I haven’t seen the Lift driver today. He didn’t come to the café and although I kept my eye on the street, there was no sign of him.

I did meet a few more of the regulars today though. One of them is Alan, in his mid, maybe late thirties, he’s a lawyer in Monterey, who apparently comes to Café Azure every day after the gym. He has a latte, a three-cheese croissant and a small chocolate bar. He smiles from the door as he enters, comes over to say hi and pay for his order, asks Celine how she is and now me too. Celine asks him how his training went—he wants to do a marathon in the fall—and he says it’s hard, but he won’t give up, then he sits at the window bar and waits for his breakfast.

He also comes back in the evening; at least he did today. “I lost a case,” he said as he walked in, his morning smile replaced by a deep frown, and Celine nodded knowingly.

“A glass of wine instead of coffee then?” she asked him.

He’s handsome, in a classic way, seems to be in good shape and obviously has a good job. I’d expect he’d be great with the ladies, but he seems rather lonely. If this was the same time last year, by now I’d have a handful of ideas for Alan stories. Now, my mind just goes blank. And it’s such a pity because he looks like he deserves a good, happy story.

When we get back to the cottage, Celine orders pizza. After we eat, we sit on the terrace, listening to the ocean, drinking freshly made lemonade and talking.

It’s a good night. I haven’t been this comfortable and relaxed in a long time. Celine and I got close fast, which is unusual for me, but not uncommon for anything Carmel-related. She has a way about her that is inviting and comforting. She doesn’t pry into my personal life and doesn’t offer too many details about hers, but we talk about all sorts of things. Small things. Carmel, funny customers, annoying customers, movies, music. I hope we’ll talk about books too and her brother and I keep trying to push the conversation that way, without seeming too obvious.

“Did you always want to run the café?” I ask.

“When I was seven, I wanted to be a ballerina.” She laughs. “I was not good at it. No grace, that’s what my teachers said. Then I wanted to be a race car mechanic.”

“Really?”

“I love cars. And there are a bunch of races in the Monterey area. I’ve been surrounded by exotic and fast cars all my life. My father had a passion for them.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Who would’ve taken care of the family business? I had to make a choice. Besides, there aren’t that many women mechanics and I had my fair share of raised eyebrows and comments when I was learning how to fix cars and went with my father to the races. I can’t tell you how many times I was told that’s not where a woman belongs, so—”