Never a Bride: A Short Story by Traci Hall Page B

pulled her shirt back down after getting a view of her slightly pudgy stomach.
    “The last ten pounds is a bitch,” she told her unsmiling mouth. Coming down from forty gained pounderoos, she didn’t linger on self-pity. Norwegian blue eyes, blonde, straight hair she kept at shoulder length and low-lighted with caramel streaks, and pale white skin that didn’t tan. She pinched her cheeks. “You, Celia, are okay.”
    A knock sounded at the door. “Are you all right in there?”
    Her neck flushed in embarrassment. “Yes,” Celia answered, shutting off the faucet and unlocking the handle. She went out, brushing past the curious female clerk.
    “I thought I heard you talking?” The woman crossed her arms over her nicely toned midriff.
    “A bad habit I’ve picked up, keeping myself company,” Celia explained with a chuckle, hoping the stranger hadn’t heard the tears too.
    The attendant was not amused. “Are you going to fill up?”
    Celia nodded, wishing she’d put on some lipstick or spritzed her hair. “But I have a flat tire.”
    “The garage doesn’t open until ten.” She gave Celia’s wet shirt a glance, then frowned.
    “I can buy a can of that spray stuff,” Celia said. “I live around here. Somewhere.” She pulled out her smart phone to open the map app. “I’m moving in this morning.”
    The woman’s pierced brow lifted. “Where?”
    “Caspian’s Nest,” Celia said, her smile automatic. “On Hibiscus?”
    “I know the place,” the woman said. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood. I am Khanti Garcia. My husband Nino and I own this station and the garage.”
    “Nice to meet you,” Celia said. She preferred to meet new people in the right setting. Not coming off a coffee high, rolling in on a flat tire and fumes.
    She grabbed the can, carefully avoiding the cookies and candy, instead choosing an apple from a basket by the register. “Here. A coffee, too. I’ll take the regular unleaded for the car.”
    “Not premium?”
    Not anymore . “No. It runs fine on the other.”
    Khanti hummed something under her breath, totaling Celia’s purchases while leaving the credit card open for the gas. “What do you do?”
    Celia dropped her purse at the question. What do I do? What do I do? She cleared her throat, certain that Khanti would tell all of her friends that the new gal in town was a nutcase. “I am opening a new café. I’m a cook, a chef.”
    An imposter . She waited for Khanti to start laughing at her, but the woman seemed interested. “What kind of food?”
    Her stomach tumbled at the direct question. You did not need a degree to make delicious food or own a kitchen. So used to a world where degrees mattered, certificates pronounced competency, that cooking without a license felt like breaking the rules.
    “Soups, sandwiches, salads. All organic and locally farmed.”
    “Oh?” Khanti defrosted a degree or two. “Good thing you’re not another fish place. My cousin Sujay has a booth at the farmer’s market on Sunday. You should come, and I’ll introduce you.”
    “Thank you,” Celia said, feeling as if she’d passed a test. “But I won’t officially be in business for another week.” And there was so much to do. Closing the cancer center had taken longer than she’d thought, delaying her arrival here by two weeks. She was behind, despite her lists and best intentions.
    “What’s your name?” Khanti asked.
    Celia bowed her head, kicking herself in the butt for being rude. She stuck out her hand. “Celia Langford. Proud owner of Ambrosia by the Sea.”
    Khanti’s brown eyes glittered. “I love that name. Where will you be located?”
    “Off of second, one block south of Commercial.”
    She tapped her lower lip, the thin gold rings on her fingers flashing in the fluorescent light. “Hmm. That’s where the Greek restaurant is, and the fish house…”
    Celia nodded. “Yes. I’m across from Deliciosa.”
    “There’s a coffee shop down the block.