I couldn’t think of a reason not to. So we did.
And Beau took me to meet his childhood best friend, Marcus, at the opening of his new restaurant, Lemon & Fig.
It was set right on Park Avenue, an oak-shaded stretch of Winter Park lined with posh boutiques and expensive cars. Inside was amber lighting and exposed beams, and the scent ofsmoked cedar hanging in the air. Food passed by on trays with small plates that looked like they were fresh from a garden. The crowd was already thick—circling with cocktails and small bites—buzzing about Marcus’s menu. The food gave some of L.A.’s most hyped spots a run for their money.
“Try this,” I said to Beau, offering him the next bite of the mushroom tartine I was holding. “I think something about the seasoning just rearranged my flavor palate.”
Marcus emerged from a sea of well-wishers and smiled. “You came!” He swept Beau into a backslapping hug. “You must be Este,” he said, turning to me. “So good to finally meet you.”
Finally.
Like he had been waiting a long time, and the way Marcus beamed at me like I had done Beau some sort of kindness had me falling a little deeper in love.
“Congratulations on the opening,” I said, trying not to let Marcus see the sudden heat in my cheeks as I looked back at Beau.
“I have to say hi to a few people, but don’t leave,” Marcus insisted. “There’s a bottle of champagne for you guys behind the bar. Open it, and I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
Beau led the way, and when my phone buzzed with an incoming call from an unknown number, I killed it to voicemail without a second thought. We posted up at the bar while we watched Marcus bounce around to different conversations.
“We met at a summer camp near the Appalachian Trail when we were twelve,” Beau said of his friendship with Marcus. “The kind where they hand you a backpack and a tent and wish you luck. Surviving the elements made us fast friends, and we’ve stayed in touch.”
I pictured young versions of them both, flying between Florida—where Marcus grew up—and Beau’s hometown in North Carolina. Watching him greet patrons, I could see Marcus had a charming warmth not unlike Beau’s. It was in the décor of the restaurant, too. Effortless and fun. Like everyone belonged here.
After a little while, when the crowd started to thin out, my phone rang again. I continued to ignore it as Marcus found us, pouring himself a bourbon and taking a seat at the bar.
“Proud of you,” Beau said, clapping Marcus on the back. “You’ve been talking about this for years. And you really did it.”
“Proud of you, too, man. The InfoSynth sale.” Marcus looked over to me. “A great girlfriend. We both did very well for ourselves.”
“Where’s your date?”
Marcus shook his head. “She dumped me last week. You can open a restaurant, or you can have a life. You can’t have both.”
“Oof. Sorry to hear that.”
Marcus and Beau clinked their glasses, and I joined them.
They slipped easily into banter, catching me up on stories and inside jokes. As I watched them both, relaxed and smiling, something clicked.
I had read about Winter Park on the plane ride—an artists’ haven with a liberal arts college, childhood home of River Phoenix, chock-full of old neighborhoods that used to be massive orange groves. Bohemian prep with star-studded lakefront charm.
The tropical heat in the air and the breeze from the lakes and the brick-lined streets and the way Marcus treated Beau like a brother made me think there might be something here for us. Something worth sticking around for.
The whispers I had first heard after Simon fired me—the ones that urged me to leave California behind and find somewhere new—crept back in.
In Winter Park, no one knew me as the former right hand of a failed CEO.
Late that night, we hugged Marcus goodbye and went back to the hotel.
I was washing my face as Beau brushed his teeth when I realized I had missed another four calls.
“I like Marcus,” I said.
“He likes you, too.” Beau winked at me in our mirroredreflection. “You want me to book our return flights in the morning? Or should we go to Disney World first?”
I was blotting water off my face with a towel, but the question slowed me down. “Return flights?”
I picked up my phone and started to listen to the first voicemail.
