admittedly, her craft consisted of a lot of staring off into space, and she preferred to stare at nature rather than an empty wall. Cara even mounted a small birdfeeder outside the window so Lindsay might have some entertainment on days when she found herself stuck for ideas.

Word opened quickly and Lindsay scanned through the last few paragraphs of the story she was currently working on. It was for a collection of “first time” stories she’d been asked to contribute to, and it was shaping up to be quite sexy, if she did say so herself. But when she tried to insert her mind back into the action, she had trouble—her thoughts kept drifting to the chef and what kind of character she might make. So, rather than type, Lindsay gazed out the window and outlined what kind of a personality she’d give the chef.