2020-01-28 - Cookies and Coincidence

Justin steps in from outside and takes a moment to wipe his feet a bit before making his way a little further into the space and finding a place in the relatively short line before the display cases, looking over what is contained within and trying to make a decision over just what he might want to pick up. His phone is in one hand, and he taps out a return message or two while he waits.

Clifford, too, keeps to his phone, though he's already finished with his waiting. Situated at one of the black tables in an elegant chair in a regal shade of blue, he's dressed like he might be on break from work, suit jacket hanging loose as it should while his tie is still neat and secure. A cup of something--coffee? cocoa?--sits in front of him beside a plate of assorted cookies, from palmiers to madeleines to a few pastel macarons. He looks up from his reading to snag another, to consider the few other patrons willing to trudge through the slush for treats like these, when his attention settles on Justin. The staring might be a touch rude, really, but it's clear he's picking through memory, trying to account for missing years.

Justin makes two orders. One, a box of mixed chocolates and cookies to go, and a smaller box with a specific selection of chocolates. Then he makes a separate order for here, a mocha and several macarons. He gathers the to go order in its bag, and then is cup and his small plate of cookies and turns to notice Clifford looking at him. Justin's used to being recognized, being a celebrity, though most people in Gray Harbor don't give a rat's ass, which is comfortable in its own way. So he doesn't think much of it, and offers a smile in greeting until recognition dawns on his features. "Clifford?" he asks, "Dahlia mentioned you were in town."

Caught staring, Clifford flashes a charming smile, colored all appropriately apologetic, though it brightens rather promptly when Justin kicks the pieces into place. He sets down the madeleine he'd plucked up, brushes his fingers on a napkin and turns his phone face down on the table. "Justin!" is perhaps more enthusiastic than is due, but he's pleased to have separated celebrity from familiarity. "And she mentioned you helped her get settled in again. Please." He gestures toward one of the empty chairs at his table in invitation. "If you're not waiting for anyone?"

Justin smiles when it seems that he was correct in identifying the man and he moves in the direction of his table, taking the offered seat and settling into it. There's a little juggling of the packages as the bag to go is set on a chair next to him, and the plate and mug are set on the table. He unbuttons his own coat and makes himself comfortable, settling back in his chair and saying, "No, not waiting for anyone. Was just out picking up some things to bring home for later. Decided to indulge a little bit in the midst of my downtown errands." He smiles, gesturing toward his cookies and mocha. He nods then, "She came to stay with me for a while, after your mother passed. But she moved out again recently."

"I can hardly judge," Clifford jokes of that admitted indulgence, his own spread before him. Closer, it's easy enough to place that drink as coffee-based rather than cocoa, possibly a macchiato to judge by the coloration, the foam on top which has been pierced a time or two with cookies without yet dissipating into the drink. Another goes in, that madeleine reclaimed as they talk. "With a handiman, so I hear," carries a weight of reservation. Maybe even judgment. "Have you met him?"

"Oh, you /could/ judge, but there's absolutely no shame in my cookie game, sir," Justin says s he picks up one of the little macarons, a pistachio green, no doubt of the same flavour. He takes a bite and then sets it down on the little plate. "I've met Declan, yes. He's a good man, solid, stable, and he's good to her. Stayed by her and was there for her when she went through that rough spot not too long ago." He's not sure entirely how much Dahlia's told Clifford about what has been going on with her recently, so he's not particularly specific, but he continues on. "I saw the house. He did a lot of work on it himself. I like him."

Clifford concedes that first point with a little tilt of his head, marking it entirely fair. He's rather good at judging, really. No shame in that, either, says the hint of a grin around his bitten cookie. The assurances about Declan from someone who's known his sister for so long--and, in many ways, a good deal better than he has--seems to alleviate some of that other judging he was doing, but that ease hitches right around the mention of a 'rough spot.' One brow ticks upward slightly, just the barest suggestion of curiosity as he lets it slip past. "Good," he says of that last declaration. "I worry. Some of her choices..." He gives his half-a-madeleine a wobble before dipping it again, darkening the edge below where the foam clings. "Which rough spot are we talking about?"

"Well, you know she was sick for a while, right?" Justin asks, gauging just how much Dahlia may have shared with Clifford. "There was a pretty nasty flu that went around the whole town that knocked a lot of people out for a couple of weeks with some pretty bad symptoms." He takes a sip from his cup of coffee and settles back into his chair comfortably. "I was pretty fortunate that I didn't come down with it. Declan did, at one point, but he pretty much played nursemaid to her through the whole thing." He reaches for his unfinished cookie and takes another bite from it. "Did she tell you that we're going to be in a film together? It starts shooting in the spring."

Clifford does nothing to indicate how much or how little his sister's shared, but the silence with which he takes those details in is telling enough: this is news to him. Of course, a flu in winter isn't really all that unusual, even bad ones. Which can keep someone from their job and make bills hard to pay and all of that. A rough patch. He nods, accepting that explanation without any further pushback, marking that report down in Declan's favor before he's easily redirected to the mention of the film, smile coming back up easily. "She did," he confirms, opting to leave off how the rest of that conversation went. "What sort of role will she be playing? How big a part?"

"She's the female lead, the woman who ends up helping the detective solve the mystery and the crime, ultimately," Justin says. "It's a solid role, and I think, an interesting story, at any rate. And it's filming nearby in Seattle, so shouldn't interfere with things here all that much." He tilts his head just a little bit as he regards Clifford across the table. "I think it will be a good project for her. I admit I'm a little worried about her going back to work at the Cabaret. It'd be nice to see her find some purchase in acting, especially after how hard she worked to get into it back in L.A. before coming back out here."

The shift in Cliff's expression makes clear that he hadn't been expecting to hear Dahlia would be taking on the starring role, that he might be correcting his understanding of the project as he listens, as he nos to the detail about where it'll all be happening. Close. Good. Right? The way his expression then flattens out at the mention of the Cabaret indicates how much awareness he'd had of that pertinent detail. "Ah," is as nonchalant as he can manage, but it's not difficult to catch the irritation. Even as he moves right past it to address the commentary that follows. "That's what I was telling her, last time we talked." Only time recently that they talked. "That she still has plenty of possibility in front of her, especially with her work ethic." With a curious cant of his head, he wonders, "Why'd you come back here?"

"I'm playing the detective," Justin says. "My mother is playing the psychiatrist." His mother, the Oscar winning actress who has always pushed him to act, to model, to follow in her footsteps, but who also begrudgingly supported him when he didn't focus wholly on that, to establish his own company. "It was really her idea, all of this. She wanted me to do another project with her, and I told her I'd do it if she found something that Dahlia could do with me. She sent us a couple of scripts to look at, and this one seemed the darker of the two, but definitely the more interesting story. She has real talent. She just needs people to see it." He lifts his mug and takes another sip from it. He notes that irritation at the mention of the Cabaret, but lets it go as the conversation moves on. "L.A. was suffocating me," he admits. "I needed someplace quiet to just be, and to work on my company, and my projects, and have a life where I could go out somewhere without paparazzi and drama." He smiles faintly. "And now that I have that quiet life, I admit I sometimes miss the city."

Clifford definitely looks like he has something to say on the topic of people seeing his sister's talent, but he catches himself, forcing up another smile that doesn't seem all that forced at all, save by contrast to the tightened jaw which preceded it. "Yeah," sounds sympathetic on that last point. He wasn't in the same city or living quite the same sort of life, but, "It's strange being back." Commisseration punctuated with a lift of his mug to take his own sip, tongue swiping across upper lip to clear the foam as it comes back down. "And yet, for all that I keep thinking about heading out to Seattle or Vancouver for the weekend, I keep finding myself enjoying the quiet instead, wandering places I'd mostly forgotten." With a shallow lift of one brow, he wonders, "How've you been spending you been spending your weekends away from LA?"

"You know what I mean," Justin says when he sees that look, that look that Clifford definitely has something to say that he's holding back. He's always wanted to see Dahlia get some legitimate acting cred, but this is the first time he's actually been in a position to directly help do that. "It must be different, though, coming back home. I mean, for me, L.A. is home. My family only came here for the summers, so this was always.. a vacation spot. But I definitely know what you mean about wandering places that you'd mostly forgotten. Even being here almost every year.. it's funny how much memory comes back, in bits and pieces." He looks a little distant as he muses, staring at the mug of coffee but not really seeing it. Then he shakes his head, "My weekends? Working. I'll be honest, most of my days run together. Dahlia occasionally comes by to make sure that I actually get out of the house longer than it takes to walk the dog."

Clifford issues a curt nod, confirms, "I do," and leaves it at that, not bothering to bring up whatever had crossed his mind. He glances out the window, not able to hold that smile as the emphasis is placed on home. How long ago had he left? Had he ever meant to come back? "I don't remember it being this cold," is all he offers of Gray Harbor, of home. The admission of working through the weekends brings his humor--and his attention--back with a quiet chuckle. "Definitely a habit we share. I'm..." He gives his head a weighing wobble. "Trying to enjoy being a little light on work right now, see how the other half lives. The half that has weekends and evenings and holidays. And fun." Both brows go up as his head tips to the side a little as if following, like he's not quite sure what that would even look like.

"I've heard it's unusually cold and snowy this year," Justin says, watching Clifford's profile as he looks out the window. "I'm used to being gone by Labor Day. So this will be the first winter that I've ever spent here." He lifts his mug to take another sip, and then takes up a dark red macaron and takes a bite from that. "I'm a workaholic. I always have been. I accept this fact. I work more here than I even did in L.A., but that's largely because I had a social life there. Here.." he shrugs his shoulders. "It becomes far too easy to just.. keep going. It was easier when I had more people living at the house with me, but.. now it's just me and the dog again." He tilts his head then and asks Clifford, "So what brought /you/ back?"

Clifford grins at the admission of being a workaholic, a trait that both he and his sister--and probably their other brothers--share. He matches macaron for macaron, potentially unconsciously, reaching for a green one, likely pistachio to enjoy as he listens. It looks, for a second, like he might have something to say on the subject of social lives, but that question about his own return preempts that sentiment. "Someone had to," might not be the whole truth, a seed of something sincere grown up into more than it really is. "Couldn't leave Dahlia to handle all of this herself. Seeing to mom's estate." Sure, it's not much of an estate, but that's still the right word for what's left of her property, her presence in the world. "Could take a while to resolve everything, so I got myself a nice little apartment, found myself some work." He shrugs, just one shoulder. "And I'd offer to help you with that not getting out enough problem, but that would require that I look up from my own books sometime." Beat. "Which I suppose I've already admitted I've been doing a bit lately. If you want some help with that."

Justin nods his head at that and says, "I'm glad that she has some help with that. It's part of why I had her move in with me. I couldn't stand the thought of her staying in the trailer all by herself, especially with the nightmares she had when her mom passed. And selfishly, because that house is just too big for one person. And that was even before I got Caleb, so it was just me. It's funny. I always had my own place in L.A. but there were always people coming and going from it, crashing on the couch, or stopping by. I was never really alone there." He says, "Though, of course, Hyacinth stops by," his on-again off-again ex for years growing up. "And I've tried to spend some time with Easton," one of the other rich kid summer-residents he hung out with as a kid. "But, I could definitely do with a little bit of remembering what the other half does with their weekends and evenings. So if you do want some company, I could definitely stand to get out of my office more."

Nightmares. The tension returning to Cliff's jaw gives him away, how very ill-informed he is about what his sister's been going through. It's brief, there and gone again, easily explained away as he mutters, "I wouldn't want to stay in that trailer either." The sympathy's sincere, short-lived as it is. One of his few remaining cookies is dunked in his cooling coffee, the palmier permitted to drip into the mug a bit before he brings it up for a bite. "Not sure I can keep up with the company you're used to keeping," is a half-lie, a gentle jab at the big-money names he's dropping, so far removed from his own trailer park childhood, "but I could use to get out while I've got the chance, before I find myself enough work to keep too distracted for a social life of my own." Reaching for his phone, he asks, "Where can I find you?"

"We do a lot of sitting around and talking and drinking," Justin points out. "It's not too hard to keep up, unless you can't hold your liquor." He grins just a little bit, then. "We don't move very fast." He gives Clifford both his address at 11 Bayside Road, number, and email. "Alright then, it's a deal. We'll try and make sure that the other does not get so caught up in work that cobwebs grow between us and our desks." He finishes off his cup of coffee and his cookie then and says, "I have a couple more stops I need to make this afternoon, but let's do something this week. Let me know what night's good for you."

"Depends on what you're drinking," Cliff counters with an effortless grin, all that charm that's been at odds with more complicated emotions. Once he's got Justin's information down, he sends off a quick text that just says, 'Reciprocation,' to offer his number back, no address or email to go with it. Yet. "Sounds like a plan." There's a little wobble of his hand for days, but it comes with a nod, confirmation that he'll give his workload a once-over and figure out when he might be willing and able to pry himself free. "It was good talking with you, Justin. And I'm glad my baby sister's got you looking out for her. Glad to hear the project's such a good fit." The simple, "Thanks," he offers sounds entirely sincere.

Justin chuckles at that and says, "True enough." Then he rises and he buttons his coat back up, picking up the to go bag of things to take back to the house, and smiles. "It was good to see you again. It's been too long." Then he nods and says, "Hey, she's my best friend. And she's been there for me more times than I can count over the years. I'm lucky to have her looking out for me, too." He grins then, and lifts a hand in a wave. "Talk to you later this week." And with that, he heads toward the door, opening it and bracing himself to duck out once more into the snow and slush.