Page 58 of The Love Thief
CHAPTER FORTY - ONE Full Circle
After many long talks and sleepless nights, Jackson finally decided to retire from the FBI and follow his passion and open his own Aikido dojo.
His former FBI mentor, Robert Wittman, had made him an irresistible offer to work part-time as a virtual investigator while he ramped up the new business.
During his twenty-year tenure with the FBI, Wittman had recovered more than three hundred million dollars’ worth of stolen art, which led to the prosecution and conviction of countless criminals from around the world.
Jackson was thrilled to associate with him again in his role as investigator.
While searching for a space for the dojo, we found a mixed-use building with a perfect, large ground-floor space, and a beautiful large three-bedroom apartment right above for us to live in. Jackson was a man on fire, excited to be training his young students and embracing his new role as sensei.
During the time Jackson was reinventing his career, I had the same dream for three consecutive nights.
I dreamt of a bright pink, orange, and yellow food truck painted with Hindu Gods and Goddesses and floral patterns.
It was quite psychedelic in a late sixties Woodstock-era way.
I could even see the menu. It consisted mostly of dosas, a cross between a Mexican burrito and a French crepe.
They were made of rice and lentil flour, filled with a variety of ingredients, and served with yummy sauces.
Dosas are incredibly delicious and very addictive. One of my favorites was a masala dosa with scrambled eggs, dahl, and highly seasoned Yukon potatoes. In my dreams, the truck always looked the same, but the menu items kept expanding, and I could see long lines of customers.
I decided to turn my dream into reality.
After getting all the required regulations and licenses and plunking down the deposit for a brand new, state-of-the-art truck, my dosa food truck business was up and running.
And, thanks to the social media prowess of Jackson’s daughter Zoe, I had already amassed quite a following, boasting dozens of five-star reviews on Yelp—including one with the headline “Om Om Good! ” I enjoyed discovering new neighborhoods and meeting families of all nationalities who were loving my dosas.
My wild, bright pink, orange, and yellow custom paint job was a magnet for the hungry and the curious.
The hardest part wasn’t the cooking or the customers; the greatest challenge was learning to drive and park my twenty-foot-long kitchen on wheels.
It was a little before 9 A.M. on a Friday, and I had just settled into one of my favorite shady spots on a hill overlooking the dramatic Sunset Cliffs shoreline, in the hippie town of Ocean Beach.
Inhaling the salty sea air as I rolled out my awning, I was filled with gratitude for every single step along my journey that had led to this moment.
With the music of one of my favorite artists, Jason Mraz, bumping gently in the background, my usual pre-lunch crowd chores were unfolding in a perfect flow, and I was fully absorbed in the bliss of the present moment.
An unexpected sound broke my trance. Was someone knocking on the window?
I opened the front door to find Carly standing there, a sheepish half-smile on her face.
My immediate gut reaction surprised me. I wanted to reach out and hug her.
It was honestly so good to see her after so long.
My mind kicked in a millisecond later. I wondered if she could see the range of emotions playing across my face.
“Um, hi,” I said tentatively. “How did you find me?”
“What? Are you kidding? It would be hard not to find you,” she said excitedly in that zesty tone I had loved for twenty-something years. “You’re blowing up on all of my feeds!” She was beaming love. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Have you ever had a dosa?” I asked finally, not knowing what else to say. Food had always been our common ground.
I picked up a large serving tray of freshly made potato masala dosas, soft in the middle and crispy around the edges.
As I removed the foil from the pan, the scent of Indian spices warmed the air.
Placing two on a plate alongside a trio of mango, coriander, and chili chutneys, I motioned for her to sit on one of two chairs I had placed outside.
Carly reached for the plate. “Promise you’re not going to poison me?” she said, only half-jokingly.
I felt my heart melt.
Seated side by side on the bluff, I watched Carly drench a dosa in the mango and chili chutneys before taking a big bite. “Oh my God,” she said, still chewing. “Holly, this is incredible!”
I thought about the evolution of my cooking skills since I had last seen her and about the radical change in the trajectory of my life.
There was something very full circle about the moment. Me sitting here with my childhood best friend, now about to begin a whole new chapter in my adult life.
“Carly,” I began, turning my chair toward her. “I need you to know that even though everything that happened between us broke my heart, it also saved me from a lifetime of even greater heartbreak.”
Carly broke down crying, but I continued.
“I owe you a lot, actually, because you helped to expose Barry for who and what he really is. Thanks to everything that happened, my old life was turned completely upside down. Thanks to you, I spent months in India, learning not only a new way of cooking but a whole new way of looking at life. Thanks to you, I dodged a bullet and in the process met the true love of my life.”
“Oh, Holly . . . I’m so sorry for everything,” Carly sobbed, tears streaming down her face. “I was stupid and jealous, and I’ve prayed that someday you would forgive me.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I forgive you,” I reassured her. “I know better than anyone how seductive that motherfucker can be. Neither of us ever stood a chance against his narcissistic ways.”
And then, suddenly, I felt like a two-ton lead jacket had dropped from my shoulders, and all I could feel was love and compassion for my old friend.
Would we ever be close again? Only time would tell, but at that moment, all I wished for her was a happy life with someone who would love her the way Jackson loved me.