Abel in Paris - Jeffrey Allen Whte (top novels of all time txt) 📗

pale face. He would relive this moment for many weeks and months. The paramedics and fire fighters who arrived went to work on Nina right away pulling her body flat on the kitchen floor. Abel made room enough to get their medical gear in and set up. With each shock of the paddles, Nina’s body would react in a violent way. Shielding Sandy’s eyes, he backed up to the kitchen cabinets in order to give the men room to do their job. By the third time he saw Nina’s body erupt with a jolt, he realized that there was no more life in her. Nina was gone, gone from his and Sandy’s eyes and see the pain that would stay with them both.

Abel bent over the railing to steady himself holding his empty cup. Suddenly it slipped from his grip and fell the two stories below, crashing on the walkway that led to their driveway. He stood up realizing what had just happened. “I’ll have to clean that up,” he said to himself.

He thought of the endless dreams that had haunted him night and day, and he thought he would never be the same man again. Could he have made any progress in the months that followed that awful day? Maybe in a year or two, the nightmares would actually become farther apart and maybe even stop at some point down the line. Abel could only hope for a numbness that would take his mind to another place.

After Nina’s death, the therapist he consulted to help him and Sandy said they would both heal in time. “Of course, that is what they all say,” he thought to himself. Time was something that would make it easier for them to bear. Undoubtedly, Abel and Sandy’s life would go on. Sandy, on the other hand, was doing better than he was or, at least he thought, she seemed to be handling it better. He tried to hide his pain from her as best as he could. It was an exhausting task. Keeping up appearances for both Sandy and the patrons, who frequented his café, would take all his energies or what had been after a thirteen-hour day.

Today he would get Sandy off to school, and then go to the café to prepare the daily things he needed to serve and then home again at 3:00 PM for Sandy. Then he would again be back at the café, relieving his help until 10 or 11 PM. An exhausted Sandy would do her homework, watch the little TV he had kept in the office or helped Abel prepare plates of food and cups of coffee. She would come home half-asleep, barely brushing her teeth and getting into her pajamas before she dropped off into a deep sleep. He would lay awake for hours tossing and turning, trying not to think of that day or of his wife. Abel wished he could come home and collapsed into bed, as Sandy did, and slept through most of the night. He greeted the mornings more times, than he wanted to without sleeping more than a few hours here and there.

Even on mornings like today, when the air was clear and the snow-capped mountains in the east gleamed in the far off distance, he would think of her. “Nina,” he whimpered softly, while a single tear rolled down his face dripping into his fourth cup of coffee. A tiny ripple in the toxic waste reminded him of Nina’s warning so very long ago.

Chapter 2

Abel and Nina have opened a small but smart-looking cafe five years ago. He cooked and prepared the entrees and made quick time to the beat of the music that played in the café. Nina would make all the pastries, desserts and salads while Abel loved cooking. His Dad, Carl, taught him, as he was a short-order cook for most of his adult life. When Abel was old enough, he went to classes and became quite the chef, having gained much recognition in the up-and-coming section of the local newspaper’s food section. Abel would take more classes, when he could, to improve himself. He went on to work for several good restaurants and cafes. Abel had met Nina in a food class, Northern Italian Pastries to be exact. A five-week course guaranteed to propel you into better job opportunities and very satisfied patrons. Nina laughed at most of Abel’s attempts of commanding the much beloved Italian Canoli, his much too soft creamy mixed cheese concoction in an over-cooked thick, heavy pastry shell. It was not his forte. Abel could make just about any order that came up on a menu and most times, a special request; but somehow the expertise he needed for the light-shelled pastry and wonderful blend of cheeses would elude him to his surprise.

Both Nina and he would laugh at his attempts at the Canoli. Of course, Nina’s would outshine him and her pastry shells were perfect as everything she did was perfect. They both laughed and often went to lunch, then a movie, a picnic, a whale-watching cruise and a weekend skiing trip to Vail, Colorado. This would give him reason to propose. Two months and twenty-seven days later, they had engaged, and six months later, they were married surrounded by their family and many friends and colleagues. Just a year later, their Sandy was born. Abel was happy, happier than he ever expected to be. He was on the fast track in his career and was married to a beautiful, smart, caring woman he had first met in a Canoli-making-class.

Abel took the money that he inherited from his father who unknowingly saved all his tips over his thirty-five-year career. Carl had put it all into stocks and bonds, where it grew. His left it all to Abel who eventually opened up a small Bistro. “Smaller than a restaurant but larger than a taco stand,” he would say. Hence, he called it what it was, The Bistro. They tried several other names but none was to the point and exacting as just The Bistro. It would stay The Bistro until they expanded some day and another proper name would come up. That was five years ago. The Bistro that, nevertheless, was a small place was a local popular sensation bringing them a very good income.

Abel and Nina had first opened The Bistro just for dinner after five, very casual, soft music playing overhead and a well planned menu of entrees and wonderful, tasty and perfect pastries. Then after several months, they added a daily light and healthy luncheon menu and just last year, a terrific Sunday Brunch. If you did not mind waiting, you would have the best Brunch in all of downtown Seattle. They both worked hard and long. They always took Wednesdays off, just for Sandy, after the luncheon crowd left and before the dinner guests. They both took turns being home for Sandy after school and then back to work again. They were tired but as happy as can be, happier than Abel ever expected he could be. Life was good, very good.

Nina had continued to take morning classes and became an even better pastry chef. Abel was good but Nina, of course, was better. She was perfect. The two of them made a great team and after working together all day and evening, they went home, put Sandy to sleep and then it was their alone time for making love and being in love. Customers were becoming regulars, business was growing and they talked of eventually expanding. About a year ago, Nina started to get little headaches. She would have a headache once or twice a week. “Too much work for two people. We should hire more help,” Abel would lament.

Nina would not hear of it. “With Sandy in school now, there is not any reason I cannot be here full time.” Nina had taken just about every course or class to advance her skills. Nina had been selling her pastries to several other restaurants on a free-lance basis before they opened their own place. She had built up quite a reputation for her fine pastry delicacies. Now was the time they were together in business as well as marriage. Nina and Abel worked side by side. Sandy would come to The Bistro after school and play in the home away from home. In the small cramp office, they kept cluttered with their busy life. She would even learn to help from time to time when their crew was in need of help. Sandy was very proud of her very first tip. An unusually large man, who walked with a cane that had the head of a lion and smelled of cigars, had given her two new crisp, one-dollar bills. This was a lot of money for a little girl of eight. Eventually, Sandy saved enough money to buy Abel an apron, which she had painted herself with her handprints. This was Abel’s proudest possession beside his wife and child. Nina would help him tie it on everyday, and she would hand wash it so not to have it fade its bright colors. The Bistro had become a part of them.

Abel looked on the table and picked up the apron. Sandy washed it as carefully as her mom did and even ironed it, as Nina. She neatly folded it and placed it on the table as she did every Monday. Abel could feel his heart skip a beat as his hand touched the still brightly colored handprints. The joy it gave him was immeasurable by any standard. He placed his large hand over his daughter’s small, perfect handprint.

Today was the day Abel was to meet the real estate agent. The couple who wanted to buy The Bistro was coming to inspect it and maybe even buy the one thing that was still a constant in his life besides Sandy and his handpainted apron. His eyes swelled at the very thought of selling his business. So many memories he cherished and so many thoughts of his wife.

He had not yet told Sandy about listing The Bistro on the real estate market. Sandy loved The Bistro. She had become Abel’s right hand more and more since her mother passed away. She would work with him and would try her mother’s pastry recipes week after week, trying to equal her mother’s talents. As hard as she tried, Sandy had taken after her Dad in this area; and Abel would always tell her how good they were with his mouth full, grinning and making the very best of it. As much as she tried, Sandy knew they were not as good as her mother’s or even a close second. She knew her father was obviously covering up the fact that they were just awful. Her dad always made a huge fuss and she loved him for that, trying harder and harder with each attempt. She loved him most of all for pretending that they were works of culinary art and not the tile grout it looked and tasted like. Sandy knew this personally, as she had once tried to eat some tile grout