Nevertheless, as taken as she was with Jan and the town, Sheila Thintowski continued to plague her. She didn’t know how she was going to actually be the person Sheila obviously thought she was. Well, she was 80% that person. She just couldn’t cook to save her life and, well, who cared if she didn’t exactly live in the place she described? That she hadn’t renovated a single place into a showpiece but rather done projects for other people? Some of those projects had been complex and expensive. Maybe Sheila would see the funny side of it. Yeah, right.
Sunday morning, while Jan was still asleep, Val bundled into her overcoat and walking shoes, left a note saying she’d be back with coffee and breakfast, and took the car back to Mendocino. The air was cold and wet—perfect for a solitary walk on the windswept headlands. She nodded to other people out strolling, but no one spoke. Something about the cold and ocean in the early morning light made talk unwelcome.
She tried to think through an approach to Sheila Thintowski, a way to explain herself without losing Sheila’s respect. If there was a way she hadn’t thought of it by the time she went back to the car. She drove up Main Street again and was chagrined to see almost nothing open at that hour. What had she expected? Starbucks? That would be sacrilege in a town that was still refreshingly unique.
An Open sign caught her eye and she pulled up to the wooden sidewalk in front of a place called the Waterview. There appeared to be three or four tables in use even at this hour. She’d ask if they prepared food to go.
She hesitated at the register, but no waitress seemed available. A voice floated from the kitchen pass-through. “Take any seat. Menu’s on the wall.”
Not long on atmosphere, but the smell of bacon and eggs made Val weak. “I just wanted something to go. Do you do that?”
“We can try.”
Val made eye contact with the cook. She blinked, not expecting her gaydar to zing at this hour of the morning. Mendocino seemed to be full of lesbians. “Shall I just tell you what I want?”
The cook blinked back, then said, “Sure.”
Val crossed the dining room so she could study the menu. Her professional eyes crossed at the mishmash of decorating styles—old wallpaper and carpet clashed painfully with pedestal black lacquer tables with chairs that looked decidedly uncomfortable. She peeked into the kitchen as she went by, a habit her father had taught her. It seemed clean enough, but antiquated.
The menu was basic, but there were some surprising touches—roasted red peppers and feta cheese omelet for instance. A spinach and sweet onion soufflé sounded good, too. And what was Breakfast Pie?
A large moving van pulled up outside while she dithered, and a burly man pushed through the doors, heading straight for the kitchen with an air of grim finality.
“Where’s Bill,” Val heard him demand.
“I’m the new owner,” the cook answered.
“Well, I have to take the tables and chairs. He hasn’t made the payment in three months and the contract says I can take them after that. The three months are up today.”
There was a stunned silence, then the cook said, “You mean they weren’t paid for?”
Ouch. The travails of running a small business, especially a new one, Val thought. The two talked for a few more minutes, in lower tones, then the cook was seating the man at one of the tables, returning shortly with a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. As she did, one of the foursomes, all women, got up to leave.
“We left it on the table, Jamie dear. Delicious. Your aunt would have been so proud.”
“Thanks, Monica. But don’t go broke eating out on my account.”
“Hard to do that here!” Monica and her group left with cheerful waves. Monica was right about the prices, too. Not as cheap as Denny’s, by any means, but the food was a sight more palatable.
“Look, Ed,” Jamie was saying. “Have a slice of Breakfast Pie and when I’ve caught up on my orders we can talk more.”
Ed grunted and eyed the luscious-looking, but short pie. “Why’s this Breakfast Pie?”
“Less sugar, more cinnamon and softer apples than regular pie. It’s more like a German strudel on a good old American pie crust.”
Ed grunted again, but from the rapt attention he paid to the pie after the first bite, Val guessed it was tasty.
“Now, what can I get you?”
Oh, Jamie was talking to her. Not an easy Sunday morning, waiting your own tables and doing the cooking, too.
“Um, I’d like two of the spinach soufflés—”
“They take about thirty minutes, if you can wait. Most folks call ahead. I keep meaning to write that on the menu board.” Jamie tucked a wisp of hair the color of wheat back under her hairnet.
“Oh. Well, I have about a ten-minute drive. What would travel well?”
Jamie frowned slightly, then said, “A fritatta, I think. Cross between an omelet and a quiche. It’ll stay hotter, and be less fragile, cooks a heck of a lot faster than a soufflé. I can bake it in a disposable tin, too. Same price as an omelet.”
Fritatta, schlmatta, whatever. Hey, she could work a fritatta into a column. Travels well, stays hot. Baked eggs. Interesting. “Sounds good. How about a largish fritatta with the peppers and feta cheese? Enough for two.”
Jamie’s eyes flicked, digesting that information. “How about some spinach or tomato, too?”
“No tomato. Gives her hives.” Val saw Jamie digest the gender message as well. She wore her emotions close to the surface.
“Spinach then. Takes about fifteen minutes. You want hash browns or twice-fried potatoes with it?”
“Sounds good. The twice-fried thing.” How did you twice fry potatoes? “And two slices of Breakfast Pie.”
“Have a seat. Would you like some coffee while you wait? On the house,” Jamie added, with something like a genuine smile. Yes, Val’s gaydar was definitely zinging.
The coffee was heavenly. Rich and deep, cut with just a touch of fresh cream. Jamie bustled in the kitchen for a few minutes and a few more customers left, leaving money on the table and waving goodbye—what a trusting place. Jamie emerged a few minutes later to join Ed at his table.
“How’d you like the pie?”
Ed was actually smiling. What did she put in it, Prozac?
“Well, I’d say you have a fair chance of making a go of this place.”
“I learned how from my aunt. She ran this place for over thirty years. I just bought it back. Bill was an idiot.”
“You’re telling me. I offered him some nice pine tables for rent, but he insisted on these fancy things.”
“Do you have any idea what he did with the ones that were here?”
“Sold them to me. Said he needed cash and could make a rental payment. Bad deal all around, I think.”
“Do you still have the tables?”
“Sorry, I don’t. I found a good buyer over in Willits. But I’ve got something similar. Give you a good price for them. Not on rental, though, sorry.”
Jamie sighed. “I’m afraid with the renovations I have to make to the kitchen—not to mention fixing the mess he made upstairs to the rooms. Well, there’s not going to be much left.”
They discussed the tables some more and Val’s attention wandered. She was brought back to earth by the sharp ding of a timer. Jamie went back to the kitchen and returned shortly with two foil-wrapped dishes in a shallow cardboard box. She poured out two more cups of coffee into large covered Styrofoam cups and presented Val with a bill for a bit less than twenty dollars. Amazing, Val thought. It smelled delicious. She left a twenty and some singles on the counter—this woman needed every dollar she could get, apparently.
“I forgot your pie,” Jamie called. “Hang on a second.”
The door opened and Val heard the faint ringing of a church bell. All the patrons had departed for spiritual pursuits, perhaps. The man who came in had a clipboard. Uh-oh. Val knew what an inspector looked like. She’d seen enough inspectors to last her a lifetime.
Jamie added anot
her foil-wrapped package to the carton. “That’s everything, I think.” She turned inquiringly to the newcomer.
“Are you Ms. Onassis? I’m Ron Fortrell, county health department. I apologize for dropping in on a Sunday like this, but I’m going on vacation starting tomorrow and I thought why not get it out of the way.”
“Makes sense,” Jamie said. She hadn’t even flinched. She must be ready, Val thought.
“By way of starting off I was wondering what progress you’d made on the list the previous owner had.”
This time she flinched. “What list?”
“Well, for starters, he didn’t pull a permit on that renovation work upstairs. I can’t issue you an occupancy certificate until the work’s been opened up for inspection.”
“I can understand that,” Jamie said, after a hard swallow. She led Ron—why were all inspectors named Ron?—into the kitchen. “But please tell me there was nothing significant in the kitchen.”
“There was, but I see you’ve taken care of some of it already. The range hood—”
“Was disgusting and half-clogged. As were the oven dampers. The fire extinguishers were expired.”
“You’ve done good so far. Now about the doorway to the dining room. It’s not A.D.A.”
Shit, Val felt sorry for Jamie. When commercial property changed hands an inspector could arbitrarily decide that the premises needed to be brought into compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act. The goal of the act was okay with Val, but the hit-and-miss application had put a spanner into more than one of Val’s projects. And interpretation of the code varied from inspector to inspector. This was an old building. The doorway looked maybe two inches too narrow to Val.
“I’m real sorry about it,” Ron was saying. “The previous owner was, well, he wasn’t cooperative. Not in the least proactive. Wouldn’t do anything unless I wrote it up, which made more work for me, and I had to keep coming out to check for clearances. So I wrote up the doorway and the back staircase. Sorry I can’t do anything about it now. Your wheelchair lift is okay. But you have to have more space between these counters over here.” Ron droned on about the heating and Val decided she’d eavesdropped long enough on As the Stomach Turns.
Jan was properly appreciative of the delicious breakfast. Val was amazed that fifteen minutes had resulted in something so delectable and light. Fritatta equaled major yums. The Breakfast Pie was the pièce de résistance. Delicious. She wondered if there was a Lunch Pie.
By lunchtime Jamie felt bludgeoned. The close of her first business week was definitely in the black, barely. Now she had to buy tables and chairs, or find a place that would rent them to her, and she had to contemplate major renovations to the kitchen because Bill had been an asshole to an inspector. She knew perfectly well that her bank balance would be close to zero when she paid for the new cooking equipment, stove and refrigerant unit for the walk-in she’d ordered. She’d had more expense than she’d anticipated in laying in inventory—Bill had left the larder bare. Not even salt left.
She’d also found out that Darlene hadn’t had a raise in three years and that the property taxes from July to December were due in a few weeks, just after Thanksgiving. Liesel had offered to lend her some money, but she could only afford a few thousand. In light of the new expenses, it wasn’t enough to make a difference. She had been a fool not get inspections done.
She would need a bank loan for some working capital. But where she’d find the cash flow to pay the interest was another thing. Maybe in a few more weeks she’d have a little more margin, but that was doubtful. The townsfolk had all made an effort to support her because of her relationship to Aunt Emily, and so far everyone had been positive. It remained to be seen if they’d keep coming back enough times to make the difference. And if she could get some good word-of-mouth to bring folks down from Fort Bragg. Tourist season was a long way off.
Thank God for Dar, though. She was back to her old self, gabbing and selling slices of pie to already stuffed people, and she’d just popped in to suggest that Jamie do Thanksgiving meals, pies and/or special dishes for folks by preorder, just as her aunt had. Apparently a couple of people had asked if she’d be returning to that tradition.
She took a moment at the rinse sink to close her eyes, wondering when she’d be able to afford a kitchen helper and closing on Mondays. She tried sending her mind to the sandy, warm beaches of Puerto Rico. Juan said it worked for him, but Jamie wasn’t as successful. Probably help more if she’d ever been there.
“I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to come back.”
A hot needle of pain shot through Jamie’s back and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. Serenity, she prayed. If I can get past this, I can get past anything.
She turned slowly, and said, “Nice to see you, too, Kathy.”
Kathy had beautiful eyes. Jamie hadn’t forgotten how the light blue contrasted so perfectly with her reddish-gold hair. Once upon a time she’d buried her face in that hair, felt its silkiness against her stomach.
It sparkled today with anger. “I can’t believe you bought this dump.”
Jamie couldn’t stop her appalled gasp. “This was your home!”
“By all rights it should be mine right now, not yours.” Kathy’s mouth was more pinched than Jamie remembered. Still, she had lovely features. She could see what a man might want physically, though not what anyone could survive emotionally.
“I hear you’re getting married.”
“What’s it to you? You’ll never get married. You’re as…as sick as she was and you don’t have half her looks.”
“Your mother was not sick.” But you are, Jamie suddenly thought. Sick with dissatisfaction and unfulfilled dreams. A prom queen who had taken far longer than she had hoped to marry and settle down in the style she thought was owed her.
“She was a coward,” Kathy snapped.
“What are you talking about?”
Kathy’s pencil-thin eyebrows rose. “Didn’t Liesel tell you? She cut her wrists. All very neat and tidy in the bathtub.”
Jamie’s eyes unfocused. Aunt Emily had never been afraid of pain. She’d borne arthritis in her hips with hardly a murmur. What must she have been going through to kill herself? Was that why she hadn’t wanted Jamie to know—afraid Jamie would ruin her resolve to end her suffering in her own way? She wished Liesel had told her the whole truth, but no doubt she had thought to protect Jamie’s memory of her much-loved aunt. It was too much to take in.
“Is it any wonder I want to get out of this town? My mother committed suicide. She was a coward. She was a fucking dyke—”
Jamie gritted her teeth. “Watch your mouth. You’re talking to a fucking dyke.”
Kathy’s upper lip curled. Jamie had a revelation—the ugliness of Kathy’s nature showed on the outside. “So, you haven’t changed your spots over the years.”
“I suppose you think you have.”
The sneer turned to ice. “Derek makes me very happy.”
“I’m sure you think he does.” Jamie wondered if Kathy was thinking about how they’d almost capsized the boat one afternoon. Surely she wasn’t, so why couldn’t Jamie stop thinking about it?
“And that’s one more thing I have to say to you.” Kathy stepped closer. “Just because you seduced me once—”
“More than once. And it was hardly one way.” Don’t you remember, she wanted to add, how you hunted me down when I was berry picking, how you couldn’t seem to touch me enough?
“No—you seduced me. And no one is ever going to find out.”
I should take out a full-page ad, Jamie thought. Was she finally past hoping Kathy would change? No… she wanted to hurt Kathy too much to be over it.
Val froze just outside the kitchen door when she heard the words “fucking dyke.” It appeared her gaydar hadn’t been at fault where the cook was concerned. This other woman was a piece of work, though. Good lord, this place was like a soap opera. She and Jan had decided to sample lunch here before
heading home, but Val hadn’t imagined that she’d eavesdrop on yet more diner drama. It wasn’t as if she meant to—she was just on her way back from the bathroom.
“How exactly will you keep my mouth shut,” the cook was saying.
There was a long silence during which Val knew she should stop listening, but of course she didn’t.
Finally, the other woman said, “Isn’t that a roach on the counter? And this milk is spoiled.”
The cook said in a gasp, “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’ll make your life hell. Everyone knows this place is a disgrace. It’ll never be what it was when Mother ran it.” A bitter, hollow laugh. “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us. Derek is the lawyer for all the big money interests in the county and—”
“How exactly will you explain your need to crush me to him?”
“It’s enough that my mother left you her estate.”
This was really juicy, Val thought, but enough was enough. She started to tiptoe away but the cook’s next words were said with such pain that she froze.
“The difference between us is that I’d give every cent I have, and every cent I’ll ever have, for her to be alive again—or even just to say goodbye.”
“You may have lived in the same house with us, but you weren’t her daughter.”
“Neither were you. She never had all the happiness she could have had because you wouldn’t let Liesel live with us.”
“Who do you think you are? You’re nobody. Your mother abandoned you. You don’t even know who your father is. You’re nothing. And this so-called inn of yours is nothing.”
Val felt her spine stiffen. Energy surged up her arms. Nothing good ever came of these moments when she went with her feelings. It felt as if someone else was taking over her body. Her father called them moments of clarity. Val called them moments of madness.
She stepped into the doorway and said clearly, “The director from Viacom wants to know when they can start shooting the before pictures. They also want a projection of a finish date so they can bring some bigwig shareholders here for a party. Only if you do the cooking, of course. They especially want your crème brûlée.” Crème brûlée was the only fancy dessert Val could name with any certainty that she was pronouncing it right.
Making Up for Lost Time Page 6