“He’s not alone,” I assured her. “He has us. And many other friends.”
Bridgy added, “Please, please call if we can help. Really, anything you need.”
Elena’s smile turned frosty. “The Guerra family will take care of him. We always take care of family.”
Bridgy’s face reddened. “Of course you do. That goes without saying. But one of us can always sneak away from the café to help with shopping or to drive Miguel to the doctor.”
“Ah yes, the café.” Elena’s tone was as cryptic as if the café was a crucial piece in a puzzle she had nearly solved.
Bridgy pulled away from the curb, both of us smiling and waving to Elena and to Caridad, who’d come up behind her.
As soon as we were down the block, Bridgy let go of her smile and fretted. “What is going on here? Do you think Miguel blames us for the accident? Maybe the whole family blames us.”
I thought about it. “No, there’s more to it. Miguel loves us. He loves the café. He loves creating new recipes, he loves our regulars, he loves—”
“I get it. I get it,” Bridgy cut me off. “But you do agree that something doesn’t feel right? Miguel is withdrawn. That day in the hospital I thought he was tired and in pain, but now he’s home, surrounded by family, has adopted Bow and still . . .”
She shook her head as if she was the one tired and in pain. She stopped the car when we reached Estero Boulevard.
“We going home, or . . . ?”
“Home. Definitely home.”
Ophie was sitting on the terrace watching a sunset cruise glide along the Gulf.
“Come look at how gorgeous this scene is. If I were an artist, I’d sit here and paint seascapes all day long.” She turned away from the window. “Didn’t know how long you’d be so I made a cold chicken salad and corn bread. That way, dinner is always ready. If you want to wash up, I’ll set out the food.”
With grapes to add sweetness and water chestnuts for crunch, Ophie’s chicken salad was over-the-top delicious.
Bridgy wondered aloud where the tangy came from.
Ophie played mysterious for a minute and then confessed that her secret ingredient was a mixture of white pepper and onion powder.
“Extremely important that you mix them together before you add them to the dressing,” she emphasized, proud as a peacock that her salad was a hit.
Bridgy thought the dish would make a nice addition to the menu at the café, and we went back and forth about quantity and how long we could reasonably leave chicken salad in the fridge before it would have to be thrown out.
Finally we decided that we’d do a trial, a one-day special of two dozen servings. If it sold well, we could make it a weekly item and expand the serving numbers.
“I’d be available to eat the leftovers.” Bridgy was always happy when we had a new dish for our customers to try. Then she glanced at Ophie and said hastily, “Not that we’ll have any.”
I was beginning to squirm. I really wanted to talk to Bridgy about Bucket Hat, but it never seemed to be the right time. So I plunged in, trying to create an end to the chicken salad conversation.
“How about Wednesday? Could we make Ophie’s chicken salad the special of the day for the next few Wednesdays?”
Bridgy nodded, but Ophie asked what we were going to name the dish.
“Aunt Ophie’s Chicken Salad, of course.” Bridgy patted her aunt’s hand, satisfied that the issue was resolved.