He watches me take the first sip, like he is checking for a reaction he's not going to comment on. The coffee is strong, sweet, and exactly what I want.
This is not the father I grew up with. That man would have corrected me, adjusted the order, reminded me how things are done. This one lets the choice stand.
I don't know if California changed him, or if it only changed what I am willing to accept. Maybe it did both.
Outside, the street carries on. A carriage rolls by. A bus sighs at the curb. Somewhere close, a saxophone tries out a melody like it is deciding whether it is worth committing.
My father folds his hands. “How are things going at the restaurant?”
It is a careful question. He could ask about where I have been, or about the last year and all the ways it rearranged my life. He doesn't. Instead, the work that now separates us.
“It's going well,” I say. “It’s busy, but I really love it.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, then nods like that is enough. He doesn't press any more than that, and I'm okay with that..
His coffee steams untouched. I think about all the times he drank it like fuel, fast and joyless, and I wonder if he still does that when I am not around.
“You're back here for good, right?”
I keep my face calm. “I'm back. I'll travel some, because there's always more to learn and different grapes to experience, but this is my home base.”
His mouth tightens slightly, and I know he is measuring the difference between what he asked and what I answered. He doesn't correct me.
“Your mother would have liked California,” he says, and it is the closest thing to softness I have heard from him in a long time.
My throat tightens, but I do not let it take over. I take another sip of coffee. The chicory is bitter on my tongue.
“She would have liked the vineyards,” I say. “She would have hated the traffic.”
That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost. His eyes shift, then come back to mine.
“I want you to be careful,” he says.
There it is. It isn't a demand or an order dressed up as concern. Just a statement any father might say to his daughter. And for once, I don't want to buck against it.
“I am careful,” I tell him, and I mean it. I am not careful the way I used to be, shrinking myself down and letting other people decide what risk is acceptable for me. I am careful in a different way now. I choose. I pay attention. I do not pretend I am untouchable.
He reaches for the bag between us and slides it across the table. “These are for you.”
I unfold the top and the smell hits me immediately. Hot dough, sugar and butter. New Orleans comfort in a bag.
I glance at my watch. I don't want to, but I do. I have learned that time does not pause just because something important is happening.
“I actually have to run,” I say. "I have a big night tonight and have to get several errands done today."
He stands with me and looks at his own watch. "Yeah, I've got to get going, too. I've enjoyed this. Let's try to do it again."
It lands somewhere in the middle of an invitation and a demand, where we have been trying to build something that doesn't collapse under the weight of who he is.
“Yes,” I say. “I'd like that.”
Outside, the light is bright in that particular New Orleans way, the kind that makes the edges of buildings look sharpened and clean. I step carefully around a puddle that smells faintly like urine, and I head toward Jackson Square.
Delphine’s gallery sits a few blocks off, tucked into a narrow building with tall windows and a simple sign. Inside, the air changes immediately. It smells like paint and old wood and the expensive candles Delphine insists are necessary for ambiance.
She looks up from behind the counter, and her face brightens. “Please tell me you brought me sugar and happiness.”
I lift the bag. “I bring offerings.”
