Just Marry Me Already (BWWM Romance Book 1)

by Ayo Campbell

  She ran the sink until the cold water turned tepid, and then she washed and scrubbed her face, scraping away the fine make-up. Then she ran her fingers through the water and ran them through her dishwasher hair again and again.

  “Buss!” Collie called.

  Vanessa was there, gathering up stranger’s plates, cups, and leftovers, then trudging them back to the dish room. She scraped away the garbage, rinsed the plates and cups and silver, stacked everything neatly on the wash tray, slammed it into the dish washer, and then went out to the floor to do it again.

  It was the after-show crowd. In Seattle, the after-show crowd came in after theatrical or jazz shows. In Brookline, the after-show crowd came in after movies. In Seattle, they wanted brie and wine. At Roxy’s, they wanted wings, onion rings, and ice cream. The dishes in the buss pans were small, and there was a lot of silver.

  “Yer good,” Collie said as she sat at the counter, counting her tips. “You done this before?”

  “Yeah,” was all that Vanessa could say.

  They sat at the back table. Bootsy was bustling away in the kitchen. Justin still sat at his stool with his coffee. Vanessa sipped a mug of strong hot chocolate.

  “Well, alrighty then,” Collie said, sliding some bills and coins to Vanessa. “Yer good. Thanks.”

  “What’s this?”

  “My cut to you,” Collie said. “It’s customary—”

  “Yeah, I know, “Vanessa said. “But, I’m not your buss-girl. I’m your – boss.”

  “I don’t care. You bussed. You kept me in plates and silver, and turned my tables. Here you go. My thanks.”

  Vanessa looked at the small pile of bills and change. It might have been all of ten dollars, and she knew that Collie needed all of that ten dollars more than she did. But she knew that the girl was being honest, and she had to respect that. She vowed then and there to make it up to her.

  Vanessa also knew that people like Collie worked the world in cash, and that a lot of that cash went to laundry machines.

  “Okay,” she said. “So, trade you my quarters for two bills.”

  “Okay.

  “So, when do I pay you guys?”

  “Saturday.”

  “How do I know your hours?”

  “We tell you.”

  Collie cleaned out the till and gave the wad of money and the bag of coins to her.

  “So,” Bootsy said, standing in the middle of the dining room. “We gonna open ‘morrow?”

  “Um,” Vanessa began. “Sure. I guess.”

  “She guess,” Bootsy mumbled, gathering her coat. “She guess and we work.”

  “She’s cool,” Collie said, ushering the woman out the door. See you tomorrow, boss.”

  She watched the two head out and away toward the bus stop. The little bell above the door still tinkling softly.

  “So,” Justin said from his perch. “You going to be the boss?”

  “You still here?”

  “I am always here.”

  “Don’t you work?”

  “Nope.”

  “Want a job washing dishes?”

  “Nope. You want a job being the boss?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She went behind the counter and drew herself a glass of water. She leaned on the counter across from him. There was something about him that she liked. He was brash, to be sure, and he looked like he slept in his clothes, but he didn’t smell. His teeth were clean and straight, and his nails were trimmed. Even his beard stubble looked neat. But it was his smile that drew her. He had one of those half knowing smiles that was warm. It was as if he were saying ‘I understand.’ And at that moment, she needed someone who would understand.

  “I got a job,” she said. “A good one, back in Seattle. I was only going to be here a few days to settle things. I hadn’t counted on this. Then you started talking about those two – needing jobs, I mean. I just got swept up in the moment.”

  “You did a good job,” he said. “You done this before?”

  “Yeah,” she said, still feeling her wet belly. “I’m going to see my mother’s lawyer tomorrow. Maybe he can help me. Maybe I can find someone to run this place.”

  “There you go,” Justin said, finishing his coffee. “Plenty of experienced people looking for work these days.

  “Yeah,” she said, feeling hopeful. “Yeah, I bet you’re right. Come to think of it, maybe Bootsy–”

  “She can’t read or write English. And her math skills leave a bit to be desired. Momma Ellen once had her place the supply order. That was a disaster.”

  “Collie?”

  “No,” he said, and his chuckle was enough to convince her.

  “Well, I bet I find someone inside of a week.”

  “I bet you will,” he said, getting up and tossing some change on the counter. “See you tomorrow.”

  Vanessa locked the door behind him. She gathered the change and put it in Collie’s tip jar. She shut the lights, and stood a few moments, looking out at the city night. The buildings hadn’t changed much, but the feeling had. No children played outside. No one sat on brownstone stoops. Roxy’s was nestled on a three-way corner, and the stoplights were the same old yellow painted things, but the traffic was almost nothing. The old smoke shop on one side was now a liquor store, all chained up for the night. The clothing store on the other was a trendy boutique.

  She carried the cash to the office, sat at the desk and counted it, separating the bills. She was surprised at the night’s take, but she knew the business; if the night’s receipts equaled the night’s expenses they’d be doing good. She opened the ledger, and paused. That last entry was five days ago. That must have been when…

  She didn’t want to think about that night. But she also didn’t want to try and decipher her mother’s accounting. So, she wrote the numbers on a sticky note and set that in the ledger. But looking down at the safe, she realized that she didn’t know the combination. So, she did what she always did when she had cash to hide. She went to the kitchen, wrapped it in tinfoil, and stashed it in the refrigerator’s freezer unit.

  In the bedroom, the bars on the window cast shadows against the shades. That comforted her.

  Chapter 3

  She woke in the morning to a small din of high voices that seemed so very far away. She sat up in bed, shaking her head, confused. She looked about at the strange room, and her bewilderment grew.

  Then she heard a thin voice cry, “Order up!”

  She flopped back in bed, remembering. She was in Boston. She had just buried her mother, and then worked a full dinner shift. Her belly still felt wet. She was still a little jet-lagged from the flight. Eventually, she got up and went to the bathroom. She wanted a shower, but she needed coffee. She didn’t want to bother with her mother’s percolator, so she splashed some water on her face, brushed her teeth, ran a comb through her hair, dressed presentably, and went into the diner’s kitchen. There she was stunned to see Bootsy supervising two kids, maybe age twelve or thirteen. The girl was cooking eggs and potatoes. The boy was carefully slicing melons.

  She looked out the service window to the dining room. Justin was at his usual stool, but from her vantage, all she saw in the dining room were the tops of curly-haired heads.

  “What the hell–”

  “Language!” Bootsy cried. “You got children in here.”

  “What the heck is going on?”

  “Good Man day.”

  “Whaa?”

  “Kids eat before school. Out of the way – out.”

  Vanessa hustled from the kitchen to behind the counter. There were maybe two dozen school children, sitting at tables, munching melon, drinking oranges juice, and yammering away. They all wore some variant of khaki or blue skirts, pants, or shorts with crisp white shirts. Collie was directing two other pre-teens who were serving.

  Vanessa grabbed a cup of coffee and went to lean on the counter across from Justin.

  “What is this?” she asked him.

  �
�It’s Good Man day,” he said. “Your momma enrolled in a service funded by the Good Man Foundation. Every Tuesday and Thursday, a school bus pulls up with a bunch of eggs and kids. Some middle-schoolers do all the work. They get on-the-job-training, the kids get breakfast, and Roxy’s gets a stipend from the city, plus a lot of good neighborhood cred.”

  “Oh my god,” Vanessa said, scanning the room. “This is…wonderful.”

  The children were munching happily. Their little legs didn’t reach the floor, and so beneath the tables legs were swinging with youthful energy. An adult woman was going about monitoring.

  “What school?” she asked.

  “It rotates.”

  There was a small stir in the room as the two pre-teen waitresses began carrying out orders.

  “This is just amazing,” Vanessa said. “And the kids get their eggs how they want?”

  “Absolutely,” Collie said, coming up beside her with her own coffee. “A lot of these kids never been to a restaurant. There’s not even a Mickey D’s around here anymore. It’s a teaching thing.”

  “But, why Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

  “Ask the Foundation,” Collie said with a shrug.

  “The schools around here,” Justin said, “are with the SNAP program. The kids get breakfast at school. This is a kind of alternate teaching tool, disguised as a food program.”

  “Is it working?” Vanessa asked.

  “I guess you have to ask the Foundation.”

  “This is its first year,” Collie said. “Not sure what they’re gonna do in June when school closes.”

  “I think,” Vanessa said. “I want to kiss whoever thought this one up. This Foundation, who are they?”

  “I hear,” Collie said, leaning in. “That it’s run by some crazy rich hermit philanthropist; you know, like Howard Hughes. He keeps himself holed up in this fabulous luxury penthouse suite that looks over the whole city. And–”

  “And can I get a refill?” Justin said, holding up his mug.

  “Me too,” Vanessa added.

  “That girl,” Justin said as Collie went for the coffee pot.

  With her coffee refreshed, Vanessa went back to the apartment. She showered and got ready to go see the lawyer.

  The bus lines and routes had changed over ten years. Even the maps at the kiosks were different. Still, she made her way uptown. But she wasn’t really uptown. She was on the south end of the edge of uptown at a small six-story building that might be able to see down the ends of the Boylston Street, if you craned your neck. There was a chain sub shop at the ground level corner.

  “Ms. Gaye,” the lawyer said, greeting her at the door.

  He had a nice office that had no reception area. It was furnished neatly with real leather, cherry and brushed steel. The man was fit, medium height, and dressed in a good suit.

  At first she was a bit put off by him. She had dressed city-smart in a blouse that revealed just a little and a skirt that was proper, but tight. His eyes did a quick roam of her curves, finishing on her bit of cleavage before he made eye-contact. That was only natural with men, but still, she didn’t like it.

  “I will not pretend to understand,” he began, holding her hand in his, “what you must be going through. Your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Vanessa said, accepting his hand. “Thank you, Mister Roark.”

  “Artemus,” he said. “I know, it’s a strange name. Please, call me Arty.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I am Vanessa.”

  “Charmed, I am sure. Do come in. Sit. May I offer you coffee?”

  “I’ve had mine, thank you.”

  The chair before his desk was a plush, leather wing-back. Vanessa settled in it like she owned it, crossing her legs just so, and catching his glimpse.

  They chatted a bit about Ellen, and Arty explained that he had been helping her mother for a few years. It had started when she had some complicated tax thing. After that, he became her business advisor – sort of. After talking a little about that, Artemus got to the business at hand.

  “Ms. Gaye,” he said, presenting her with a sheaf of papers. “As you can see, your mother had amassed some assets.”

  Vanessa looked at the papers and gaped. She saw a savings account that grew consistently over the years to where it became a sizable sum. Across from that was a checking account that fluctuated like a roller-coaster.

  “The savings is my concern,” he said. “I didn’t know she had that. It was only through a contact I have at her bank that I was allowed to see it.”

  Vanessa nodded, still staring at the number.

  “Now,” he went on, “with the death of your mother, our business relationship concluded. So, if you would like me to act on your behalf in the Probate Court, I’ll need you to sign a retainer.”

  “B—But I really don’t have much money.”

  “My fee would come out of the settlement.”

  He explained how the city’s probate system worked, and that settlement could take up to a year. Vanessa’s heart sank. She looked again at the figure. She saw her mother working years, scrimping, saving, never going on vacation, never buying herself any luxury – even the TV in the tiny apartment had no cable connection. But why, she wondered. Was her mother saving for something big? Or was it just her nature to be thrifty?

  Arty was still going on about the court system, but she barely heard him. And then he mentioned siblings. She looked up.

  “I asked,” Arty said, “if you know where your brother might be in England? Do you have an address? A phone number?”

  “England?”

  “I guess you don’t. Samuel left the States several years ago. He’s pursuing a career in music. London is a soul-music mecca these days.”

  “Did he stay in contact with my mother?”

  “I don’t know,” Arty said, shaking his head. “My relationship with your mother was strictly business. We never discussed her personal life…but I do recall hearing something about a husband – somewhere.”

  “My father left us,” Vanessa said. “A long time ago. When I was a little girl.”

  “I’m very sorry. But it is a complication. The court will need to be satisfied regarding any claims your brother or father may make on the estate. So, it is important to make every good effort to contact them, or prove that one or both is deceased. If you sign the retainer, I can begin with the newspaper notices.”

  Vanessa just stared at him a small while. She understood that the things that he was talking about had to be done. But she had just put her estranged mother in her grave – at her own expense, and now she had a creeping vision of standing before a judge with her brother and father’s death certificates in her hand. She shuddered and turned away. But she caught him glancing at her thigh. But then he said something that turned her head.

  “I understand,” he began, “how this is a terrible time for you, and that your mind must be all in a whirl. There’s no hurry. I realize that you may need some time to think and sort things out. Or, if you feel that this matter might be better in someone else’s hands, that’s the way it will be. I can even introduce you to some other attorneys if you like.”

  That mellowed her a little. She still wasn’t sure if she liked him, but her mother had trusted him, and that was good enough. So, after she had him explain to her the contract, and after she was clear that she could terminate it for any reason, she took up the pen, half expecting him to sit back, breathing a sigh of relief – or victory. Instead he leaned in, his face taking on a stern and troubled look.

  “There’s one more thing,” he said. “Does the name Lillian Durkin mean anything to you?”

  “She was the owner,” Vanessa said. “She owned Roxy’s, and then one day she must have hit the lottery or something, because she just left. My mother kept running the place, but we never heard from her again.”

  “And you won’t,” Arty said. “Lillian Durkin passed away two years ago, still holding title to the building and the business. It is now in her e
state.”

  “What?”

  Vanessa felt the universe shift, and she was glad that she had a chair.

  “That Lillian woman,” she began, “never did a lick of work in that diner except to collect the money. Then she waltzes away, kicking our dust from her lily-white feet, and never shows her face again. She spends ten years schmoozing the uptown crowd, while my mother breaks her back to earn a living and provide jobs – good jobs for good people. If she thinks–”

  “Vanessa, listen to me. I told you, she doesn’t think. She’s dead. Roxy’s is in her estate, and her kids are fighting over that estate.”

  “Well, if they think that after all these years,” Vanessa said, “they can just walk on in and take over my mother’s place, they can kiss my ass! It’s been ten years, for pity sake. Isn’t there some law about abandoned property or something?”

  “Legally,” Arty said, “it would be ‘abandoned real estate.’. And you would have to prove that the owner must have left the property with no intent to return or execute their rights of ownership.”

  “Well, she did. Didn’t she?”

  “You would have to prove that in court. And with Lillian unable to testify, you’d have to get around some very wealthy and very savvy children.”

  Vanessa deflated. She uncrossed her legs and folded her arms across her chest. She didn’t care that he glanced at her cleavage.

  “But,” he added, “there may be a bright spot. Kaitlin Durkin, the eldest daughter, is certain to end up with a lion’s share of the holdings. She’s a woman of means herself, and Roxy’s might just be insignificant to her. She may sympathize with your argument – if you would make it in a more convincing and delicate manner. One does not lightly ask Kaitlin Durkin to kiss one’s ass.”

  Vanessa couldn’t help her chuckle. He had managed to diffuse her ire with her own words. She then thought him to be a pretty good lawyer, if not something of a lecher; but then, most men were.

  “So,” she said, leaning over to sign the retainer. “Tell me about this Kaitlin woman.”

  “People call her Kitty.”

  Kitty Durkin was the oldest, and by far the smartest, of Lillian’s four children. After graduating Brown University, she took a graduation gift of cash from her mother, and used it to purchase an old, run-down nightclub in Boston’s Shawmut neighborhood. Within two years, Miss Kitty’s House had grown into a thriving, local club specializing in jazz, blues, and soul music.