All in One Place

by Carolyne Aarsen

“I'm sure she is,” was all I could squeeze out. I heard the floor creaking upstairs. Time to go. I gave Anneke another smile, then brushed her soft cheek with a kiss. “Tell your mommy that Auntie Terra says she's sorry.”

  Anneke's head bounced up and down as if passing on apologies from a little-known aunt was a perfectly normal event.

  “Can I lay on the couch?” she asked. I quickly tucked her in, then before the household came to complete wakefulness, I scooted out of the house. In the distance I heard the faint rumble of a truck, and I jogged down the road, knowing that if I didn't catch it, my chances for a ride would be pretty slim.

  Chapter Four

  Help wanted.

  We'll see how badly they want help, I thought, adjusting my knapsack as I stared at the sign posted on the window of the Harland Café. Luckily, the first ride I got this morning had brought me most of the way back to Harland. But I'd been on my feet the rest of the day, looking for gainful employment.

  I was in an awkward situation. I couldn't use my previous references because one of them was Eric and the other was a friend of his, which created a three-year gap in my résumé that caused more questions I didn't feel like dancing around.

  I needed someone who was not just willing but desperate to hire me. After hearing too many “No openings” or “Not hiring,” all delivered with a suspicious look when I balked at supplying a résumé, I was finally thrown a bone. The young salesclerk at True Value Hardware told me the Harland Café, across from the sheriff's office, was hiring.

  I so did not want to be a waitress again.

  But Dan's voice kept resonating in my mind. To pay Leslie back I needed work, and judging from the sign on the door, the diner needed help.

  It was a match made in Harland.

  I hitched my knapsack over my shoulder and pushed open the glass door of the restaurant as the tinkling bell announced my entrance.

  The diner was one of those authentic frozen-in-time establishments that big cities try unsuccessfully to emulate.

  Mismatched chairs were pushed haphazardly around tables that sat too close together, making navigating the restaurant with a full order an exercise in agility.

  A few tiles were coming loose in the floor. On the wall beside me hung a bulletin board—every square inch of it papered with notices and items for sale, some hanging by a pin, others tucked into the edges of the wood. From the faded look of some of them, they'd survived a few presidential administrations.

  In the past, I had donned my waitressing apron when no other job was available—like now—but most of the places I'd worked easily had more class than this and were much cleaner and quieter.

  Willie Nelson was wailing on the radio, and though it was two thirty, traditionally dead-time for restaurants, conversation from a variety of patrons filled the gaps. The smiles and laughter from the people hunched over the tables nursing coffee and digging into flaky homemade pies made me think this could be a good place to work.

  I walked to the counter just as a middle-aged waitress scurried past me, her face flushed and her hair slipping out of the ponytail that should have been tightened seventeen hamburgers ago.

  Her tired look told me she wished I would go somewhere else to order coffee.

  “Table for one?” she asked, reaching for a menu without breaking stride.

  “Actually, I've come to talk to someone about the help-wanted sign.”

  She skidded to a halt. “You're a waitress?” Her whole body wilted in relief. “Do you have experience?”

  “I know how to eighty-six an unwelcome customer and how to pump the food out when the restaurant is hopping.”

  “You need to talk to Lennie.” She dropped the menu on the counter and caught me by the arm, dragging me to the back of the restaurant. “He's over there,” she said, pushing me toward a door that opened into an office not much larger than a broom closet. “And don't pay attention to his muttering. He's harmless.”

  A large man, whose wobbling cheeks and protruding stomach made me wonder if he had enjoyed a few too many of the restaurant's fries and pies, hunched over an old oak desk as covered with papers as the bulletin board out front. He stared at the flickering computer screen in front of him. I guessed this was Lennie. He wore a stained apron, and what was left of his gray hair had been combed over to cover a shining bald spot. A pair of worn loafers lay haphazardly on the floor beside the desk.

  “Yes, I want to do this! No, I don't want to send an error report.” He stabbed at a button on the keyboard. “Just do what I say, you stupid machine.”

  I cleared my throat and took a step closer.

  “Don't even think about closing on me. No. No. No.” His large hand slapped the side of the monitor in time to each exclamation.

  “Excuse me,” I said quietly, knocking lightly on the wood door.

  Lennie's head jerked upward and swiveled from side to side, his comb-over listing to starboard.

  “Hello,” I said again, stepping a little farther into the office.

  His bloodshot eyes made him look as if he'd been on an all-nighter. “Whaddya want?” he asked, sniffing deeply and rubbing his eyes.

  “I've come about your job opening.”

  Lennie leaned back in his chair, scratching his stomach. His fingernails were bitten to the quick and stained with tobacco. A thin rime of something I didn't want to know about edged his mouth.

  I mentally backpedaled, then hit a wall. My “escape fund” needed to be replenished. I needed to pay back Leslie and find a way to support myself while I was stuck here. This job was my last resort.

  “Have you worked as a waitress before?”

  I nodded.

  “You know anything about computers?”

  “A bit.”

  “I need more than a bit. But I need a waitress more.” He blinked, then pushed his chair backward with one stocking foot. With his other, he hooked the wooden chair nearby and pulled it in front of him.

  “Come in. Sit down,” he said. “Shut the door behind you.”

  I shut out images from a thousand television shows and movies. This would be where the music got spooky if trouble was afoot…

  But this wasn't TV. It was my life, and no one knew I was here.

  Lennie must have sensed my hesitation. “You can leave the door open if you want. Doesn't matter.”

  I left it open, sitting on the chair and slipping my backpack onto my lap.

  Lennie sniffed again, scrubbing at his face with the palms of his hands before leaning back in his chair. “Tell me about your other jobs.”

  “I've worked in a couple of hotels, a few lounges, some restaurants. I've done office work for a lawyer and worked as a bank teller.”

  Lennie nodded and scratched his chin with one finger. “What's your name?”

  I told him.

  “You live around here?”

  “I'm new to town.”

  “Helen, the other waitress here, might be looking for a roomie. Her friend moved out. Got married.” Lennie sniffed and scratched again. “When can you start?”

  “As soon as you need me.”

  “I needed you yesterday.”

  “So you don't need any references?”

  “You ever been in trouble with the law?”

  The question sent my heart diving into my stomach. Did my short time in the Harland County Jail across the street count?

  And how small was this small town? Would he find out anyway?

  “It's okay. If you don't work out, you'll hit the road, curly.” Lennie yawned and pushed himself out of the chair. “I gotta get ready for the dinner rush. You got a clean white shirt in there?” He pointed at my knapsack.

  I couldn't help but glance at his apron. He caught the direction of my gaze and rubbed his hands over the grease spots that liberally dotted the slightly gray apron. “This doesn't ever leave the back. But you, you need to look your best. So, is it clean?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can change in the ladies' can. Helen
will bring you up to speed.”

  I tried not to let my mouth flop open. I'd worked for some pretty desperate bosses, but I'd never been hired on the spot before.

  “Great. Thanks,” I said as I got up.

  “Welcome to the Harland Café,” Lennie said, giving my hand a quick shake. “See how you make out today, and we'll talk wages tomorrow.”

  I knew it wouldn't be a princely sum, but if today was any indication of how busy it would be, the tips should more than balance out the minimum wage I would probably be getting.

  Lennie brushed past me, and I stood there a moment, letting it sink in.

  I just got a job.

  All I had to do now was prove myself before wind of my recent trouble with the law got out.

  Five minutes later I was busing tables that looked as if multiple parties had sat at them back-to-back. I tried to ignore the rumbling of my stomach as I piled one plate with a half-eaten piece of pie on top of another plate full of fries smothered in ketchup and dumped them both into the plastic container.

  “Nothing like jumping in with both feet,” Helen said as she walked toward me, a coffeepot in one hand and two plates of food balanced precariously in the other. “May as well start you off easy. You can take table eight. The two older men. Cor DeWindt will have coffee, Father Sam will have tea, and pie for both. Tell Father Sam there's no more banana cream, but we've got lemon so Cor will be happy.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, trying to figure out where table eight was, then saw two older men sitting by the window.

  I wiped my hands on an apron that was now as grubby as Lennie's and snagged a half-full pot of coffee.

  “Good afternoon,” I said as I came near the table. “My name is Terra, and I'm your server.”

  The heavyset man had thinning hair. A pair of bright yellow suspenders lay against an orange plaid shirt that strained over his generous stomach. When he frowned, his eyebrows obscured his eyes. “Where's Helen?” His rough voice held the hint of an accent I couldn't place.

  “I just started here, so for now, I'll be serving you.”

  “Looks like you have someone new to practice your flirting skills on, Cor,” the other man said with a laugh.

  Cor. That meant this man, the one with the laughing eyes and dark hair sprinkled with gray, was Father Sam. He wore blue jeans with sandals, and a ratty-looking T-shirt covered by a canvas jacket.

  He looked nothing like any priest I'd ever seen.

  Of course, the only priests I'd ever seen were the ones on television, so my experience was, you could say, rather narrow.

  “Would either of you like coffee?” I asked, wondering how one was supposed to behave around a priest. Considering the fact that I'd messed up so royally with Leslie's family, I figured I'd better walk the line.

  Cor pushed his cup toward me. “Where did you come from? I've never seen you around town before.”

  “Actually, I hitched a ride in,” I said as I topped off his coffee.

  His eyebrows crawled closer together, two fuzzy caterpillars of disapproval. “That's dangerous, you know. A single girl like you shouldn't be doing that. You are single, aren't you?”

  Like I was going to answer that question. I reached over to fill Father Sam's cup, but he laid his hand over his cup. “I'll have some tea instead, please. Earl Grey.”

  “I'm sorry. I forgot.” First slipup. “I was also supposed to tell you that there's no banana cream pie, but there is lemon.”

  “Hmm. I'm not sure I want tea, then,” Father Sam said.

  “Oh, c'mon.” Cor turned his attention to Father Sam. “You can at least have tea.”

  “Not without pie.”

  “Then have lemon pie.”

  Father Sam seemed to consider, then shook his head.

  Cor slapped the table with a large, meaty hand. “Don't be such a hidebound traditionalist. You can't beat lemon pie for freshness.”

  Father Sam lifted his shoulder in a vague shrug. “You'd like lemon pie. Its tart flavor is very symbolic of your Calvinistic world and life views.”

  “What? Lemon pie is sweet. Like us Calvinists,” Cor said.

  “Only because Mathilde redeems the flavor by adding copious amounts of sugar. Which you shouldn't be having.”

  Theology and pie? These two were a little on the strange side.

  Cor harrumphed, then turned to me. “Two pieces of lemon pie. I'll eat his if he doesn't want it.”

  “And I'll have Earl Grey tea after all,” Father Sam said.

  “Hey, Terra,” Cor called out just as I was about to hurry off to fill the order, “what do you get when you cross an elephant and a kangaroo?”

  Oh, brother. One of those kinds of customers.

  “I give up.”

  Cor snickered. “Great big holes all over Australia.”

  I laughed politely, then rushed off to fill the order. I was aiming for a cross between efficiency and politeness—pleasing the customer and keeping the boss happy.

  I almost collided with Helen on the way into the kitchen.

  “You're back quick,” she said, ringing her order in. “Cor didn't try to pull you in on his biweekly theological discussion with Father Sam?” She pointed to a large glass cooler beside the cash desk. “Pie's in there.”

  “I did get to hear something about Calvinistic something or other,” I said as I slid a magazine-ad-worthy piece of pie onto a plate. The meringue was picture-perfect, lightly browned, artfully swirled. The flaky crust and creamy smooth lemon filling made saliva pool in my mouth. “He told me an elephant joke.”

  Helen groaned. “He must have gotten a new joke book.”

  “Is there any chance I can grab a bite to eat?” I asked.

  Helen pulled me behind the partition dividing the kitchen from the rest of the restaurant. A little table holding a sugar container, cream cups, ketchup, and napkins was pushed against the wall.

  “You can keep your coffee here and any food or snacks you manage to scam when Mathilde isn't looking.”

  “Who?”

  “The cook.”

  “I thought Lennie was the cook.” Light flashed off Lennie's flailing knife as he cut and sliced. His assistant walked a wide circle around him en route to the large walk-in cooler at the back of the kitchen.

  Helen rolled her eyes. “He does the morning shift and maybe, when we're stretched, flips burgers at noon, but that's about all the General will let him touch. He thinks he's the best line cook that ever whipped on a hairnet, but every time he works the grill, he drags the side orders. Hasn't mastered the ‘everything hot at the same time’ concept so vital to quality restaurant fare.” Helen glanced at the clock. “If you're lucky, you might be able to grab something before the General comes.”

  “The General being?”

  As the words left my mouth, the back door flew open, and in strode a short, stocky woman.

  “Let's get going,” she threw out as she tugged off her coat. Her dark brown hair, liberally streaked with gray, was already stuffed into a hairnet. “Lennie, you were supposed to be done with that hours ago,” she called out as she stripped off a shabby green coat revealing a full-length apron, striped green-and-yellow stockings, and bright yellow Crocs. “You been fooling with that useless computer again?”

  “Behold,” Helen whispered as she eased her way out of the kitchen, leaving me to face down Mathilde's beady eyes alone.

  “Who's that?” she snapped with a sharp jut of her chin in my direction.

  “Terra. I hired her this morning,” Lennie replied.

  Mathilde's eyes became as small as an iguana's. “You lazy, girl?”

  “Not usually.” I couldn't come up with anything snappier, but from the set of her jaw and her pursed lips, I guessed I was better off with bland and basic anyway.

  “Lennie tell you that if any of your customers skip, it comes out of your pay?”

  He didn't. Nor would he meet my surprised gaze. I'd worked for a few other restaurants that did this. It was a pain
, and it wasn't fair.

  But I wasn't in any place to complain.

  “You make sure you try to up-sell whenever you get the chance. No campers except for Father Sam and Cor, and punch your orders in right the first time.” Mathilde's eyes swept over me as she delivered that pithy advice before turning her attention to the order screen. “Useless computer is more trouble than it's worth. We're already behind, people,” she snapped. “Time is money, and the money belongs to me.”

  Lennie flapped his hands at me in a Get going gesture. He pointed to Mathilde and made a slicing gesture across his throat.

  I ran into Helen as I left the kitchen, balancing two pie plates in one hand.

  “I thought Lennie owned the place,” I whispered as Helen handed me Father Sam's teapot.

  “He does, but it's Mathilde's cooking that brings the people in. You want to be best friends with Mathilde. Make her mad, and your tips will be spare change instead of nice, crisp bills. You'll figure her out. If you stay long enough.”

  Helen's last few words had a faintly ominous tone. Did she mean if I could cut it or if I decided to stick around?

  I'd never worked for a cranky boss longer than I had to. But I needed this job. So I would have to put up with whatever Mathilde gave me.

  Cor and Father Sam were locked in a heated debate.

  “Here's your order,” I said when Cor took a breath. “And your tea,” I said to Father Sam, carefully setting the teapot in front of him. “Enjoy your pie.”

  Father Sam sighed and picked up his fork. “If I must, I must,” he said quietly.

  “Think of it as penance for some obscure sin you don't even realize you committed,” Cor said, winking at me. “And we're out of sugar here, Terra. Can you get me some more?”

  “I'm sorry.” I was about to get a full container from the table beside them when Father Sam touched me lightly on the arm.

  “Terra, my friend Cor shouldn't be having regular sugar. He's diabetic.”

  “Don't listen to him,” Cor said, shoving aside the small ceramic tray full of artificial sweetener packets.

  Father Sam looked at me expectantly. I was caught in the middle. On the one side sat Cor, the customer. On the other side, I didn't know if I wanted to fall afoul of a priest. After all, he had connections to realms I respected but didn't know much about.