In the dining room, the young waitress Mary had rehired looked frantic. Delia Molek was arguing with a customer beneath antique pewter sconces.
In contrast, Ethel Lynn was hiding in the kitchen. Given her culinary calamities since the first customer had arrived promptly at seven a.m., it was for the best. Maybe she suffered from opening day jitters. Maybe she would serve up savory meals once she got into the swing of things. The restaurant had closed for six months. Was it any wonder if Ethel Lynn’s cooking skills were rusty? And, in the fervor of new ownership, Mary had overhauled the menu. She’d brought back recipes that hadn’t been served in over a century. Surely the historic cuisine was to blame for the elderly cook’s bad start.
Mary was wringing her hands when Delia marched up.
“He didn’t leave a tip.” The waitress nodded at the portly man fleeing out the door.
“And he’ll never come back.”
“Would you?” The waitress popped a stick of gum into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “So. Your first day is a train wreck. Guess what? We still have the dinner rush tonight.”
Mary surveyed the patriotic decorations festooned throughout the dining room, a treasure trove of Americana harking back to the restaurant’s inception during the Civil War. So many beautiful things, but they’d gone unappreciated. The customers had only noticed the glop on their plates.
Her heart sank. “There won’t be a dinner rush,” she said. “After the meals Ethel Lynn cooked for the breakfast and lunch crowds, we won’t see a soul.”
Delia approached the restaurant’s picture window. “I hope Mayor Ryan doesn’t burn up the phone lines scaring off our customers.” She squinted at the courthouse anchoring the north end of Liberty Square. “Then again, she has a soft spot for Miss Meg. It might stop her from passing legislation condemning this place.”
“Maybe I should ask Aunt Meg to give her a call.” Would long-distance lobbying work?
Delia slipped her order pad into the pocket of her apron. “Meg will fix everything,” she said, grinning. The mirth on her face died when she added, “The mayor was sorry to see her go. We all were.”
And sorry to see me arrive? “My aunt promised to come back and visit.” With a brave smile, Mary ignored the curious look glittering in Delia’s blue eyes. “She called last night—from Tibet. She’s praying with the monks.”
“Meg sure is eccentric.”
Incorrigible was more like it. “She was planning to practice yoga then have a drink after the monks retired for the night.” A shot of whiskey didn’t sound too bad, at the moment.
“Makes her own rules, she does.” Delia folded her arms. “She’s also an open book, which you aren’t. You never talk about yourself.”
“I will, when I have something to say.”
What she did have were emotions sorely in need of CPR. Not to mention a bank account on death’s door after generous Aunt Meg handed over the restaurant then danced into retirement.
True, Meg’s largesse was perfectly timed. Mary was eager to leave Cincinnati for a yearlong sabbatical from medicine. Slogging through her residency and working long hours in the ER had left her exhausted. Worse still, her grief over the sudden death of her friend and confidant, Dr. Sadie Goldstein, hadn’t abated. She needed time to heal.
None of which was suitable to discuss with her employee, the gum-popping Delia. Excusing herself, she returned to the kitchen.
At the stove, Ethel Lynn fluttered. Her oversized apron swung in loose folds as she padded her fingers across the collar of her bluebell-patterned dress. The retro number was better suited for the Eisenhower era, much like Ethel Lynn herself.
“Is the lunch rush over?” she asked. “I’m ready if you need anything.”
Mary hesitated. “Should I take over for a few hours?” she finally asked. “You look frazzled.”
Ethel Lynn patted her wizened cheeks. “Oh, I’m fit as a fiddle.”
Right. The woman was a bundle of nerves. Maybe she possessed the metabolism of a sparrow on amphetamines. Whatever the reason, she’d worried her way through the renovations after the historic restaurant changed hands. Ethel Lynn had perspired in her delicate way, lace handkerchief at the ready, as the dining room was repainted and the patriotic bunting hung on the picture window. Now they’d reopened to disastrous results and she seemed prepared to fret into a full-blown state of distress.
Which was never good for a woman on the far side of sixty.
Gently, Mary patted her back. “About your cooking… there’ve been a few complaints. Do you need another pair of hands in the kitchen?”
“Of course not. Didn’t you rehire the staff?”
“I rehired Delia,” Mary corrected. “When I called the other waitress, she refused my offer.” The mysterious Finney Smith had blistered Mary with a few choice words before slamming down the phone. Shocking, sure, but who cared if they were short a waitress? “We’ll find a replacement for Finney. Honestly, I can’t imagine a woman like that waiting tables.” Not unless the tables were in Sing Sing.
A squeak popped from Ethel Lynn’s throat. Which was when Mary noticed that her lips were quivering.
“It’s about Finney,” she whispered, and something in her voice sent goose bumps down Mary’s spine. “She wasn’t a waitress, dear. Her job was—heavens to Betsy—a tad more important.”
Mary’s pulse scuttled. “What exactly are you saying?”
* * *
Blossom’s dad thought a lot about dying.
She supposed it was natural given all the pain, blood tests, and hospital visits they’d endured. Going through it, years of it, had changed him. It put lines on his forehead and doubt in his eyes. She’d watched the changes color him, as if he’d been a pencil sketch before the ordeal and was now bolded in by the blues and grays of his experience with cancer.
She wanted to tear up that picture, throw it into a trash can of unwanted memories. She’d heard for herself the word Dr. Lash used. Remission.
It was over. Finished. The word always made her happy. Then she’d think about her dad, stuck on his thoughts of death.
Which made her sad.
Pausing on Second Street, Blossom tugged the book bag’s straps tight across her shoulders. Feeling self-conscious, she hesitated beside the large picture window. A drapey curtain patterned like the American flag had been hung by the restaurant’s new owner.
She hooked a curl behind her ear and glanced down the street, like a spy afraid of being noticed. Which was stupid. She was a seventh grader at Liberty Middle School and knew everyone in town.
Before she might chicken out, she peeked in the window.
The place was empty. Blossom sighed. Then she swung her gaze to the long counter hemmed in by bar stools and her mood soared. Mary was there, all right.
Ducking out of sight, she leaned against the wall’s rough bricks as the fizzy elation ran down to her toes.
Then she dashed across the street.
She ran diagonally through the park-like center green of Liberty Square. Maple trees wagged leaves in the breeze. The scent of freshly mown grass mingled with the sweet aroma of summer flowers.
Moving faster, she narrowed her concentration with an adolescent blend of purpose and amusement. Sure, her dad thought about dying when he ought to try living. Grown-ups did all sorts of stupid things. They acted as if death lurked outside the door waiting to take them away. Blossom knew it was a silly idea. Death wasn’t a person dressed up like Darth Vader, cloaked in black and waiting to snatch you away.
Yet no matter how many times she reassured her father, he saw death as the enemy. He believed in it.
That was nonsense. Blossom knew with an eleven year old’s certainty that death was outsmarted by good doctors and positive thoughts. Wishing helped, too.
Buoyed by the warm May air and her foolproof plan, she ambled across the hot pavement of the Gas & Go. Inside the garage her father clattered around the pit, working beneath a late model Toyota.
&n
bsp; “Hey, there.” She spotted the vintage oak office chair, her favorite, and dropped onto it. “How ya doin’?”
“Hi, kiddo,” Anthony Perini called from inside the pit. “How was school?”
“Just counting the days until my prison break.” She yawned theatrically. “Guess what? The restaurant reopened this morning. Been there yet?”
A rattling erupted beneath the car. “Too busy.” Several bolts clanked into a tray.
“Go over and meet the new owner, Dad. She’s nicer than Prissy Meade Williams.”
“Don’t start. All right?”
It was an old request. Meade Williams poised the biggest threat to Blossom’s emotional well being since she and her dad had high-tailed it out of the hospital last year. Rich and as plastic as a platinum haired Barbie doll, Meade was now upping the ante. The cosmetics entrepreneur filled her Mercedes at the Gas & Go so frequently she was probably siphoning off gas outside town and dumping it in a cornfield to keep her fuel gauge on empty.
Ditching the thought, Blossom said, “Meade will have you doing the goosestep to the altar if you aren’t careful. You don’t know women like I do. I am a woman.”
“We aren’t having this conversation again.”
“Face it, Dad. If I don’t give you good advice, who will?” The chair was equipped with casters and she wheeled toward the garage door. Sunshine dappled the quaint shops and the restaurant on the other side of Liberty Square. “The lady at the restaurant is real pretty. You’ve got to meet her.”
Beneath the Toyota, a tool clanked then stilled. “Meet who?”
Blossom wheeled close, happy she’d caught his attention. “The lady—I think she’s Miss Meg’s niece. She’s a real looker.”
“If you say so.”
“Aren’t you interested?”
A grease-stained hand popped out from beneath the car and grabbed the air ratchet’s snaking black hose. The hand disappeared underneath, as an ear-splitting, motorized whirring rattled through the garage.
When the tool fell silent, Blossom continued. “She has brownish-red hair down to her shoulders and green eyes. She’s kinda shy. Like she’s scared or something. She even fixed up the boring old menu. I’ll bet the stuff she’s making is better than your cooking.”
“Hard to believe anyone cooks better than me.”
“A lady like that must be a great cook.”
“Whatever.”
Frustrated by his lack of interest, she kicked away the bolts he’d thrown from the pit. “She changed the restaurant’s name. It’s now called Second Chance Grill. Her name is Mary Chance, by the way.”
“Great.”
“She’s younger than you. Twenty-nine, thirty, maybe. She’s nowhere near the old fart stage.” Like Meade. “C’mon Dad—take me there for a sundae.” Her father muttered a curse before climbing out of the pit. Plastering on a smile, she added, “You’ve got to see her.”
When her father paused before her, she wrinkled her nose. He was grease monkey all the way. Droplets of motor oil dotted his curly brown hair. Oil glazed the side of his rather large nose. Beneath deep brown eyes, smudges of black made him resemble a boxer who’d seen too many fights. To top it off, he stank of eau de gasoline and perspiration.
“You’re a stink pot.” She pushed the office chair toward the garage door and the reprieve of springtime air. “And you’re ruining your clothes. Geez, we’ll never get the gunk out of your jeans. Not even with ten boxes of Tide.”
Looking mildly offended, Anthony ran his palms down his filthy tee-shirt. “Why are you always bugging me about my clothes?”
“You’re a good looking guy, that’s all. Clean up once in awhile. Strut your stuff.”
He gave her the quizzical look that meant she’d crossed the line of father-daughter relationships—a line she didn’t think existed.
“I hate to point out the obvious but you need a date. Meade stalking you doesn’t count.” She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “How long’s it been? Can you remember the last time you had a date?”
“Not really.”
“That’s why she’s got you in her sights. It’s about damn time you found a nice woman.”
“You shouldn’t swear.”
“You shouldn’t make me.”
She pulled her attention from the ceiling and leveled on his sweet, teddy bear gaze. It never failed to warm her when he looked at her that way. It also made her sad, the worry lurking in his eyes, the concern he tried to hide.
He’d had that look her whole life.
Crouching, Anthony held the chair’s armrests to still her. “Blossom, the last couple of years nearly did us in. It’s a miracle we survived. I can’t imagine thinking about a woman or dating or—”
“You don’t have to worry.” She patted his greasy cheek. “We’re fine.”
The concern in his eyes deepened. “I know.”
“Try believing it.”
A weary smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I’m trying.”
He let the chair go, and she snatched the paper bag at her feet. Following him across the garage, she said, “I brought clothes. You can wash up and change.”
“You what?”
She lifted the grocery bag. “Clean clothes. We’ll go to the Second Chance for a sugar buzz.”
He cocked a brow. “Shouldn’t you be home, doing homework or something?”
“Got it done in study hall.” She pulled out a pair of jeans and wagged them before his nose. “Can we go to Miss Mary’s restaurant? Please?”
Her father leaned against the doorjamb, shaking his head. “Shit, you never give up.”
She tipped up her chin. “You shouldn’t swear.”
He offered a lopsided grin. “You shouldn’t make me.”
* * *
Mary smiled in greeting as the now-familiar girl with the corkscrew curls entered from the street. She’d been peering in the window for days, an amusing state of affairs. A tall man in jeans followed. Hopefully they’d arrived for an afternoon snack that wouldn’t put Ethel Lynn anywhere near the stove.
To Mary’s eternal relief, the girl asked, “Do you have sundaes?”
“With twenty flavors of ice cream.” She reached for the order pad as they slid onto barstools. “Would you like menus?”
The girl smiled broadly, revealing pearly teeth. “Naw, I’ll stick to chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce. And sprinkles, if you’ve got ‘em.” Light sparkled in her toffee-colored eyes. “I’m Blossom Perini. You’re Mary, right?”
“I am. It’s nice to meet you.”
The man quietly studied her, sending a pang of discomfort through her. He had the most expressive eyes—almond shaped, and a deep, warm brown. Like Blossom, his hair was a darker brown, and curly. An older brother? Or Blossom’s father? He had the well-toned build of a man who worked out, lending him a youthful appearance. Deducing their relationship with certainty was impossible.
Immediately Blossom cleared up the mystery. “This is my dad, Anthony.”
Mary extended her hand. “Hello.”
“It’s a pleasure.” He surged to his feet to give a handshake formal enough for colleagues meeting at a medical convention.
But he didn’t let go after the obligatory three seconds. And he continued to stare at her. With a start, she wondered if an odd bit of food was stuck on her face. Flecks of ash from the sausage Ethel Lynn had burned? With her free hand she made a self-conscious swipe at her cheek.
Clearly aware of her discomfort, he released her fingers and jerked back. He continued to stand behind the barstool in what she decided was a state of utter confusion. She didn’t know how to proceed, not with him staring at her and Blossom watching the interchange with ill-concealed mirth.
“Sit down.” Blossom yanked on his sleeve and he dropped back onto his barstool. “Do you want coffee?”
The question drew Anthony’s attention back to his daughter. When he nodded in the affirmative, Mary tried to regain her composure. She stole a
glance at the mirror behind the bar—no smudges, no food anywhere on her face. What had he been gaping at? Surely she appeared presentable, if a little exhausted. Given the apologies she’d doled out all day long, who wouldn’t look haggard?
Shrugging it off, she scooped ice cream then fetched the coffee pot. She’d just finished pouring when Anthony said, “So you’re Meg’s niece. How is she?”
“Traveling the world.” His remarks were light, and much friendlier than his strange, first reaction and so she added, “My aunt’s decision to turn over the restaurant came as a shock. I’d never visited—I should’ve found the time.”
“I would’ve remembered if you had.”
He seared her with a look and she stiffened against the sudden heat flushing her cheeks. Was he flirting? The possibility sent unexpected pleasure darting through her.
Steering the conversation back to safe territory, she said, “It’s been a crazy week. I’m still sorting through the antiques in the storage room and cleaning things up.”
“This is the oldest landmark in town, but Meg hadn’t been turning much of a profit.” Anthony took a sip of his coffee. “I’m sure you’ll have better luck.”
“I hope so.”
An attractive grin edged onto his mouth. “I hear Ethel Lynn is still around.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Keep her on a short leash. She’s… high strung.”
Mary chuckled. “And as eccentric as my aunt.”
“Eccentric? Wait until you get a load of Theodora Hendricks.” Anthony warmed to his story. “Blossom will tell you that she’s an old war-horse. Closing in on eighty, she thinks yellow lights mean ‘hurry’ and red means ‘floor it.’ She’s a bit crabby and about four feet tall—she drives a sky blue Cadillac. If you see her barreling down the road, get out of the way.”
His eyes danced, drawing a laugh from Mary. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll watch out for her.”
Behind her, Ethel Lynn fluttered through the kitchen’s swinging door. “Now, Anthony, you know better than to frighten Mary with tales of Theodora’s driving.”
“She’s had six fender-benders in the last year. Trust me with the numbers. I’m stuck working on her car, every time.”
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