by Nancy Moser
As she headed for the coffeepot, she spotted Cal enter the Plentiful with Bailey Manson, the owner of Steadfast's gourmet Bon Vivant restaurant. Leaving last night's latest Jesus argument behind, she blew her husband a kiss that turned into a wave. He winked and pointed to the counter. She nodded, and they took a seat. Every time she saw Cal she was struck by his manly-man, lumberjack looks. The latest movie heartthrobs had nothing on her hubby.
She grabbed the pot and made the rounds, chatting and laughing along the way but also glancing at the two men. Not only did Bailey not fit with the Plentiful crowd—in his black pants, turtle-neck, and jacket he looked like Annies image of a la-di-da Hollywood director—he also didn't fit with her husband, who was wearing his staple of jeans and a red plaid flannel shirt Annie had tried to throw away twice. Yet it was more than their appearance.
Though there were no social hoity-toitys in Steadfast, Bailey held himself as high up as he could, nose ever-reaching. Why? She hadn't a clue. Annie would rather be one of the gang than all alone like Bailey, looking down at the party going on without him. Lonely business, feeling better than.
The two men had gotten to know each other the past couple months while Bailey added on to Bon Vivant. Cal had a home improvement business, though in truth he was a glorified handyman, and Baileys addition was his first big job where he was hired to be the general contractor and coordinate other workers. It was definitely a step up from putting in a few kitchen cabinets or building a deck.
Annie would never say this to her husband, but she still didn't know why Bailey had hired him. And now, she couldn't imagine Bailey allowing himself to become chummy with the hired help. Yet here they were, laughing and chatting like best buds.
She headed to the other side of the counter, hooking a finger in a couple mugs along the way. “Coffee, gentlemen?”
Cal took the mugs. “Fill 'er up, Annie-girl, and bring us two cinnamon rolls, extra frosting.”
When Bailey shrugged, Annie got the rolls. She tried to give Cal a what s-up? stare, but he never looked at her. She wanted to grab his face and make him look, make him catch the question she was trying to fling at him. It was almost as if he was avoiding her eyes…
“Order up!” Donald, the owner, cook, and chief bottle washer, had the voice of a bullhorn that could not be ignored.
Annie got busy, yet every chance she had, she looked at the men. They ate with their bodies angled toward each other, their free hands emphasizing their words. They talked more than they ate. Ooh, yessireeny, something was definitely brewing.
At one point, Dottie, the other waitress, leaned close, cocked her head in their direction, and whispered, “What's up with that odd couple?”
“I don't know, but I'm going to find out.” Annie wiped her hands on her pastel uniform, shuffled her shoulders, and took a deep breath in an exaggerated preparation for battle.
“Ha! Go get 'em!” Dottie said.
Annie made a beeline toward the dynamic duo. Their rolls were only half eaten, and their coffee mugs were nearly full but steamless. She poured two fresh cups as a way to ease into their world. She shoved Cal's plate an inch closer. “My, my, gentlemen. What's got you so caught up that you're forgetting to eat?”
Cal swiveled his stool to face her. “Opportunity is knocking, Annie-girl.”
“Pounding down the door,” Bailey said.
She suffered an inner sigh. “Sounds noisy. Care to share?”
“Baileys got an idea that could make us tons of money. Make us—”
Cal stopped talking when Harold Shinness edged up to the counter.
Bad timing, Harold. Bad timing. “What can I get you today, Harold?”
“I represent the library bunch, Miss Annie.” He nodded toward the Steadfast Library across the square. “Four cinnamon rolls, please. Merry and I want ours normal, Ivan doesn't want any frosting, and Blanche says she'll have his portion added onto hers.”
Annie smiled. “I've never seen a woman with such a sweet tooth. Grab a stool. I'll get 'em for you.”
Harold sat next to Bailey. “Morning, Bailey. Cal.”
Both men nodded, but it was clear they weren't comfortable in Harold's presence. They didn't know what they were missing. Sure, Harold had gone through his weird stage after the death of his wife— only talking in quotes from Shakespeare, scurrying around like a half-witted recluse—but he was back to normal now. Or as normal as Harold could be. He was a sweet old guy, but unfortunately, “sweet” was not a trait Cal cared about. Annie could only assume by their not-so-subtle shunning that Bailey felt the same. Men could be as shallow as cookie sheets sometimes.
The real proof they considered Harold a nonentity was when they continued their conversation as if he weren't even there.
Cal talked while Annie placed Harold's rolls in a hinged container. “Bailey's got this idea to open another restaurant.”
“Steadfast's already got two. What do we need with more?”
Bailey lowered his voice. “No offense, Annie, but this place can hardly be considered a restaurant. It's a diner, plain and simple.”
“Yes, it is. And it serves plain and simple food and does a good job of it. Any extra padding in the waistlines of Steadfast is Donald's doing.”
Bailey leaned back, unconcerned. “The Plentiful has home cooking, no atmosphere, and uniforms out of a seventies' waitress sitcom.”
Annie looked down at her pink Alice-style attire. “At least my name isn't Flo.” She pretended to fluff her hair, but it was pulled into a ponytail. As a redhead, pink was not her best color.
“My Bon Vivant serves the other end of the eating spectrum with gourmet food in an elegant setting.”
“And cummerbunds. Don't forget the cummerbunds.”
He ignored her. “What I'm proposing is to fill the needs of the middle ground. Open a restaurant that has the atmosphere of home, with the food you'd like to eat at home but never have the time to fix anymore.”
“Bailey, you re not listening. We have home cooking here.”
“Most of its fried. People can't eat that every day. And some, like me after my heart attack, can't eat it at all.” As if to prove his point, he shoved the rest of his roll away. “I'm talking healthy home cooking. The cooking of the new century.” He slapped a hand on the counter. “If we're successful, people will never want to eat at home.”
Harold raised a hand. “Excuse me, is that a good thing?”
Bailey blinked at him. “Its certainly not bad.”
Harold raised an eyebrow. “But does Steadfast really need such a place?”
“Need has nothing to do with it.” Bailey grinned and quoted Kevin Costner in that baseball movie. “If we build it, they will come.”
“Yeah,” Cal said. “Nobody likes to cook anymore. Nobody sits around the table at dinner. They—”
“We do.” Annie felt herself blush. “Sometimes.” Do TV trays count?
“But if we made it homey enough, people could come and sit at our tables and eat together.” Cal's eyes widened. “Hey, we could even have televisions going so people would really feel at home.”
“Its an interesting thought,” Bailey said.
Harold's head shook back and forth. “That's one word for it.”
Bailey swiveled his chair to face him. “You have a better word?”
Uh-oh. Annie stepped forward with Harold's order. “Ten dollars, please.”
Harold slid off the stool and fished a crumpled bill from his pocket. He turned to leave.
“I'm waiting for an answer.”
“Hey, Bailey. Take it easy…”
I'm just asking.”
“Ask nice.”
“I thought I did.”
They all looked at Harold as he slowly turned to face Bailey. He held the box of rolls with both hands and looked at the floor a full five seconds. Then he raised his head and nodded once. Wisdom shone in his old eyes. And compassion. “What people want and what people need are two different things.”
“They don't have to be,” Bailey said.
“But they are. I have no doubt the kind of restaurant you describe would be a success—monetarily. But maybe you need to ask yourself whether it would be a success morally.”
Cal let out a huff. “How did morals get into this?”
Harolds voice remained soft. “Any time you tamper with the framework of family life, you risk ruining something sacred.”
Bailey tossed his hands in the air. “For pity's sake, we're giving them good food in a nice setting.”
“You're taking them away from hearth and home during one of the few moments of the day when busy families come together to talk.”
“They can talk at the restaurant.”
“It's not the same.”
Baileys smile became smug. “And who are you to say anything? You don't have a family. You never had any kids.”
“Bailey!” Annie couldn't believe his rudeness.
She had never witnessed the kind of love Harold had shown for his wife when she was alive. Annie didn't know the reason why they'd never had children but sensed Harold held a deep pain regarding that fact. And Bailey should talk. His wife had left him years ago. And a few months previous his son, Jered, had run away.
Bailey continued, “It always galls me when people who don't have experience talk as though they know more than they possibly could. They should mind their own business; that's what they should do.” He turned his stool toward the counter with a backward flip of his hand.
Cal turned away, too.
Harold stared at their backs, his face drawn, yet amazingly not with anger but with sorrow. Annies impulse was to hug him, comfort him. She looked at Cal and Bailey. They were thick as thieves again, oblivious to the pain they'd caused.
As Harold turned toward the door, Annie hurried around the counter. “Let me get the door for you.” She followed him outside. “I'm sorry, Harold.” She nodded toward the two men inside. “I like what you said. I agree with you.”
His smile was wistful. “Protect what you have, Miss Annie. Don't let anyone tear it apart.”
She watched him cross the square as long as she could before the October cold forced her inside.
Annie went back to work with Harold's warning ringing in her ears.
Bailey and Cal stood outside the Plentiful Cafe next to Cal's truck. Rust spotted the fender, and the hokey sign on the door—Cal's Home Improvements with the phone number on it—was a quarter-inch off plumb. Bailey had noticed it the first time he saw it, and it made him question the precision of Cal's building capabilities. How plumb was his construction work when he couldn't even get a stupid ad painted on straight?
But had it stopped Bailey from hiring him? Not that there was much choice in Steadfast. Inane little town. One heating and air company, one electrician, one building contractor, but three plumbers. Curious.
It was true he could have gone to nearby Eldora to get bids. After all, he'd used an Eldora contractor to build Bon Vivant ten years previous. Unfortunately, those bridges were burned and the ashes scattered. Bailey was sure the construction grapevine in Eldora had had a field day listening to his last contractor exaggerate their differences. And in no way did they appreciate the distinction between being deemed “difficult” versus “discerning.” He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. Was that such a ridiculous request?
Cal droned on about college football. Mindless drivel. Bailey nodded dutifully, though he could have cared less whether Kansas or Kansas State won, lost, or fell off the face of the earth. He didn't have time for sports. He was an entrepreneur. The fact he had to lower himself to sports small talk was an unfortunate game he had to play to achieve his objective.
And his objective was to get Cal's help on the new restaurant. Cal's work on the addition to Bon Vivant was winding down, was acceptable, his prices reasonable, and his character gullible. If Bailey handled it right, he could get Cal to invest Annie's inheritance.
Cal had never leaked the exact amount but had implied it was a hefty sum, which meant it had to be close to six figures. Once he had the money, he'd get Cal to do the construction work at a discounted partner-price, leaving Bailey to run it and deal with the proper apportioning of the profits. What Cal didn't know about the restaurant business was in Bailey's favor. Ignorance could indeed be bliss—and be used to Bailey's benefit.
Cal opened the door of his truck and got in. Bailey forced himself to concentrate for the final good-byes.
“I sure appreciate you coming to me with this project, Bailey. I won't let you down.”
Bailey put on his best buddy smile. “I knew you'd be the one to ask. We'll talk more later.” He shut the door, gave a two-fingered salute, and walked to his silver BMW parked across the street—safe from other door-dinging vehicles.
Cal beeped his horn as he drove by.
Bailey gave him a parting smile. Sucker.
“Sucker!”
The kid bolted like a sprinter. Jered didn't understand why until he unfolded the wad of bills. Only three ones folded inside a five. “Hey! I told you twenty! You owe me—”
The kid paused at the corner of the alley. “Don't you know nothin, man? You don't give the goods till you get the cash. Are you dumb, or what?” He ran away.
“Areyou dumb, or what?”
Jered shoved the eight bucks into his pocket. He bad been dumb. This time. But the kid had moved so fast. He'd shoved the wad of money in Jered's left hand and plucked the CD player out of his right hand in one motion. All that work stealing it in the first place, running for his life from Scummy, hiding out in a dumpster for eight lousy bucks? Was he dumb? If so, he was getting smarter every day. Street smarter.
He went back to his truck. His home. His world.
A too-sweet smell hit him as soon as he opened the door. He looked at his stash of food on the floor of the passenger side and heaved a rotting apple out the window. What was left? A box of generic Ritz-type crackers, a half loaf of bread, a can of beans, and some bologna. He was sick of bologna sandwiches. Yet every time he complained, he reminded himself of the harder time he'd had when the weather was warm. He hadn't been able to keep meat and cheese then. His menu had increased tons when the colder temperatures of October rolled in.
But his income had not.
He was willing to work, but it was hard getting a decent job without decent clothes. He hadn't thought to pack when he took off from Steadfast three months ago. He'd gotten outta there pronto, afraid he'd caused his dad's heart attack and mad at his dad for helping that sickly sweet orphan Sim.
Talk about a con job. Sim comes to town, holes up in the library attic, and wins the heart of the town. What a scam. And his dad had been as big a patsy as anyone. Letting her stay at their house. Playing games with her. Treating her special, as if she was more important than…
Jered ripped his stocking hat off and barreled it into the windshield, leaving his too-long, greasy hair plastered against his head. When he'd left home he made the huge mistake of not thinking long-term. He stuffed a few clothes into a backpack and headed to Kansas City. But two T-shirts and a second pair of jeans didn't cut it for job interviews at any job beyond the first one he'd had scrapping out construction sites.
Plumbers, framers, electricians—nobody cleaned up after themselves. And why should they when grunts like Jered could do it for them? He'd only kept that gig three weeks till his back gave out and he got a nail in his foot.
Everything he earned went for gas and food. He wouldn't have money to buy new clothes until he had a real job, and he couldn't get a real job until he had decent clothes.
What'd they call that? A catch-22?
Nothing was working out as he planned, and Kansas City had been a bust. Right off Jered hooked up with some people who were into drugs. He'd even tried some. But never again. Hinky stuff and hinkier people. Nope, drugs weren't his scene.
Kansas City was a good place to hide, but it was too big. He'd grown up in Steadfast, population 3,386, a
nd was used to dealing with the likes of his buddies Moog and Darrell. A couple six-packs, banging a few mailboxes, and throwing stuff at old Harold—that was the extent of their bad doings. Things were too heavy in KC. He didn't like being scared all the time.
So he left. He hadn't planned on ending up in Eldora, just twenty minutes from Steadfast—and his father. It was almost as if his truck had driven with its own mind. But once he'd seen the city sign, he felt better. More in control. More…
He looked around the alley. In control? Ha. He still lived in his truck, still scrounged for food, was still afraid. He still didn't have a job, and peddling what little he had guts enough to steal wasn't something he was good at.
Then what was?
He opened the glove compartment and got out his music. Scraps of his compositions. Nothing finished. Just some junk he had stuffed into his pack before leaving. Luckily, finding new paper to write on was easy enough. The trash was full of it. He used the backs of used paper and wrote and wrote—as best he could. He really needed his guitar. Why hadn't he brought his guitar with him?
He pictured where it stood in his room behind his door—unless his dad had sold it or given it away. It was a good possibility. Bailey Manson, fancy restaurant owner, didn't care about his son or his sons music. In fact, he'd been totally against it, calling Jered's dream to be a somebody in the music world “absurd and impractical.”
I'll show him.
Jered laughed at the thought. “Oh yeah, I'm really showing him, aren't I?”
His voice ricocheted around the cab of the truck. Such a lonely sound. Only one thing would make the feeling go away.
Jered locked the doors, positioned his backpack as a pillow, spread his T-shirts over him as a blanket, and lay down to find oblivion.
Annie picked up the phone. “Plentiful Cafe, this is Annie. Whatcha hungry for?”
She listened a few seconds then hung up, whipping off her apron. “Dottie, cover for me. I gotta go!”