Chapter 42: David's Vision
Café Tropical had become ritual.
Not the desperate coffee-seeking of early transmigration, when everything had been strange and the caffeine had been survival mechanism. Now it was comfort—the worn vinyl booths, the particular smell of Twyla's brewing, the quiet understanding that some conversations happened best over shared cups.
David was already seated when I arrived, which was unusual. He typically made others wait, establishing through timing that his schedule mattered more than theirs. But here he was, coffee untouched, staring at the menu board like it contained answers to questions he hadn't figured out how to ask.
"The vendors worked," he said as I sat down. "Brebner's actually has products that don't look like they survived a nuclear winter."
"I heard."
"Wendy's insufferable about it. Claims she always knew the store needed updating, she was just waiting for 'the right connections.'" David's air quotes carried enough disdain to fill the entire café. "But it's... better. Marginally. Incrementally better."
Twyla appeared with my usual—black coffee, no cream, the way she'd learned I preferred it through months of observation. She refilled David's cup without being asked and retreated to the counter with the particular grace of someone who understood when to provide service and when to provide space.
"But it's not enough," I said.
David looked up sharply. "How did you—"
"Because you're here. You came to me. That means something's bothering you that the vendor connections didn't fix."
He was quiet for a moment, processing the observation. Then something shifted in his expression—the defensive architecture loosening slightly, revealing the ambition underneath.
"The store isn't... it's not what I could build." The words came slowly, as if he were testing each one before releasing it. "It's Wendy's store. Her vision, such as it is. I'm just... consulting. Offering suggestions that she implements badly and takes credit for."
"You want something of your own."
"I want something that matters." He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, the gesture more vulnerable than I'd seen from him before. "Something that isn't just... existing. Something that has a point."
I waited. This was his moment, not mine.
"Retail could be different here," David continued. "Not just selling things people need. Curating things people want. Local products, handmade items, things with stories behind them. Not a general store—a destination. Somewhere people come because the experience matters, not just the transaction."
He was describing Rose Apothecary. The business that would define his trajectory, that would bring Patrick into his life, that would transform him from a lost heir into a successful entrepreneur. I'd watched that journey unfold across seasons of television, never imagining I'd witness the seed of it being planted.
"What kind of products?" I asked. "Specifically."
David's eyes lit up—the particular spark that appeared when he talked about things he genuinely cared about.
"Skincare. Actual skincare, not the industrial-sized bottles of mediocrity that pass for it here. Local honey, real maple syrup, handcrafted soaps. Items that people would buy as gifts or keep for themselves because they're beautiful, not just functional." He leaned forward. "A space that looks like it was designed, not just filled. Clean lines, natural light, products displayed like they deserve attention."
"That sounds like a store concept."
"That sounds like a fantasy." The spark dimmed. "I don't have money. I don't have a space. I don't have business experience beyond being a customer. I don't have..." He trailed off, the familiar cynicism reasserting itself.
"You have the idea."
"Ideas are cheap. Everyone has ideas."
"Not like that." I set down my coffee. "Most people see what exists and accept it. You see what could exist instead. That's not cheap—that's rare."
David stared at me like I'd started speaking a language he didn't recognize.
"You're... actually serious."
"I've watched you over the past few months. The suggestions for Brebner's, the product curation instincts, the way you notice when things are ugly and can articulate exactly why. That's skill. That's expertise. It just doesn't have a venue yet."
"A venue requires capital." His voice was flat, defensive. "Capital requires investors. Investors require track records. I have a track record of being a disappointing heir who lost everything his family built."
"You didn't lose it. Someone else did."
"Try explaining that to anyone who reads a headline."
I understood his defensiveness. In the show, David's journey to Rose Apothecary had been marked by exactly this kind of self-doubt—the belief that his background made him unsuitable for building something new, that his lack of traditional qualifications would doom any venture before it began.
But I also knew what he didn't: that his partner was coming. That Patrick Brewer would walk into Schitt's Creek eventually, bringing exactly the practical skills David felt he lacked. That together, they would build something neither could have created alone.
I couldn't tell him that. Couldn't steer him toward a relationship he hadn't met yet. But I could reinforce the foundation that relationship would need.
"Every business starts with an idea," I said. "The money, the space, the experience—those come later. But without the idea, there's nothing to build. You have the hard part. The rest is just execution."
David laughed—not the bitter sound of dismissal, but something closer to surprise.
"That's remarkably optimistic. From you."
"I've learned to recognize potential when I see it."
Twyla approached with the coffee pot, refilling cups that didn't need refilling, her movements unhurried and observant. She'd been listening—not intrusively, but with the particular attention of someone who cared about the people in her space.
"You should do it," she said quietly. "The store thing. It sounds lovely."
David turned to her with an expression that mixed surprise with vulnerability. "You were listening?"
"I'm always listening. Occupational hazard." She smiled—the warm, uncomplicated smile that made her presence feel like comfort rather than service. "But I mean it. This town needs something beautiful. You could make that."
For a moment, David didn't respond. Then something shifted in his posture—the defensive hunch loosening, his shoulders straightening slightly.
"I wouldn't even know where to start."
"Start by describing it," I said. "Not to investors. Not to anyone who needs convincing. Just... describe the store you see in your head. What does it look like? What does it smell like? What does someone feel when they walk through the door?"
"That's ridiculous."
"Maybe. But you've been thinking about it long enough that you can probably describe it in detail. The question is whether you'll let yourself."
David looked at his coffee cup. Then at Twyla, who was still smiling with quiet encouragement. Then at me, with an expression I couldn't quite parse.
"White walls," he said slowly. "Clean, bright white. But warm somehow—not sterile. Natural wood shelving, the kind that looks handcrafted because it is. Products arranged by aesthetic, not category. You walk in and everything you see fits together."
He kept going. The entrance, the display areas, the checkout counter, the way light would fall through windows that existed only in his imagination. The words came faster as he went, the self-consciousness fading as the vision took shape.
Twyla refilled our cups again. The café quieted around us, the other customers fading into background as David described something that didn't exist yet but might.
"—and local products, obviously. Things you can't get anywhere else. Things that say something about where they came from." He stopped suddenly, as if realizing how much he'd revealed. "That's... that's probably stupid."
"That's specific," I said. "Specific isn't stupid. Specific is how things get built."
"He's right," Twyla added. "I've been thinking about new menu items for months, but I never got anywhere until I started describing exactly what I wanted them to taste like."
David looked between us—two people who shouldn't have aligned, finding common ground in encouragement he hadn't asked for and didn't know how to receive.
"I don't have a business partner," he said finally. "I don't have someone with practical skills who could actually make this work. I have ideas and aesthetics and opinions about skincare that nobody asked for."
"The partner will come," I said. "When you're ready for them."
The words were more specific than I should have offered, but David didn't seem to notice the certainty behind them. He was too caught up in the unfamiliar experience of being taken seriously.
"You think someone would actually want to partner with me? On a business venture? In this town?"
"I think someone would be lucky to partner with you." I stood, leaving money on the table for both coffees. "You see things other people miss. That's worth more than capital or experience. The rest can be learned."
I left him sitting in the booth, staring at cold coffee, something new in his eyes—possibility fighting against familiar cynicism.
Outside, spring was settling over Schitt's Creek with the particular warmth of late May. The town looked the same as it had months ago, but the energy underneath had shifted. People moving with purpose. Businesses trying new things. A community that had remembered it could hope.
David would find his partner. Patrick would arrive eventually, bringing the practical foundation that David's vision needed. Together, they would build Rose Apothecary, and the store would become the anchor for everything that followed.
I couldn't make that happen. Couldn't force the relationship, couldn't accelerate the timeline. But I could nurture the seed that had just been planted—the belief, however fragile, that David Rose was capable of creating something beautiful.
That was enough for now. The rest would come.
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