by Lori Wilde
Still, she couldn’t get caught up in a guilt trip. She’d feel even guiltier if she went back to med school and ended up being an incompetent doctor.
She said calmly, “I need things to do and a little money coming in while I decide what career I really want to pursue.”
“A medical career! It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“It was what I’d always wanted,” Abbie murmured. “Turns out I was wrong.”
“What you’ll do is settle back into Falling Star, never want to leave, be a waitress for the rest of your life,” her mother said, shaking her head with sadness in her eyes. “I’ve seen it happen to plenty of people.”
“Even if I turn into one of them, may I still have a cookie?” Abbie asked and in return got a look that sent her scampering up to her room with a stack of cookies and a mug of tea sloshing perilously as she ran.
When she was a kid, her bedroom had been her oasis, although then she’d never felt alone and thirsty in the desert the way she did now.
As a child, she’d adored her parents, and after her father died, she’d become even closer to her mother. Until now, when a stone wall had risen between them.
Not even her room felt the same. Being home was strange, like trying to wear clothes she’d outgrown. The tension between her mother and her made it so much worse.
She’d come home without calling to avoid the inevitable argument as long as possible, but now she felt she hadn’t done the right thing.
Her mother had been shocked in several ways—first by Abbie’s sudden appearance and second by her decision to take a semester off to reflect on her medical career. Turns out a shocked mother was a mother playing motherhood for all it was worth.
“How could you do this?” she’d sobbed piteously. “How could you throw away a promising career?”
“I didn’t throw it away. I just need some time to think.”
Logic and explanation hadn’t calmed her mother in the least. Resigned, Abbie searched her closet, hoping to find the black slacks and white shirts she’d worn to waitress at Jake’s restaurant for so many years.
There they were, clean, starched, and perfectly ironed. That was the kind of mother she had—or was until Abbie had disappointed her by wanting to rethink being a doctor.
After she found the clothes, she took a good hard look at her room. It was exactly as it was when she’d left for college—pink and flowery.
The cloying peony-printed wallpaper was half-hidden with pictures of friends, dried corsages, party invitations dating back to first grade, camp awards, school awards, her Phi Beta Kappa key, diplomas—her entire past, such as it was. As for the present, nothing in the room indicated the person she was now.
Not that she had a clue as to who that woman was. All her life, Abbie had known what she wanted to do. She’d chosen a path and stuck to it industriously until a few months ago when, engaged in a special summer project, she’d finally confronted the truth—it was the wrong path. It would lead to a job she’d never be able to do well enough to satisfy her need to do everything perfectly.
It had turned her world upside down. She’d spent the summer thinking about it, examining her feelings, talking to a counselor, before she made her decision. While she’d told her mother that she just needed a while to think things over, she’d already decided not to go back to med school.
She pushed aside the panic that overtook her each time she realized what she’d done. She’d figure it out, find a new path, and start walking it with the same industrious spirit she’d always had.
It wasn’t the end of the road for her.
Just a detour.
She was buttoning her white shirt when she heard the tap on her door. “Come in, Mom,” she called out. What now? How much more guilt can she heap on me?
Elaine sat down on the edge of the bed. She was such a pretty woman, Abbie thought, as blond as Abbie was brunette, a bit plump from all those years of cooking and baking. She had a smooth, even temperament—until yesterday, when Abbie had popped in with her bad news. Elaine Jackson would never surprise or shock anyone.
“I’ve been thinking,” her mother said slowly, “and I want to tell you a story.”
Abbie’s fingers stopped with a shirt button half-pushed in. What story? One about a girl who didn’t do what her mother said and turned into an iguana?
“Before I married your father,” Elaine said, “I got cold feet.”
Okay, this was a surprise. “You did not,” Abbie protested. “You told me the first time you laid eyes on Dad you knew he was the one.”
“Yes, until that engagement ring was on my finger. Then I started wondering if I was doing the right thing.” She pursed her lips as if she were reliving that moment of doubt. “My mother was fitting my wedding dress on me—I’ll never forget it—and when she started fastening it up the back, I said, ‘Stop.’ I stepped out of the dress, packed a bag, cashed in the bonds my grandmother had left me, and went to Las Vegas.”
Abbie’s head swam. “Las Vegas?”
“I tanned by the pool, read romances, watched sit-coms about perfect families, and just worked at feeling young. But I also talked to newlywed women and to the ones who were there to get divorces, listening to their stories of deciding they’d found the right man, and the stories from the divorcees about how they’d been wrong.”
Abbie nodded. No need to feel tense. She knew how the story ended.
“What was Dad doing while you were thinking?”
“He called me every night, asking me if I was ready to come home, and each time, I told him I wasn’t sure yet. Then one day I was at the pool reading, felt someone watching me, looked up, and there he was. ‘I need to do some thinking, too,’ he said. He plopped himself down on the lounge chair beside mine, and the rest is history.”
The import of the story hit Abbie at last. She sat on the bed beside her mother, put an arm around her shoulders, and said, “You ran away. Just like me.”
Elaine nodded ruefully. “That’s what occurred to me this morning. I ran away, so why was I so shocked when you did the same thing?”
“Well, you were—”
“I was being hypocritical. I’m sorry.”
“But after you ran, you ended up making the right decision, don’t you think?” Abbie said, remembering her tall, handsome, kind father whose dark eyes showed only love for her and her mother.
“Oh, yes,” Elaine said. “And you will, too, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Abbie hugged her tight.
“When I was remembering how lazy I was in Vegas…” Elaine smiled at last. “I thought about you and how you’d started by getting a job. I wondered if you might like to take on some volunteer work, too.”
“Sure,” Abbie said, so relieved she’d have been willing to shovel manure for an elderly dairy farmer. “What is it?”
“Lilah Forrest, Rafe’s new wife, and a lovely woman, is planning a benefit dinner to raise funds for the Falling Star Community Care Center.”
“The foster home community Rafe’s building?”
“Yes, with separate houses, each with a ‘mother’ and ‘father’ to provide the closest thing to a real home for foster children.”
“That’s a worthy cause,” Abbie murmured.
“I’m chairing the finance committee, getting donations from local businesses. She needs somebody to arrange the actual dinner—food, rentals, decorations, all that—for the benefit.”
“Oh?”
“Jake’s catering, so you’re the logical person to volunteer.”
At the mention of Jake’s name, Abbie’s mind wandered. He’d looked good today, very handsome, very confident. She’d been happy to see him again, and she was looking forward to working with him at the diner.
Being around him would be good for her. He was such a focused person himself that he might be able to help her figure out what she wanted to do with her life.
She smiled back at her mother. “Better than getting a tan—better
for your skin and your conscience. It sounds like fun, Mom. Happy to do it.”
“Good. Lilah will be pleased.” Elaine went to the door, then said, “You know, they always say to ask the busiest person you know to take on a volunteer job, and our new ophthalmologist is working with me on the fundraising committee. I’ll make sure you get to chat with her.”
Nope, Abbie thought as she fastened her last two buttons, her mother hadn’t given up yet on the hope that Abbie’s “right decision” would be to become a doctor after all.
Several minutes after Stein’s call, life at Jake’s Place was back to normal. Becky and Colleen gave staccato orders over the pass-through to the kitchen; Barney filled them with astounding speed; Maury finished the dinner specials, and Jake decided to get the ribs started for tomorrow’s menu.
The phone had rung several times, but Jake had shut the sound out of his head. He’d call the man back at two-thirty, just as he’d promised.
He wished he could shut Abbie out of his head.
He wished he’d asked her to start tomorrow night, or on the weekend, to give him time to get over the impact of seeing her looking so different.
On the other hand, maybe when he saw her in her old uniform of black pants and white shirt, she’d look like the Abbie he knew. The Abbie he thought of as a kid.
He’d really be grateful if she’d put her hair up in a ponytail.
At one-thirty, Becky ran into the shed that housed the barbecue pit. “Jake, there’s a lawyer on the phone for you. Says it’s urgent.”
Had Stein mentioned he was a lawyer for Abernathy Foods? He hadn’t said what he was. Had to be the same person.
Right?
Unless there was something else going on. Was there a full moon tonight?
“I told him I’d call him back at two-thirty,” Jake said, feeling annoyed. “Tell him again. Two-thirty’s the best I can do.”
“But he—”
“It’s okay, Becky.” He smiled at her. ‘Tell him I told you to tell him.”
Brow wrinkling with worry, Becky went back to the desk.
Eventually, Jake returned to the kitchen. Maury went to the storeroom to inventory staples, and Barney yelled over the sizzle of hamburger patties, “What’s going on?
Jake turned off several burners. He sure couldn’t yell back, not news like this. “Some guy from New York called and wants to franchise the diner.”
“Franchise the diner?” Barney blinked at him wide-eyed and openmouthed.
“Yeah.”
“Seriously?”
“What do you think?”
Barney scratched his chef’s hat, the closest he could get to his head when he was cooking. “Well, I don’t know.”
“Thanks,” Jake said. “That helps.”
“I mean, I don’t know enough about it yet, and my guess is you don’t either. So when you do know, ask me again, and I’ll help you sort through it.” Barney waved his spatula.
“That’s actually good advice,” Jake admitted. “This guy wants me to come to New York to hear about the offer.”
“I guess you’d better go.”
“Think you and Maury can hold down the fort?”
Barney raised his eyebrows. “I never did need you, and that kid’s just waiting for a chance to get you out of his kitchen.”
Jake laughed. “Yeah, I know. And if the food’s even halfway okay—”
“The customers will be calling him out for a round of applause. So, don’t get jealous.”
“Me? Why would I get jealous?”
“Because when it comes to this joint, you’re possessive as hell.” Barney chuckled and went back to flipping burgers, leaving Jake to realize he was absolutely right.
3
At last, the lunch crowd cleared out except for a few stragglers in need of nothing more than a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. Becky and Colleen came in to say they were leaving for a while, and Becky said, “Promise me you’ll call the lawyer. I left his number on the message pad. He sounded as if he really needed to talk to you.”
“I have the number.” He wandered back into the kitchen, not feeling his usual excitement about finishing things up for dinner. He’d said he’d call Stein at two-thirty, and for some reason he was dreading it.
He felt unprepared for a conversation about franchising. What did he know about it? A couple of McDonald’s, a couple of Starbucks, then they multiplied like rabbits. The hamburgers and the coffee tasted the same in each one. That was the extent of his knowledge.
But it wouldn’t be the extent of Clint’s knowledge. Clint was the businessman of their group of friends. He’d know if anybody did. Jake glanced at the clock above the huge commercial range. Two-twenty. He had time. Clint didn’t talk much. Quickly, he punched in the number.
He was in luck. Clint answered on the first ring.
“Abernathy Foods wants to franchise the diner,” he said without even saying hello.
“Wow,” Clint said. His flat tone was as excited as Clint ever sounded. “You’ve hit the big time.”
“I guess,” Jake said, “but I don’t know anything about franchising. Can you fill me in?”
“A company likes the looks of an operation. They buy the name and concept and then start selling franchises. You’ll get rich, and they’ll get richer.”
“Rich would be good,” Jake admitted.
“You’d have to pay a price, though. You’ll be the founder of the chain, but the company will select the franchisees. The company will lay down the rules, and you’ll have to follow them just like the other franchisees. If Abernathy Foods is publicly owned, a board of directors, the management, and a whole bunch of shareholders will have the right to tell you to put basil in your barbecue sauce.”
“The board of directors talks about recipes?”
Clint blew out a breath. “No. It was just an example.”
“Oh.” Jake stopped frantically taking notes and thought about somebody else making decisions about his restaurant. “It might be nice for a while,” he said. “I could get rich, sit back on my tush, get some rest, travel…”
“Or they might hire you to organize the franchise, lay down those rules—with the approval, of course, of the marketing department, the CFO, the CEO—”
“And the board,” Jake said, feeling dizzy. “Doesn’t sound like my thing, does it?”
“No. But we’re way ahead of ourselves. Call them back and ask questions. While you’re talking, I’ll do some research, find out if Abernathy Foods is worth talking to.”
“You’re sure you have time to do this?” Clint managed a flock of merino sheep. He stayed busy all the time.
“I have time. For some people.”
Jake heard an almost-smile in his voice. Clint had time for him.
He put down the phone, and immediately it rang. If Maury hadn’t been around—he seemed to have given up on getting any help from Jake and was forging ahead with the cooking himself—Jake would have uttered a vile curse.
“Jake’s Place,” he said less cheerfully than usual.
“Where the heck is Maury?”
It was the Falling Star High School football coach, sounding belligerent. “He’s right here, Coach,” Jake said. “Want to talk to him?”
“No, I don’t wanna talk to him. I want you to tell me why he’s there instead of over here at football practice.”
Maury hadn’t mentioned football practice, but Jake didn’t intend to tattle. “Is it time?” he asked innocently. “I guess we were so busy we lost track. Don’t worry. I’ll be sure he gets there tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow, today,” the coach thundered. “He’s my star linebacker. Or he will be, if he comes to practice! Tell him to get over here right now.”
The man had his priorities straight, for sure. “I think I can manage without him now that the worst is over,” Jake conceded. “He’ll be there.”
Maury had started browning chicken and was staring really hard at it. Jake pulled a stool up to the h
uge range.
“Maury, Maury,” he began, shaking his head. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I’ve been busted,” Maury said. “I’m sorry, but you told me about the Moroccan chicken, I mean Chicken Delight, and I just had to see how to…”
Jake held up a silencing hand. “I know. It’s in your blood. You’ll be a five-star chef someday, but, Maury, first you have to get through high school.”
Maury was sharp as a well-honed knife, but it had “taken a village,” which meant all three friends had to work to help maintain his C-average. He’d been working at the restaurant weekends and holidays from the time Rafe took him in, and now that he had his driver’s license, he was here every second he didn’t have to be somewhere else. And today, apparently, when he was supposed to be somewhere else.
“Look at it this way. You’re conscientious about being here because you know I have to get dinner on the table. You have to be just as conscientious about football practice because the coach has to get a team on the field. Preferably a good team.”
“Yeah,” Maury said. “I get it.”
“Do you?”
Thrusting out his chin, he reluctantly removed the last of the browned chicken from the pan, slid the pan off the burner, carefully wiped his knife, and less carefully, wiped his hands.
“Guess I’d better go.” He gave Jake a smile and a wave. “Later.”
With that crisis settled, Jake had no excuse for postponing the call to Stein. At the front desk he found two numbers placed on the cash register where he couldn’t possibly miss them, the one he’d written on the order form and another in Becky’s handwriting on a proper message pad.
He dialed the one he’d written down and was surprised when Stein himself answered. That explained the two numbers. This must be Stein’s private cell line.
“Jake!” he said as if Santa Claus had just landed on the chimney hearth.
“Sorry I couldn’t take your other call,” Jake said. “We’d agreed on two-thirty.”