Then There Was You: A Single Parent Collection
Page 106
Mandy’s eyes light up at my last comment. “Yeah? You’re looking for work? Well, it just so happens…”
Five minutes later, I pull out on the road heading into town. Cove Side Cooker’s new kitchen help.
What can I say, Mandy is very convincing. I’m not sure how much she knows about my history—I’m sure most of it is readily available online—but she sure knows what buttons to push. She pointed out since the job is part time, I’d still have time to explore. I’ll be working in the kitchen, which will minimize the risk of recognition, and her coup de grâce was that I’ll save on gas since it’s within convenient walking distance. I had to laugh at that last one.
As I drive around the cove, I ignore the pangs of guilt, and tell myself the fortuitous job offer is perhaps a sign I’m right where I’m supposed to be. At least for the coming months.
The house is easy to find. It sits on a rise in the otherwise mostly level landscape, overlooking the water. Another prime example of Cape Cod architecture with the signature wood shingle siding and white trim. Except this place is massive.
I realize pretty quickly I’m a little out of my league. The driveway is lined with cube vans and trucks sporting company names on the side, and most of the crowd roaming through the house appears to be here in professional capacity.
I stop at a collection of sea glass displayed on a small side table and wonder if that was all found locally. I wouldn’t mind scouring the beach at low tide to see what I can pick up. Might be good exercise. I haven’t really worked out in a long time; maybe beach walks will help me get back in shape.
“Find anything you like?”
I swing around to find Jude right behind me. “Oh, hey. I’m not actually looking, just…browsing. What are you doing here?”
He grins and shrugs. “Was hoping to find a bookcase.”
I’m not sure what Mandy is playing at, but she clearly has a big mouth.
JUDE
“Oh.”
She looks as stunned as she did yesterday.
She recognized me, that much was clear, but I wasn’t so sure she was happy to see me. Granted, especially the first time in the hallway at Tufts was not something she’d fondly remember. She’d been a mess. A beautiful mess, but still. Then earlier this month she ran when she saw me in the lobby. At least I think that’s why. She looked right at me and bailed.
I was floored when I saw her sitting on the steps of my rental with Kelty. What are the odds? She did seem a bit uncomfortable, so even though I would’ve loved to stay and learn a little more about her, I took my reluctant daughter home instead. It’s not like there’s a hurry: Ms. Spencer has paid up front ‘til the end of October. Plenty of time.
Then Mandy stuck her head into my office earlier to let me know our tenant needs a bookcase, and exactly where she went to find one. I didn’t miss the mischievous glint in her eyes when I asked her to keep an eye on Kelty.
Mika Spencer. I looked her up last night. Shocked at the pages and pages of search results that came up. The woman even has a Wikipedia page. I wasn’t exactly snooping, just getting a lay of the land. Seeing the way she looks in her publicity photos, I realize I have probably seen her before in the media. I just didn’t connect the tied-back hair, flawless makeup, and professional smile to the disheveled, emotional woman I’d bumped into.
“Mandy sent you, didn’t she?” she asks, a wry smile on her face.
“Yup. She’s very protective of me,” I joke.
“Of you? How so?”
“She guards my reputation. Doesn’t want it spread on TripAdvisor I’m a cheap host and don’t provide my guests with the basic necessities.”
“A bookcase is hardly a basic necessity in a vacation cottage,” she counters with a faint, amused smile.
“Depends on your point of view.” I lightly put my hand on her elbow and start walking into the next room. “For instance, my daughter’s stepfather would strongly disagree. Books are as important as breathing to him.” At her puzzled look, I add, “He’s an author.”
Her eyes light up. “Really? What’s his name? I love to read.”
“Mark Sommer, he—”
She rips her elbow from my hand and swings around her mouth open in a perfect O. “Get out! I have four of his books in my bedroom. I love him.”
Not sure if it’s her obvious excitement at Mark’s name, the fact she keeps his books in the sanctuary of her bedroom, or her heartfelt declaration, but it immediately sours my mood.
“He’s okay,” I grumble. “He’s also about to become a father. He and Kelty’s mom are having a baby.”
Don’t ask me why I find it necessary to share that information. Still, I glance over to see her reaction.
“Your daughter must be so excited.” Her smile is warm and genuine, and the momentary tightness in my shoulders relaxes.
“She is. She’s also very impatient. Cassie—that’s her mom—was put on strict bed rest, which is why Kelty is staying with me.”
“Does she normally live with them?”
“Excuse me.” A somewhat disgruntled man, armed with a clipboard and tape measure, tries to get into the room we’re blocking. I step aside, pulling Mika with me.
“Used to, yes. They were in Boston before; she had her friends and school there. She’d spend more time here during the summers.”
“They’re not in Boston anymore?”
“No. They moved here when…” I stop myself from sharing more. It seems insensitive to talk about a time that was happy for us, but not so happy for her. She’d looked wrecked on the day I met her. “When they found out about the baby,” I conclude.
I keep my hand loosely around her elbow—trying not to stroke my thumb over the soft skin on the inside of her arm—as we stroll around the Bentley house in search of a bookcase.
“That one’s nice.” I point at a large cabinet with glass doors, holding a collection of old books.
“It is. Perhaps a little big, though,” she says, hiding a smile. “Unless you have room in your house, because I don’t think it would fit in the cottage. I don’t even think you could get it through the door.”
She’s right, it wouldn’t. We find another in the next room, similar, but instead of seven or eight feet tall, this one is at eye level for me.
“It’s pretty,” she comments, peeking at the tag hanging off a knob. “But you know a plain shelving unit would do just as well, right? It’s kind of expensive,” she adds on a whisper.
Half an hour later, I have the cabinet strapped down and loaded in the back of my Traverse, and am leaning against the gate.
“Where to next?” I ask, cutting off the ongoing argument about who should be paying for the bookcase.
She throws me an irritated look, but I bite off a grin when she rolls her eyes and answers my question. “I was heading for the beach. I brought my camera. When is low tide?”
“Not sure, but it changes from day-to-day. Why low tide?” I pull out my phone and look up Nauset Beach tides.
“I saw some sea glass in there.” I remember she was looking at some when I found her. “I want to see if I can find any.”
“It says low tide was at ten thirty. It’s near noon now; it takes six hours, give or take, to peak. You should still have plenty of beach left.”
“What about the cabinet?”
“It’s not that heavy. I can have it set up for you by the time you get back, if you want.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely.” I push away from the truck. “Go explore, make some more pretty pictures.”
Her smile hits me in the midsection and she gives me a little wave as she walks over to her wagon. I’m tempted to follow her to the beach, but I have a kid and a restaurant waiting at home.
Besides, there’s something I want to do first.
I just dropped Kelty off in Chatham with Mark and Cassie, where she’ll be spending the weekend.
It’s Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial beginning of the seas
on. Summer may not officially start for another three and a half weeks, but there are a lot of folks who prefer the relative quiet of the Cape before schools let out for the summer.
When I pull into the driveway, I notice there are already quite a few cars in the parking lot. I also see Mika must’ve returned while I was out. Too bad I don’t have time to check in with her.
I put the bookcase against the sidewall of the living area, flipping the loveseat to the other side, so now when you walk in the sitting area is better defined. I like it; I just hope she does.
“We’ve got a party of twelve wanting to come in at seven,” Mandy announces, the phone pressed to her chest when I walk in.
“Jesus.” I look around the almost full restaurant. “Too cold for the deck.”
“Actually, it’s pretty nice out there.”
“Until the sun goes down,” I remind her. It cools down fast when you’re on the water.
“We could set up the heaters. Why don’t I ask them?”
I nod. We have five patio heaters we often set up at the end of the season. People aren’t ready to let go of summer yet, despite it getting pretty cool at night toward the end of September. It wouldn’t take much to set a couple up.
“They’re good sitting outside,” she says, adding their reservation on the whiteboard.
“Do you have enough hands on the floor?”
“Yup. We’re good for now.”
“All right, I guess I’ll go help out in the kitchen. Hope they come through with that delivery tomorrow.”
I’m about to push through the doors that separate the kitchen from the restaurant when Mandy calls out.
“Boss, forgot to mention; I got us some extra help.”
5
MIKA
“Sorry.”
I look up as Penny comes into the kitchen with another tub of dirty dishes. I haven’t even finished the previous one. She looks a little guilty so I send her a reassuring smile.
Mandy introduced Penny and Trish when I came in around five. Both local women, apparently. Penny is the younger of the two, probably early thirties, if that. Trish looks to have a few years on me and is the more reserved of the two.
Then Mandy took me into the kitchen where I met Daniel, the chef, and his sous chef, Melissa. When she’d mentioned helping out in the kitchen, I’m not sure what I expected. I thought I might be assisting with prep, doing a little cleanup, and maybe plate, but instead I was installed at the huge tub sink where large stacks of dirty dishes were already waiting.
To say I hit the floor running might be an understatement. I’ve been scrubbing for what feels like hours and can’t seem to make a dent in the dishes Trish and Penny keep adding to.
Daniel hasn’t said much, but Melissa seems nice. She’s the one who explained why I should prioritize cookware before cutlery, and cutlery before dishes. She also suggested I take the racks from the broken dishwasher and use them as drying racks. Every so often Melissa clears the dried dishes and the other half of the counter is freed up again. Everyone’s part in the operation runs smoothly, but I appear to be the rusty cog in the wheel.
I can’t help chuckle. This is not what I envisioned when I said I was looking for work. Still, it’s not particularly mentally taxing, and allows for my mind to drift.
When I came back around three this afternoon, Jude’s truck had been gone, but I could see he’d been there. The gorgeous, glass door bookcase features prominently in the living room, and I love how it looks filled with my books. He moved the furniture around a little and it immediately felt more personal and homey coming in the door.
What caught me off-guard was the flat glass bowl filled with sea glass. I recognized some of the pieces; it was the same glass I’d been eyeing at the estate sale. That was surprisingly thoughtful. It’s also evidence he pays attention, and let’s be honest, that’s not always a quality evident in the opposite gender. At least not in many men I’ve known.
I rinsed off the few smooth-worn shards of colored glass I found, added them to the collection, and quickly uploaded the shots I took to the laptop. There hadn’t been time left to have a good selective look at them, because Mandy was expecting me at the Cooker for five.
“Never seen anyone smile like that over dishes. Penny for your thoughts?”
In contrast to Jude’s almost rough voice, Daniel’s is surprisingly smooth and cultured. You’d think it would be the reverse.
I shake my head, grinning. “I’m not thinking of dishes, that’s for sure.”
He leans his hip against the counter and crosses his arms over his wide chest. “Ah, come on. You’re not sharing?”
I recognize the flirting. Not like I haven’t been subjected to my share in my career. It was almost par for the course, and mostly from men too young for me, who thought they could avoid difficult questions by trying to rattle me. They learned quickly I couldn’t be rattled. Not by them anyway.
Daniel’s handsome in a giant ginger teddy bear way, probably closer to my age, and isn’t holding back information I want to get at, so I let myself be tempted into a little harmless back-and-forth.
“There are some things a girl doesn’t share.”
“You know that’s cruel, right?” he teases. “Now my imagination will have to fill in the blanks and I won’t sleep all night.”
Melissa snorts from somewhere behind him. “Don’t mind him,” she advises. “The lumbering fool is still honing his skills in the fine art of seduction. I’ll give it to you though; you’re still standing here when most would’ve run for the door from one look at his ugly mug. Good thing the man can cook, it’s his one redeeming grace.”
“She’s just jealous,” Daniel retorts, without so much as a glance at her but with a wink for me. “She’s wanted a piece of this…” He runs his big paws up and down his thick torso. “…since the first time she met me.”
It’s obvious this is a well-rehearsed spiel between the two. It’s warm, and reminds me of the bickering Sam and her brother, Steve, would get into.
“Any reason you’re hitting on the new help instead of getting me my surf and turf platter for table fourteen?”
The question is clearly for Daniel, but I still turn my head at the sound of Jude’s gruff voice to find him standing in the doorway. The moment I do, his eyes go big.
“Mika? What are you doing here?”
“I’m the new help.” I shrug, but I’ve already lost his attention, since he turns an angry glare on Daniel.
“In that case, you really want to get back behind the stove,” he tells the other man in a deceptively calm voice. Melissa snorts again, and Daniel lifts his hands defensively and backs away from my sink, the flash of white teeth in his beard betraying a smile.
“So that’s the way the wind’s blowing,” I hear him mumble before he adds out loud, “Surf and turf for fourteen coming up.”
With one last glance at me, Jude walks out of the kitchen to Daniel’s deep chuckle.
I keep to my own thoughts after that, listening to the occasional comfortable banter from the two chefs with half an ear. The tedium of washing dishes allows my mind to drift, and I realize for the first time in a long while, I’m almost content.
However, much later when Mandy walks in with the last tub of dishes from the dining room, my feet are aching and my hands are red and swollen from being in hot water all night. The kitchen is officially closed, Melissa and Daniel disappeared, and I’m just finishing up the last of the pots and utensils.
“I’ll do this last batch, go take the load off. They’re in the bar having a night cap.”
I nod and smile my thanks before drying my hands, removing the apron, and heading into the restaurant, where I find Trish, Melissa, and Daniel sitting at the bar Jude appears to be manning.
“What’s your poison?” he asks, when he sees me dragging my ass in.
“I think I’ll pass.” I direct a tired smile at the group. “I’m afraid if I have a drink I won’t be able to make it home at
all.”
“I’ll walk you home,” Daniel says, getting up from his stool.
“There’s no need, I—”
“Sit your ass down, Daniel,” Jude snaps, cutting me off as he rounds the bar and takes my elbow. Before I can even launch a protest, I’m being led out the door, the sound of snickering behind me.
JUDE
Fucking Daniel.
And fucking Mandy.
Jesus.
I’m seriously considering looking for a new set of friends.
What the hell was Mandy thinking putting that woman on dishwashing duty? Within easy reach of our resident tomcat, who clearly was already on the prowl. Christ.
Mika half-stumbles and I’m just able to grab her arm to keep her from falling.
“Careful.”
“Then don’t run,” she snaps, yanking her arm from my hold. “I can’t even see where the hell I’m going.”
“You should’ve left your porch light on,” I grumble. When the kitchen closes we usually shut off the parking lot lights to discourage latecomers from pulling in, but it makes visibility poor.
“Don’t worry, I will next time,” she says, almost taking a nosedive when she trips over the last porch step.
“Why?” I ask, stopping at the bottom, looking up at her.
“Why what?”
“Why would you take a job washing dishes?”
She turns her back to me and opens the door, stepping inside. Probably still pissed. I can’t really blame her. I’m acting like an angry bear. Then she surprises me when the porch light turns on and she steps back outside. “First of all,” she starts, sitting down on the top step. “I was given the impression I’d be helping in the kitchen.” She seems to think about that for a moment before she adds, “Which I guess wasn’t technically a lie. I just thought it would be more…varied.”
I sit down on the bottom step, twisting my body so I can keep looking at her. “Guess Mandy roped you in?” Her nod confirms it. “We had a flood in the kitchen yesterday morning when the dishwasher crapped out. Again. We should have a replacement tomorrow morning,” I explain, before pushing her a bit more. “But why take on a job you’re way overqualified for? Are you in trouble?” The mere thought she might be is causing a feeling of unease. A need to protect her from whatever had her run to the Cape to hide out. Because that’s the conclusion I’ve come to. It’s the only thing that makes sense when someone with—by all accounts—a successful and public career rents a two-bedroom cottage in some out-of-the-way place, and takes on a job washing dishes in a restaurant. I know something bad happened to her last December—and I’m sure I can find out what if I dig deeper in all the links my Google search spit out when I put in her name—but I’d much rather she tell me herself than read it in online gossip.