Author's Note: An election day treat for you all. Now if you excuse me, I'm off to pop a bottle of breakfast wine to dull my anxiety (Day Wines Zibibbo, if you're curious). US friends, if you haven't yet…VOTE!

- three: birds of a feather -

the next day :: edward

11:48. That's probably too early to go snooping around the back, I decide.

Of course the front door is locked. The big bay windows are papered over now, so I can't peer in to check if Bella Swan's even here.

She never replied to my email, so I have no idea if she's even expecting me. But it seemed like a good idea to come by anyway.

Nothing to do but loiter around on the sidewalk and hope she shows.

See, this is why I miss smoking. Something to do with my hands.

At least it's finally nice out. This is the first blue sky I've seen since I moved here six weeks ago. Though Garrett warned me last night not to get used to it just yet.

"This is but a brief interlude to keep us all from killing ourselves or moving to LA," he said sagely as he seared foie gras to top off yet another order of Canard's signature duck gravy-smothered pancake stack. "Can't trust any nice weather before Fourth of July. It'll start pouring next week, you'll see."

I didn't argue with him, but I'm pretty sure he had to be exaggerating. Another month and a half of rain? There's no way.

I glance at my phone again. 11:51.

Jesus.

I'm about to take a lap around the block, just to kill some time, when I hear a door opening.

I swivel my head, and there she is, emerging from a side door I hadn't mustered the courage to peek into just yet.

She's put on some weight since I saw her last. Still thin, but the hollows of her heart-shaped face are more filled in, the angles of her joints and collarbone less sharpened by grief. She's dressed simply, but stylishly in a dark blazer over a white tank and dark-wash jeans. Her platinum hair, clean and freshly dyed, hangs loose above her shoulders in artfully messy waves.

She looks healthier, more lively.

I'm glad.

"You Edward Masen?"

I reach up to pull off my ball cap. I meant to take it off before the interview, but she's surprised me.

"Guilty," I say with a small smile, calling back to what she'd said to me that night.

She blinks at me for a second.

"Wait. I know you." She snaps her fingers as recognition sets in. "You're the guy I almost maced last month! The one who accused me of incest!"

I laugh uncomfortably and fidget with my hat, bending and unbending the bill. "Yeah. I—uh—I'm still really sorry about all that. Not one of my smoother moments."

Her wide eyes—I was right, they're brown—narrow at me.

"I thought Billy said you were new in town."

She's just this side of accusatory. Not a great start.

"I am," I say. "I'd just arrived that day I came by, actually. Hadn't even unpacked my toothbrush."

"So then how did you know my dad?"

"I visited my cousin here last year to see if I wanted to relocate," I explain. "She's a bartender at Rontoms. She told me about the Swan Dive, said it was kinda the main industry hang out, so I dropped by to check it out."

Bella's mouth twists, and when she speaks, her voice is much softer. "And Charlie was kind to you when you really needed it."

I nod briefly. "Yeah. We talked for a while. He told me to come see him if I ended up moving. Said he could probably help me find a job."

I'm a little embarrassed, like I'm using her dad to manipulate her into actually considering me.

Maybe I am.

"He always did have the inside scoop."

She's got that almost-smile on, and I feel a little tension release from my shoulders. I didn't really mean to start this whole conversation off this way—if I'm honest, I was sort of hoping she wouldn't remember me from before. But at least her back isn't quite as up now.

"I gotta say, I was really happy to hear you weren't getting rid of the place," I offer up. And I mean it—it had seemed kinda like a tragedy to me, for such a beloved spot to disappear completely.

She shrugs. "I grew up here. Just made sense to give it a new life."

I like that. Not just filling her dad's shoes, but giving it her own take.

For a moment, we're just staring at each other, and I feel like she's analyzing every inch of me.

"Well," she finally says. "I guess I'd better show you around."

She unlocks the front door with a key from that same massive lanyard she was lugging around that night. I hover behind awkwardly, looking at the paper notice taped to the sidelight: CITY OF PORTLAND PUBLIC NOTICE: LIQUOR LICENSE APPLICATION. APPLICANT NAME: Cygnet.

"I just finished up demo last week," she says over her shoulder as she pushes the door in, "so it's pretty much a blank slate at this point."

I follow her inside, blinking a little at the change in light. It's weird, seeing the space empty. I'm having trouble squaring it with my memories of the dim, crowded bar I'd only seen once, months and months ago.

She crosses her arms, watching me take it in.

"Did Billy give you the whole rundown on the concept, then?"

I send her a little half-smile and a shrug. "Some," I say. "But I'd like to hear your take."

She doesn't quite return the smile, but I think I see some softening of her expression, a relaxing of the shoulders.

"So the name's Cygnet. Obviously calling back to the Swan Dive, but elevated."

"And a little French-sounding?"

The corner of her mouth quirks. "I guess, if you don't actually speak French."

I motion for her to continue.

"I describe it as a wine-focused restaurant," she says. "It's not a casual wine bar, but it's not hoity-toity haute cuisine, either. High-end, uncompromising on quality, but never pretentious."

Her enthusiasm builds as she talks, that cynical shell cracking open with each word. She's got sparks in her eyes, and her delicate, birdlike hands can't sit still; they're gesticulating, sketching out her words in the air.

It's mesmerizing, honestly.

"The wine list is the heart of it all. Mostly small producers, a mix of the off-beat and the classic. I want a broad price range, too. Those random 15-dollar bangers right alongside the 300-dollar aged champagne. Quality and attention to detail are the throughline, not price or location or name brands." Her sharp chin juts out, as though she expects me to argue, but I'm nodding along because I totally get what she means.

"And the menu?" I prompt.

"First and foremost, it's wine food," she says with conviction. "Flavors and textures that show off what's in the glass. And like the wine list, it's gotta be quality first. Seasonal, not fussy, but creative—a little different, you know?"

"Small plates?"

My brain is working overtime. I feel the ideas swirling in my mind—French technique, but flavors beyond the European palate, playful and ever-changing—

Bella's answering the question I forgot I'd asked. "Not, like, exclusively," she says. "I want some entrees too, that you can eat by yourself or share. But lots of smaller dishes, to mix and match. With suggested by-the-glass pairings."

I take another slow visual sweep of the room, trying to envision how the blank canvas might look all done up. It's small, but workable. Cool wide-plank pine floor, brick showing through where the plaster has crumbled on the walls. High, coved ceilings with old-school decorative cornicing that had never been visible in the Swan Dive's neon-studded gloom.

With the right layout, the right decor, it'll feel cozy, intimate. Almost like a Parisian bistro—or so I assume, having never been in one.

"Are those windows new?" I ask, gesturing at the nooks on either side of the door.

My eyes flicker back to Bella, leaning against a pillar that sits right where I would expect the host stand to be. Well, that's gonna have to go, I think.

"Good catch." Her lip curves up on one side. "They were all covered up for years. Somebody musta decided it was too much light for a seedy dive, I guess."

I turn around toward the front of the room. "Lucky break," I say, approving. "People will fight over those tables."

"That's the idea."

I can't help but grin at her. It feels like a good sign that we're on the same wavelength.

She pulls up her phone, tapping a few buttons and then turning it towards me to reveal a floor plan.

"Comfy banquette seating in each window." She gestures as she talks, pointing from screen to reality. "Two- and four-tops along the north wall and in the middle, with a longer table for groups tucked by the door to the kitchen there. And a bar with a few high-top seats here."

"What is that, 35 seats?"

She nods. "There's a back patio that'll add a few more in the summer. But most of the year, yes. Aiming for 50 covers a night."

I raise a brow. "Turning tables? Could be tricky."

She shrugs. "Open at four, and we'll get early birds dropping in for a drink and quick bite. We can run some special glass pours and pairings. Then lean into slower pacing for the dinner seating."

I nod slowly. Mostly because I see the vision, but also because I like hearing her say we.

"What about the pillars?" I ask, jerking my chin toward the support beam behind her. "You thinking of pulling those out?"

"My investor says header beams through the ceiling could handle the load," Bella says slowly. "But the budget has to cover a lot of necessary work. I don't want to blow it all on aesthetics."

"Flow's not aesthetics," I say firmly. "Guests should be focused on the meal, not dodging servers. It needs to feel like watching a ballet. Smooth, effortless. Can't let 'em see you sweat."

She gives me a sharp look, eyebrow raised, but I catch her lip twitch up. "You go to the ballet often, Masen?"

I keep a straight face. "Of course, every chance I get. Don't you?"

Exactly as I intended, that earns me a full smile—both sides this time, slow and surprisingly shy.

Jesus. I better shut this shit down real quick, before I get myself in trouble.

"So tell me about the investor," I say quickly. "What's his deal?"

"His name's Carlisle Cullen," she says. "He was a bigshot New York lawyer. But he and his wife fell in love with the Willamette Valley on vacation, invested in a couple vineyards, and never left."

"How'd he end up financing a restaurant with you, then?"

"He knew Charlie, same as everybody in the food and bev industry," she says with a shrug. "Used to bring him rare or interesting bottles. Dad ran kind of an off-the-books tasting club after hours for years." She grins. "Not super legal, but fun."

That catches my attention—Charlie was a wine guy? Had a hard time picturing the king of Rainier on tap savoring a bottle of pinot, but what did I know?

"So Carlisle's known you since you were a kid, is that it?"

Her lips press together, and I can tell she wants me to drop it. But I'm paranoid about investors—no way am I leaving that stone unturned again.

"We only met like a year and a half ago," Bella says. "You know I lived in France for a while?"

"Billy said you took a semester off school to work a harvest and ended up staying."

She tips her chin in acknowledgment. "I might have stayed forever if Charlie hadn't gotten sick. Colon cancer." She glances up at me—checking for pity, but I keep my face carefully blank. "Took a while for the wheels to fall off. I'd just been invited to the CMS Advanced course when he had a pretty bad relapse."

I feel a stab of sympathy and squash it down before she spots it. "So you came home."

"Yeah." Her face flickers with a sort of stale disappointment, an old wound. "We muddled along ok for a while. But he'd been in treatment on and off for years by then. There were a lot of medical bills. Debts."

A flush is rising in her face. She's embarrassed.

I almost want to let her leave it there.

Almost.

She soldiers on. "Billy set up this big fundraising event. All these winemakers gave us bottles for auction, and a bunch of chefs signed up to make a dish each for a big multi-course dinner. I ended up doing the wine pairings and guiding the menu based on what we had donated."

She brushes at her hair, tucking it behind an ear and then untucking it. "I guess Carlisle was impressed. He told me to call him if I ever wanted to open my own place."

"So you took him up on it."

She nods. The pink stain is finally fading from her cheek. "I wasn't gonna, but I tried keeping the Dive going for a bit after Charlie died, and honestly, it almost broke me."

She looks down at the ground, and I catch the briefest glimpse the wraith I'd encountered just outside six weeks ago. "Had to do something. And Dad always wanted…"

After a brief pause, she clears her throat. "Anyway. I didn't want to sell the place, but I also wasn't really interested in running a dive bar for the rest of my life."

"I can imagine," I say dryly. "All that champagne sabering can really take it out of you."

That earns me a real laugh. "Oh yeah, and the endless requests for by-the-glass pairings to go with mozzarella sticks? Total nightmare."

We're quiet for a moment. It's hard to watch the laughter fade from her face, bringing her back to that slightly wary expression that seems to be her neutral state.

"So what is it about wine for you?" I ask, for no other reason than I want to see her light up again.

A little wrinkle appears between her brows as she thinks. "I guess…it's one of the few things in the world that exists entirely for pleasure." She speaks slowly, haltingly, like it's the first time she's really looked at it. "Like with food—people gotta eat. Even the most abstracted, avant-garde, molecular gastronomy plate is ultimately still nourishment, right?"

She glances at me, and I hold as still as I can, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts.

"But wine…there's no physical need for it," she continues. "It just exists to taste good, to bring people enjoyment. It's…" Her hand curls in the air, seeking something.

I can feel my lips curving up of their own accord. "Pure hedonism," I supply.

Her white teeth flash. "Exactly."

"So that's what you want for Cygnet? A place that just exists to bring people pleasure?"

She laughs again, full and throaty. "I mean, it sounds kinda sordid when you say it that way, but yes." Her shoulder lifts in a helpless little gesture. "That's the ultimate goal. Whether it's an eight-dollar glass or a $500 bottle, a couple little snacks after work or a big blow out celebration meal…you're here to enjoy."

Something jumps in my chest. Suddenly, I'm all too aware that I will do anything to land this job.

"I love that," I say aloud.

Bella's smile turns shy, and there's a flicker of energy between us. Two strange creatures, each recognizing ourselves in the other.

Suddenly, she pushes off the pillar and turns toward the dark corridor at the back of the room.

"C'mon, I'll show you back-of-house—or what's left of it, anyway."

I follow her through to the kitchen, keeping my eyes resolutely on the back of her head.

It's a rough space, I think as she details the locations of the gas lines and existing plumbing, but from what she tells me about the budget, the investor's committed to making it truly top-of-the-line.

"I didn't want to do too much work in here until I had the chef hired," she says finally. "Figure I wouldn't want someone laying out my cellar for me, so it only seems fair."

I hum absently, already seeing how it could come together. The walk-in has to stay where it is, I'm sure, but the rest…I could make it exactly how I like it.

She leans up against one of the remaining stainless steel prep tables, hip cocked and arms crossed. "I take it you approve?"

"It's got potential," I confirm.

"Well," she says, straightening, "you've gotten the grand tour, and asked your questions. But now I've got a few of my own."

We've arrived at the interview portion. I'm a little relieved; I was worried she was just gonna cut it off here and send me on my way.

She covers the basics—my philosophy, leadership style, what I'd do in hypothetical scenarios. Nothing I haven't answered a hundred times before. But the way she's asking... it's not small talk. She's listening. Every answer I give, she files away like a chess player setting up for the next move.

"How do you handle conflict on the line?"

"What do you think is the most important part of building a team?"

"What's your approach to inventory management?"

She's sharp, no-nonsense, as she feels me out. It's like she's testing if I'll dodge a topic, or crack under pressure. Every time I give a straight answer, I see the corners of her mouth twitch like I've passed a little test.

At a certain point, we hit a natural lull, and a heavy pause grows between us. She's looking at me thoughtfully, and I think I know what's coming.

"All right," I say casually, mirroring her stance. "Let's hear it."

"What?"

"The one question I know you've been dying to ask."

She purses her lips, but she doesn't pretend not to understand what I mean. I respect that.

"Fine. What happened in New York?"

"I loved working at Su Mare," I say. "But at the end of the day, it was always gonna be Marco Volturi's kitchen, Marco's menu, Marco's stars, not mine. So when I got a chance to create something of my own, I took the leap in case it was the only shot I'd get."

Bella's gaze doesn't let up on me. "Aro Volturi."

I nod shortly.

For a second, I think she's gonna ask me another question. But instead, she just stares, waiting for me to continue.

She'd make a good CIA interrogator, I think wryly.

"Aro's not…a bad guy," I begin slowly. "But it wasn't the right fit. Vellum opened hot, and we got some great reviews early on. But then…" I drag a hand over my jaw. "Margins were tight, and Aro got nervous. He wanted me to compromise on things that I really didn't think were the right moves. We…argued a lot. I thought we were on the same page, but when the chips were down, he didn't quite believe in the vision."

Her head tilts to the side, like a hunting dog catching sight of its prey. "Your vision," she clarifies.

I shrug unapologetically. "Yeah. My restaurant, my menu, my vision. That was the deal we made."

"So you quit?"

I wince a little, and I see her eyes narrow. This was always gonna be the hardest part of this conversation, I tell myself. I just gotta get through it, and then we can move on—or not. But at least I'll know.

"There was a fire, actually," I say. "After shift. Gas leak, they said. Aro decided he'd rather take the insurance payout and go our separate ways, rather than trying to reopen."

"Hm," she says, giving nothing away as she eyes me critically. I swallow back all the additional details, all my explanations and theories and self-blame. I'll let her ask me, I think.

"Well. This is not the kind of chef role where your opinions take precedence," she says finally. "The food serves the wine, not the other way around. And that means what I say, goes."

"I understand that," I say instantly. I don't know if I'm disappointed or relieved that she's not probing further.

"Do you?" Bella peers up at me like she's trying to see straight through my skull and into my brain. "Because I'm not looking to hire some star-chasing, foam-obsessed megalomaniac."

"I know where I am," I say reasonably. "If I wanted to go after my own star again, I'd have stayed in Chicago or gone back to New York. Honestly, at this point, I just want to make good food that makes people happy. That's the whole reason I picked Portland."

I'm not lying; I have no interest in the running the Michelin treadmill ever again. The fact that there's not even the possibility of a star here was something of a bonus. It makes for a more laid-back food culture, even in the fine dining realm, which I definitely appreciate.

But Bella's not letting me off the hook. This is not what I anticipated the problem to be. It'd be funny if it wasn't seemingly the only thing blocking her from really considering me for this job.

"How do I know you're not gonna pull some ego trip bullshit the second your creative direction conflicts with mine?"

"Bella." I scrub a hand over my face, trying to get a hold of my grin. I can hear the real anxiety under the question, but I can't help but laugh at the idea. "I just spent three years making wedding banquet food at a hotel named after one of the worst airports in the country. I think I've proven I can check my ego at the door."

Her lip twitches, but she doesn't look wholly convinced.

I shove a hand through my hair. "You're being cautious," I say with patience I don't have. "It's smart. But for this concept to work, you need a creative partner. Someone who can build on ideas with you." I'm leaning towards her now, almost like I'm trying to push my words into her. "You don't want a doormat. You want a collaborator."

She raises an eyebrow. "And you think that's you?"

I hesitate—not because I don't, but because I'll sound crazy if I tell her what my instincts are screaming at me: that I know it.

"I think we have chemistry," I say instead, hedging. "And that means there's potential, anyway."

Her eyes widen, then those dark, delicate brows slam down in suspicion. "Chemistry?" she repeats, lip curling.

"I don't mean it like that," I say quickly. "Just…we bounce off each other. We've been doing it already, just talking about the layout and the concept. Why not test it out with food?"

I watch her closely for any sign of giving.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Finally…

"...What do you mean?"

I fight back the triumphant smile I feel twitching at the corners of my mouth. "Give me something to riff off," I suggest. "An idea you've had or something. We can see how it goes."

She thinks for a moment. Then suddenly stands. "Wait here."

And then she's gone.

Author's Note: I'm going on vacation for a while starting Friday, so I likely won't get another chapter up before the week of Thanksgiving.

To Lucy who left a guest comment referencing the Bear: that was indeed one of the inspirations for this story!

Footnotes:
The duck stack is a real dish at Canard. It's absurd.
Rontoms is a hip bar on E Burnside with great cocktails and live music. They also have a reputation for hot staff lol (or maybe that's just my friend group that thinks this?).
The Cygnet concept is heavily influenced by one of my absolute favorite restaurants in Portland, OK Omens.
CMS is the Court of Master Sommeliers. It's one of two premier wine certification programs, the other being WSET. CMS is more hands-on and tailored for the service industry, while WSET is more theoretical and attracts more marketing/sales/writers etc. Admission to the Advanced CMS course is by invitation only and is highly competitive, with only a small percentage passing the subsequent exam (there are only a few thousand Advanced CMS somms in the world). So it's kind of a big flex that Bella was invited. However, Bella didn't take the course before she came home, so she's "only" holds the Certified Sommelier credential. Which is also highly respected, just more common among fine dining sommeliers.
The Michelin Guide only operates in certain locations, and Portland is not one of the areas in the US with a guide. (Chicago and New York both are, though). There's plenty of other accolades to be won by restaurants here, but nobody will get a star here unless/until the Guide expands to include the city (unlikely anytime soon, I think).