When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine 2)

Francesca’s dark eyes had a faraway look. “Yes. I think I know what you mean. I remember one early morning in Paris when I was with Ian. It was like the sunlight was hitting the world in a way that made it shine. Everything seemed new.” Seeming to realize how dreamy she’d sounded, she cast Elise a rueful glance. Elise gave her a reassuring smile.

“Funny, that you should feel more alive than ever before in Paris. It’s where I felt most dead.”

Francesca looked at her speculatively. “I’ve gotten the impression from some of the things you’ve said in conversation that you led a very . . . privileged life there.”

“I also led a very empty one.”

“And you’re happier now,” Francesca more stated rather than asked, her gaze steady on Elise’s profile.

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

Francesca turned to look at the sunrise. For a few moments, only the sound of the light waves, their padding tennis shoes on the pavement, and the muted traffic noise on Lake Shore Drive hit Elise’s ears. “You’re right.” Francesca smiled. “That sunrise is spectacular. Thanks for pointing it out.”

“You’re welcome,” Elise said, smiling back.

“You sound very taken with . . . Chicago,” Francesca said. Elise raised her eyebrows in surprise at the other woman’s knowing smile. “Does that mean you plan to stay here when your training is complete?”

“That’s my goal, yes. I have an idea. Some plans.”

“What plans?”

Elise hesitated, tempted to be honest by Francesca’s sincere curiosity. She liked Francesca, instinctively feeling comfortable with her. Still . . . she hadn’t had the nerve to reveal this to anyone yet. Her secret aspirations made her feel very vulnerable.

“I have this idea about opening a unique type of restaurant that caters to people recovering from addiction. Not just for them, of course—anyone can come—but with them in mind. And not just a restaurant—a coffee bar and a club that offers music, maybe live bands and dancing. It’s really hard for people with substance abuse issues to go out and have a great time without being tempted by alcohol. Being surrounded by liquor is a real trigger, not just for alcoholics but for all substance abusers.

“You sound very knowledgeable about it,” Francesca said cautiously.

Elise flashed her a smile. “I’m not an alcoholic or drug abuser, if that’s what you’re wondering. Although I had my period of partying until dawn, I could walk away from the booze. But yeah—I know something about it.” She inhaled for courage. “I had a very good friend die from a heroin overdose.”

Francesca’s step faltered. “I’m so sorry. How awful.”

“Yeah. It was,” Elise said, breathing through the sudden pressure that tightened her throat. “It’s still kind of fresh. He died a little over six months ago. Michael Trent. That was his name.”

“Were you and he . . .”

“No,” Elise said, guessing what Francesca was about to say. “We were just friends. Really good friends. In fact, he was one of the few friends I’ve ever had in my life, I’m ashamed to say,” she added shakily. She covered her discomposure with a bright smile. “I used to choose friends very poorly. Or they chose me unwisely. Maybe both.”

“I’m sure that’s all changing now.”

“Thanks,” Elise replied gratefully. “I’d like to think so, anyway. Michael really changed the way I looked at things. Not just his death, or the realization of how impermanent, how fragile life is. His life changed me. I know people have a preconceived idea about heroin abusers, but Michael wasn’t a stereotype of anything. He was unique. Wonderful. I met him at chef’s school. He was the most talented of us all—a true culinary poet—but he never hesitated to offer any of us support and help when we were struggling. He just had this demon. He did battle with heroin addiction daily. Hourly. He finally succumbed to that monster, but his life had meaning. He counted. To me, he did.”

She swallowed thickly and blinked the bright sunshine out of her eyes.

“And so you want to create this restaurant as a tribute to your friend’s life?” Francesca asked soberly.

“Yes. But it’s more than that,” Elise said quietly. “My life was going nowhere when I met Michael. I was a shell, empty on the inside. I might not have had as malignant of a demon as heroin abuse to conquer, but my life was spiraling out of control. He infused hope into me . . . meaning. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”

“He must have been very special.”

“He was,” Elise said, striving to control her emotions and succeeding. “So that’s why I came up with this plan for the restaurant. It’d be great. Family members and friends of people struggling with addiction often feel like they can’t take their loved ones out anywhere for dining and entertainment, for fear of triggering a relapse. This would be a place where people could go without worrying. Michael told me that in rehab, they learn a lot about nutritious food and cooking. Their bodies get really run-down from all those chemicals. A lot of them turn into foodies—like Michael did—but have nowhere to go and celebrate their love of food and dining. It all sort of goes together really well.”

She glanced anxiously at Francesca, worried one incredulous or condemning look would silence her idea forever. Francesca hardly seemed disdainful, however.

“What a fantastic idea. You know who else it’d be great for? Dieters. Or not dieters, necessarily, but people trying to have healthier eating habits. It’d have everything. They could dress up and show off their new bodies; they wouldn’t have to worry about the extra calories of the liquor and they could go dance off their dinners,” Francesca said, grinning.