At Your Service

by Amy Jo Cousins

  "I will, Paul. I promise."

  After a sweaty walk during which she seriously mourned not having her personal driver still available to her, Grace made it back to the kitchenette room she was renting at the Sherradin Hotel. She watched the cockroaches scatter as she opened the door and let in the light from the hall. The bright September sunshine outside couldn't penetrate the grime covering the small windows.

  "Oily, oily, oxen-free," she murmured, reminded of games she'd played as a child where.everyone scattered into hiding places and waited for whoever was It to come and find them. She wondered how long it would take her to make enough money for a deposit on a better room.

  And how are you going to rent an apartment, Ms. Grace Desmond, without any identification to show a landlord? she asked herself. Not to mention convince Tyler to keep you on.

  "I don't know," she answered out loud, "but I have to get out of this pathetic excuse for a hotel. I don't care how they spell it. I am never going to think I'm staying at a Sheraton."

  The single room had a bright overhead light and a sturdy lock on the door, and that was about all that could be said about it of a positive nature. On this hot, late summer day, the air was positively stifling since air-conditioning was a luxury definitely not found here. Never in her life had she lived without climate control. The discomfort of it was a revelation she'd not been thrilled to have.

  Grace had bought a cheap set of blue-striped sheets and some brightly colored plastic glasses and plates, so she knew those were clean. But rusty water stains spread menacingly on the ceiling above her bed and the short pile of the beige carpet showed a dozen stains of its own. She didn't know what had made those irremovable marks, but she was unfortunately sure that, unlike the ceiling, they weren't water.

  She yanked open the folding door of the one skinny closet and then cursed as the door came off its track again. Her battle with the closet door had become a daily ritual, one that Grace never seemed to win. She tugged various items off their hangers and laid them out on her bed, planning for the evening ahead of her.

  She knew from experience that opening night of a new restaurant was insanity personified in a space bounded by four walls, a ceiling and a floor. And that was true even if the staff was well-trained and comfortable with the menu and ordering system. Grace knew she would pick up Tyler's system quickly. In fact, she'd be surprised if he had much of a system at all set up yet.

  But she hadn't stuck around to ask him if he would be able to find fill-in staff for tonight's shift, and if so, how many people he might be able to dig up.

  Worst case scenario, she imagined, would have her greeting people at the door, seating them, taking orders, serving drinks and food, clearing tables and washing dishes in the kitchen. As long as he didn't expect her to cook, they might actually stumble their way through the evening intact.

  Just in case, though, she selected clothes that looked quietly chic, yet were sturdy enough to stand being splashed by or soaked in various liquids and solids. Black, straight-cut pants that wouldn't show spills. A white blouse made from a fabric absolutely not found in nature, but that miraculously refused to stain—even red wine rinsed out of it with a splash of club soda. The shoes she dragged out from the bottom of the closet were black lace-ups that looked contemporary, with a short stacked heel, and had the most expensive arch support inserts on the market hidden in them.

  She hadn't thought to bring any aprons with her from the restaurant on the day she'd fled her family and their demands. She hadn't thought much at all that day, Grace admitted to herself. She'd simply left work, packed a bag at her condo and decided to disappear.

  And disappear she had, for the past two weeks, using the time to sit in diners and coffee bars and trying to think of a solution to her problems. But now she was running out of cash, and she knew that withdrawing money from her bank account or using checks or credit cards would leave an easily followed trail.

  She'd thought it would be easy enough for her to get a job, at least a low-paying one. And here Grace laughed at herself. She'd conveniently blinded herself to the reality of life, which was that without ID or personal references, the average person on the street wasn't going to trust her with a dime, much less a job or an apartment.

  Tyler certainly isn't likely to allow me to stick around for long as a mystery lady, she thought.

  The stress of the day swept over her in a slowly crashing wave and she felt herself on the edge of tears for the second time that day.

  I need a nap. Just an hour nap, and then I can figure out a way to make him keep me on. He wouldn't be the first restaurant owner to pay staff under the table.

  She stretched out across the top sheet on her bed and snagged her travel alarm clock off of the nightstand. Just an hour, she thought hazily, and then I'll figure it all out. She pressed the buttons and flipped the switch that would wake her up at one o'clock in the afternoon.

  Her eyes were already closed as she fumbled the alarm back onto the nightstand. And as her brain slowly shut down, she was left with a single image floating in the last, dreamy layers of thought. The image of Tyler, the widening pools of his dark, almost-midnight eyes staring at her over her own hand as he moved his lips over her skin.

  She dreamed, as she drifted off, and in her dreams Tyler's mouth slid from her hand to glide up her arm. His lips grazed across her shoulder and trailed slowly up to her mouth, leaving starflower kisses glowing faintly against her skin as she dreamed of them in the night. And when he left her, in her dream, the skin of her body was flushed and glowing with the light of the stars, absolutely everywhere.

  Three hours later, when she pushed open the restaurant door and stepped inside to coolness, only to stop short at the sight of Tyler, she knew she was in trouble. The incredibly sensual dreams of her afternoon nap were one thing—and a pleasure she figured she was allowed to indulge in, since it was only a dream. But here she was, damn near drooling at the sight of him, and the man had his back to her while he spoke on the phone, for crying out loud.

  "You're staring at the back of his head, Grace. No big deal," she muttered to herself.

  But there was something in the way he ran his fingers through his hair that made her want to take over the job herself. Run her own fingers through the thick, dark hair that was overly due for a cut, and smooth it back to order for him.

  "Thanks a million, angel. You're redeeming my faith in women. See you in an hour."

  She heard him chuckle and say goodbye to the woman on the other end of the phone line, and repressed the urge to find out who the woman was and to scratch her eyes out. Sheesh, her hormones must be on overdrive.

  Think bossman, not boyfriend, she repeated to herself silently.

  "Your reference checked out fine. Great, even. Although you should tell that guy to cut out the fake French accent."

  She didn't think he'd noticed her come in. His back to the door still, redialing the phone, Tyler reached behind him and placed some papers and a pen on the bar.

  "Just fill these out, you can skip the references part, and we'll get you set up."

  For five minutes he chatted up what sounded like yet another woman on the phone, his voice coaxing seductively, promising anything. Meanwhile, Grace filled out her fake name, and hotel address, and then stared blankly at the lines requesting her driver's license and social security numbers. She hadn't figured out a way to wriggle out of this part yet.

  When Tyler hung up the phone and finally turned toward her, she flinched involuntarily and started digging through her purse, looking for inspiration.

  "Not done yet?" he asked, looking at the half-completed form.

  "Um, no," she mumbled as she shoved her wallet to the bottom of her purse. Then she put on her most innocent, worried look and tilted the purse so that he could look in to see the tangle of makeup and scrap paper. "I think I left my wallet back in my room."

  With any luck, her new boss would just think she was a little flighty, and not a little con artist.


  Her luck held.

  "Bring it tomorrow," he said shortly. Punching a button on the register, he popped the cash drawer open and tugged out two twenties. He handed them across the bar to Grace. "Somehow, we didn't get any limes or lemons with our produce delivery this morning. Not a good thing for a bar. I want you to get as many of each as you can."

  The request was made as casually as if she'd worked for him for years, but Grace still felt as though she was being tested. She wondered what odds he was putting on her returning with the fruit and banished her irritation at being under suspicion. Hopefully, the idea that she'd run off with his cash was the long shot in his mind.

  "I don't really know the neighborhood. I'm sorry."

  "For what?"

  She'd apologized automatically, somehow feeling the need to atone for the theft she knew he imagined.

  "There's a store two blocks north on Linden," he continued. "Make it fast. We've got a lot of work to do still."

  She slid off the stool and flew out the front door of the bar. Feeling as though she'd just received a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card in a Monopoly game, she was halfway to the store before she realized that she hadn't really escaped anything. She would still have to figure out how she could get around showing him an ID.

  Tyler might not worry about filling out her paperwork for a day or two, but Grace knew that wouldn't last. Sooner or later he'd remember that he had yet to see any form of identification from her. She would count on making herself invaluable to the man before that point.

  Even if she only had tonight, she'd do it. She'd make Tyler think he couldn't live without her.

  Strange lady, Tyler thought as he continued making the necessary calls to come up with at least a skeleton staff for the night. She'd practically begged him for this job, but she'd rushed out the door on his errand as though she'd just been let out of prison.

  The ever-present nervousness in her vivid blue eyes contrasted sharply with the delicate grace of her features. She looked as if she constantly expected him to snap at her. And she had definitely been aware of his spontaneous honesty test. He'd seen the flare of anger she quickly suppressed when she realized he thought she might take his money and run.

  He was actually fairly certain she'd return, produce in hand, if for no other reason than to prove his suspicions wrong. What disturbed him was the feeling that he'd be far more than a little disappointed if she didn't come back. Tyler told himself that it was just that he needed her for the job, but knew that his concern ran deeper than that, even after only a few hours.

  Shrugging off his uneasy thoughts, he dialed the next number and waited for the female voice that eventually answered.

  "Hi, sweetheart. Tell me you're not doing anything exciting tonight. I need you badly."

  Two

  Right up until the moment when the three-year-old at table six nailed her on the chin with a maraschino cherry, Grace thought the night was going fairly well.

  Even as the little demon's parents apologized frantically for his assault with a flying garnish, Grace just shook her head and marched straight to the rear of the restaurant. She pushed the swinging doors to the kitchen hard enough to set them flapping on their hinges and threw her tray on a stainless-steel counter.

  "I quit," she announced to the room in general. "It is a complete madhouse out there and I'd rather shovel manure for a living than bring another Shirley Temple to that little monster at table six."

  The faces that turned toward her from the grill and the dishwasher were female and smiling widely at her threat.

  It was the fourth time she'd quit since the doors had opened at 5:00 p.m. She supposed her threats didn't carry much weight anymore.

  "C'mon, Grace," Sarah called cheerfully from where she stood at the sink, up to her elbows in soapy water and dirty plates. "You're the only one of us who knows what she's doing. You were certainly right that I'd help out most by scrubbing pots."

  Grace flushed with guilt as she remembered how she'd banished Sarah to the kitchen to wash dishes after the second time Sarah had dropped a trayful of drinks in one hour. The man Sarah had drenched with Merlot and beer had only settled down after she'd comp'ed his meal.

  "I shouldn't have told you what to do, Sarah. After all, you're doing Tyler a favor just by helping out."

  "Don't be ridiculous. I'm clearly not cut out for waiting tables, and if somebody didn't wash these dishes, we'd run out of plates to serve dinner on fast enough." Sarah grinned at her and blew sweaty bangs off her forehead with a puff of breath. The ponylail she'd pulled her hair into was wilting rapidly in the steamy heat of the dish room.

  "Besides, if a sister won't scrub pots for her brother, then who will?" Sarah asked and shook her butt to the music spilling out of the boom box on the dishrack behind her.

  Sarah's easy acquiescence to Grace's taking charge was only the latest in a string of surprises.

  Grace's first surprise had come when she'd returned to the restaurant, after getting just a tiny bit lost on her errand, to find the tables set, the soup of the day simmering and the makings of a restaurant staff ready to pitch in for the evening. By the time she'd been introduced to Addy, Sarah and Max, Tyler's older and two younger sisters, respectively, and Susannah, his mother, Grace was spinning in a whirlwind of names and unfairly beautiful dark-haired women.

  "Mom, bless her beautiful heart, is going to cook." A snort of laughter from his mother made them all laugh. "You'll be fine, Mom. The Garcias did most of the prep work before they left. It's just like cooking dinner for six, only I hope you'll have to do that twenty or thirty times. Max, you've got a year to go before you're old enough to serve drinks, so you probably ought to help out in the kitchen. Sarah and Addy, one of you helps Grace wait tables, the other can bus them and set 'em up. Gracie's done this all a million times, so she'll tell you what to do."

  And with that, he'd walked away to answer the phone, leaving her with a stack of aprons and order pads and four women looking to her for direction.

  "Great, Tyler. That's just great," she muttered, and thought furiously about what to do next. She'd seen at once as Tyler passed out assignments that Sarah was terrified about waiting tables and that Max was annoyed to be stuck in the kitchen with her mother.

  But I'm not in charge here, and according to what I've told Tyler, all I've ever done is wait tables in a diner. I don't want to look too comfortable with authority here, if I'm going to convince everyone that I'm just another waitress.

  Her first question was for Susannah, Tyler's mother.

  "Do you think you'll be able to make everything on the menu? If you have any problems, we can always say that we didn't receive a delivery of something crucial and apologize for the dish not being available."

  The older woman raised one eyebrow archly and smiled. "Tyler came to me for help in designing the menu, because he likes my cooking. If I have problems with anything on that list, he'll laugh me out of kitchen." She turned and walked off to the kitchen.

  "Terrific. Two minutes and I've already pissed off the boss's mom." She kept her voice low enough that she hoped no one heard her. Then she caught Sarah grinning at her.

  "Okay, everyone grab an order pad. We're going to make cheat sheets, so you don't have to keep looking at the menu for prices. You, too, Max, just in case," she said, trying to include the girl who had her arms crossed over her chest and a shuttered stare.

  She kitted them all out with a three-pocket apron, order book and pad, and a tray for serving drinks. When she wrapped the apron strings twice around her waist, tied them in front of her and stuffed her book in the center apron pocket, she was surprised at how at home she felt. It had been years since she'd worked as a server at a restaurant, but apparently waiting tables was like riding a bike.

  Once you did it, you never forgot how.

  "Okay, ladies. Lesson number one. The customer is always right." Grace waited a beat. "Except when they are obnoxious, crazy or just plain wrong."

  They
laughed and then listened as Grace gave them a crash course in how to wait tables. From greeting the customers and taking orders, to serving food and cashing out a check. When the three sisters were temporarily occupied with an argument over the most efficient way to abbreviate garnishes and side orders, Grace took a moment to search out Tyler.

  She found him in a tiny office, hidden behind a door off the kitchen. When she turned the knob, the door opened and she carefully peeked her head into the room.

  Tyler sat at a desk overflowing with paperwork. Grace saw stacks of invoices teetering precariously on one edge and a hastily assembled pile of applications at Tyler's other elbow. The man himself was on the phone and as she listened to the conversation, she understood that he was trying to find more permanent help than his sisters and mother for the restaurant.

  "No, thanks, Jorge. I'm covered for the weekend. But if you could start on Monday, you'd be a lifesaver, man."

  He noticed her waiting and waved her into the office with a flick of his hand. She leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms to wait. He was off the phone in short order, after thanks and goodbyes.

  "How are things on the floor with my crazy sisters?"

  "Everything's in order, bossman." She snapped him a two-finger salute that was lacking enough in respect to have her doing two hundred push-ups if she'd been at boot camp. But she couldn't hide her fondness for the women arguing loudly in the front of the house as she kept speaking, her voice forceful. "And your sisters aren't crazy. They're wonderful. You should be proud to have them for family."

  "I am."

  His simple answer stopped her and made her flush. She couldn't keep on overreacting and being this easily flustered around him. She'd managed herself well enough around the rest of his family. Well, except for his mother.

  The fact that she was basically comfortable around everyone except the only man in the restaurant did not escape her.

  I'll get over it, Grace told herself.

  I'll have to.