by Maddie Day
When the timer for the rising bread dinged, I was almost surprised to see six dozen puffy round burgers resting lightly grilled on pans—three dozen of beef, three dozen of ground turkey, each no more than two inches in diameter. I didn’t think my mind had produced anywhere near what my hands had during the same time. No clear answers came through. So I covered the pans of patties with foil and slid them into the warmer on its lowest temperature. Hot enough to fend off salmonella, low enough not to toughen them.
So my hands now fell to oiling six vintage muffin tins, their metal blackened by decades, perhaps centuries, of women wiping butter or lard around the insides of the cups and then baking mini spice cakes, savory corn muffins, delectable cream puffs, sweet blueberry muffins, decadent chocolate cupcakes. And today I’d follow in their hallowed footsteps by adding to the patina with yeasted slider buns. A couple of the pans featured different designs pressed into the metal of the cup bottoms: a star, a swirl, curvy lines, concentric circles.
I plucked off golf balls of dough and pressed each into its indentation in the pan, flattening the orb with the backs of my fingers. I’d just finished the last pan, miraculously coming out even with dough and cups, when the bell jangled. I looked up with a start, then relaxed.
“Welcome to the crazy house,” I called to Jim. “Is it already five?”
In a sky-blue T-shirt and faded jeans, he looked as delicious as the rising buns, but he was obviously prepared for the evening’s activities, too, since he carried slacks folded on a hanger, with a black dress shirt draped over the top.
“Hear ye, hear ye. Let the record show it is five o’clock in the court. All rise. Ms. Jordan, what do you have to say in your defense?”
I laughed louder than I’d laughed in what seemed like months. “Mr. Lawyer, sir, I plead guilty to being hoodwinked and cajoled into hosting a community fund-raiser for which I am little prepared. Sir.”
He hung his hanger over a hook on the coatrack, aiming a mock frown in my direction. “Be forewarned, Ms. Jordan. You are in for a severe disciplinary action.” In four long strides he enveloped me in his arms.
I looked up into those emerald eyes and attacked him with a hungry kiss. We only surfaced when my phone set up a racket of ringing, amplified by the stainless-steel counter it rested on. I extricated myself, heart racing with lust, and reached behind him to answer it. I kept my gaze on his flushed cheeks and now tousled hair. He leaned back against the counter with a sexy smile and folded his arms.
I greeted Corrine. “Yep. The food is all set, and we’re just about to arrange the space.”
“The lieutenant governor is a old friend of mine. She’s going to stop by during the evening, so I’ve alerted the press,” Corrine said.
I whistled. “You have connections.”
“That I do. The drinks should be there any minute. Danna’s going to help out, should be there by six-thirty. Anything else you need?”
“Who’s bringing paperware? You know, cups, napkins, that kind of thing? And what about nonalcoholic drinks?”
“All covered. I ordered bottles of sweet tea and water. Gotta run, hon.” With that, she disconnected.
I stared at the phone in hand.
“What was that all about?” Jim asked.
“Oh, only Corrine bringing an old friend from Indy. Who happens to be the lieutenant governor.” I shook my head. “And the press, whoever that means. What do you think, the Sentinel, the Democrat, the Indianapolis Star, or the New York Times? That woman is a force of nature.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s putting it mildly. Now, what do we have to do here?”
By the time the drink truck arrived, Jim and I had pushed all the tables to the periphery, stacking the larger ones double high in the corner to make more room. The smaller tables we arranged with chairs around them, and lined the rest of the chairs around the walls. We placed one long table in front of the drinks cooler so guests wouldn’t feel they could help themselves to my inventory. Another table we arranged catty-corner for the food, and a third on the opposite side of the room for the silent-auction items. I laid my blue-and-white paper tablecloths on all three.
But the truck came late. It was already six and I hadn’t started heating up anything besides baking the buns. When the timer rang, I pulled the rolls out of the big oven, and they looked awesome, all lightly browned and puffy. I set them on cooling racks as Jim helped the delivery guy haul in cases of beer, nonalcoholic drinks, and a dozen boxes of wine.
“How you doing?” I asked the burly man, whose thinning blond hair was pulled back into a skinny ponytail at the nape of his neck.
“A-l-l r-ight,” he drew out into near about five lazy syllables. “Smells good in here,” he drawled with a smile.
I handed him a hot roll in a paper napkin and thanked him. “We need to keep the cold drinks cold,” I said to Jim after the man left, setting my hands on my hips. “Red wine’s the only thing doesn’t have to be served chilled.”
Jim fell to lining up boxes of Nashville Vintner’s red on the far end of the drinks table, digging out the spigot on the first two. “Ice?” he asked, without looking up.
I snapped my fingers and strode to the shed out back, returning with a big old shallow galvanized-steel tub. “This’ll be just the ticket.” I dusted it off, set it on the table, then started bringing big scoops of ice from the ice bin until it was half full.
When I began opening cases of beer, Jim elbowed me aside. “You must have cooking to do. Let me do this. And I’m assuming you’re going to change, too? Not that you don’t look great just like you are.”
“Huh.” I looked down at my black T-shirt and jeans, which I’d been working in all day. “No kidding. Back in a flash.” I hurried to my apartment, splashed water on my face, and peered into my closet. Where was my personal dresser when I needed one? Finally I grabbed a cap-sleeved black jersey dress I knew flattered my curves, pulled on black tights, added a chunky necklace in the colors of the rainbow with matching earrings, slid on a half-dozen silver bracelets, and ran a brush through my hair. I was cooking, so I couldn’t wear it long. Instead, I twisted it up in a knot, securing it with a multicolored clip, and slipped on black ankle boots with heels.
Almost through the door to the restaurant, I heard a plaintive meow. “Oh, poor kitty cat. I have been neglecting you something fierce.” I bent to stroke Birdy, then made sure his food and water dishes were full and fresh before I headed back to the event at hand.
Jim emerged from the restroom, all spruced up, too, in his gray slacks and black shirt, his hair tamed with water and fingers, I wagered. I glanced at his feet, which were clad in the same running shoes he’d worn with his jeans.
“Nice choice of footwear, Counselor.”
“Forgot my dress shoes. Hey, people know me. It’s not a job interview, then, is it?” He laughed. “You look awful nice, Robbie.”
I twirled for him and struck a model pose for a second.
“Got an apron I can wear to complete my outfit?” he asked.
I threw him a clean one and pulled one on myself. I glanced at the wall clock as I crossed the apron strings behind my back and tied them in the front.
“Help me out?” Jim was struggling to tie his apron in back. “I’m terrible when I can’t see what I’m doing.”
“You’re funny.” I moved behind him and took the ties in my hands. I resisted the sudden urge to pull him close to me, ignored the imperative to press my body against his and wrap my arms around him. He smelled alluring up close, and the smooth black cloth of his shirt would have made a silky pillow for my cheek. Instead, I tied a bow and gave him a little pat on the fanny.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” I declared. “Folks are going to be here in half an hour.”
“Or sooner.” He pointed at the door, which opened to Corrine, Danna, and Turner, the intern, the last two with arms full of bags and boxes.
“Isn’t this just a thrill?” Resplendent in a V-necked black dress with sliced
sleeves above four-inch red-and-white Manolo Blahniks, Corrine waved as she sailed toward us. So far, it looked like we were all complying with a black-clothing dress code.
Danna, wearing a turquoise long-sleeved top and print peasant skirt over flat leather boots, only rolled her eyes. So much for the dress code. “Where do you want the plates and all?” she asked. She’d wrapped her dreads with a turquoise band into a long flow down her back.
“You can put plates and napkins on the food table and cups where the drinks are going,” I told her as I indicated the tables I meant. “I thought we’d put silent-auction items over there,” I told Corrine, pointing at the far table.
“Good, good.”
“I made up a Pans ‘N Pancakes gift certificate to donate.” I headed for my desk. “Let me go get that. Then I’ve got to get the food ready.”
“I’ll help,” Danna said.
Jim returned to stuffing beer, water, boxes of white wine, and tea bottles into the ice, clinking and crunching as he worked. Meanwhile, the skinny intern with a head full of thick, dark hair stood near the door looking as bewildered as a lost lamb, his arms barely reaching around whatever it was Corrine had stuffed into them.
“Turner, you set up the auction table,” Corrine directed him. “He’s got the sign-up sheets, pens, the rest,” she said to me.
After he unloaded his burdens, I handed the young man my gift certificate for forty dollars, told him the minimum bid should be twenty, and turned to the appetizers. After Danna slipped an apron over her head, I asked her to assemble the sliders.
“You’ll need to cut open all the buns first. They should be cool enough now.” I slid one out of its cup and tossed it from hand to hand.
“I’ll make up a savory mayo for the turkey burgers. You know, with Thanksgiving seasonings,” she said. “Sage, rosemary, thyme. A little fresh parsley.”
“Great idea. Think we should add a slice of cheese to the beef sliders?”
She cocked her head. “Nah, too much work. Fresh black pepper and a squirt of ketchup should be enough. Or maybe I’ll mix a few drops of hot sauce into the ketchup.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Hoosiers need a little livening up, you know?”
“I like the way you think.” What a godsend. I only hoped her mom realized Danna’s talents lay in a restaurant, not a college, or at least not a conventional liberal-arts degree.
I set to transferring the now-thawed appetizers to baking sheets, then cursed. What was I going to serve them on when they were ready? It wasn’t particularly elegant to leave them on the pans with years of hot temperatures having baked sugars and fats into the metal, and my kitchen wasn’t equipped for catering. I glanced at the shelves of cookware across the room. Turner moved down the long table in front of the shelves, setting out sheets and pens for the donations (still nonexistent except for mine). My gaze traveled upward. Yes! I popped two full pans in the hot oven and strode toward him.
“Hey, Turner.” I tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m Robbie Jordan. I own this joint.”
“Turner Rao.” He extended his right hand. “Nice to meet you, Robbie.”
The cool, smooth skin of a hand that hadn’t yet encountered many rough surfaces met mine. “Same here. So I need to get those trays down from up there.” I pointed to the half-dozen flat tin trays standing on end against the wall on the top shelf. The disks were about fifteen inches across with an inch-high rim, and each featured different old-fashioned soda products: Nesbitt’s Orange, Brownie Root Beer, Dr. Wells. And, of course, the Coca-Cola checkerboard tray, which interspersed the red company logo with white squares. Its printed motto: Delicious and Refreshing. The trays would be perfect, once I got them cleaned up.
“Can you help me get them down?” I asked.
“Sure.” He laid down his papers and squinted up at the shelf. He was a beanpole of a guy, but not quite tall enough to reach up there.
I grabbed a long-handled popcorn popper off a shelf and handed it to him. “See if you can use this to bring the tray forward enough to make it fall.”
He stretched the tool up, and in a second the Nesbitt’s tray came flying down. I reached out my hands, but missed. The tray hit the blue-and-white tablecloth on its way down, leaving a smudge of rust and orange paint, and then clattered onto the floor.
“Turner, can’t you do anything right?” Corrine called in a sharp voice from the chair where she’d perched, looking up from her phone.
Turner didn’t respond, instead picking up the tray and brushing it off. Corrine’s response was totally uncalled for. Poor kid. And good for him for not rising to the bait.
“It’s okay. I asked him to help,” I answered her. She sniffed and looked back at her phone, her long red fingernail tapping out something or other.
Working together, we managed to get the rest down without mishap.
“I’ll clean them for you,” Turner said. His deep brown eyes bore into mine.
I saw both more sensitivity and more resolve than earlier. I realized I hadn’t ever really looked at him and now thought he looked at least part Indian, from India. That would explain the last name. I was willing to place a bet his mother’s maiden name was Turner, though.
“That’d be a huge help. Thank you.” We stacked up the trays. “If you can’t scrub off the rust, I’ll line them with foil or a napkin.” As we carried the trays to the deep sink, I added in a low voice, “I appreciate your help, even if she doesn’t.”
By seven o’clock the door never shut. As soon as one or two people entered, somebody else showed up right behind them. Turner was now stationed at a small table next to the door, collecting everybody’s suggested entrance donation. He was even set up with a Square reader on an iPad so he could swipe credit cards—a smart move, for sure. Wanda, dressed in street clothes, sauntered in with another woman, and handed him some cash. Roy, dressed in a brown blazer and slacks, followed the women in, with no gun in sight, to my great relief. Buck must have found him, questioned him, and let him go. Georgia, the library aide, was next to enter, followed by two men. While it was intriguing to watch everybody arrive, my to-do list wasn’t empty.
A few minutes later I glanced up from arranging buffalo wingettes on the root beer tray to see Adele, Vera, Samuel, and Phil making their way toward the donation table. Adele set down a rough-woven basket full of skeins of yarn in lovely pastel shades and conferred with Turner for a moment. Phil placed his event brownies on a table. Then he caught my eye and raised up a colorful sheet of paper that looked from this distance like it held color pictures of an assortment of his desserts, plus a few stylized musical notes, before handing it to Turner. I headed toward Phil to bring the brownies to the kitchen area.
“I’ll do it.” Phil held up a hand. “I brought a few serving trays to use.” He also wore a black shirt, with skinny black pants and a tie in the bright blue of the restaurant logo.
“You’re an angel.”
“Yeah,” he said, then fell to cutting and arranging the desserts on two so-called “throwaway” round aluminum trays, the kind I always wash and reuse. After he finished and cleaned his hands, he headed for the old piano in the corner, sat, and began to beat out a ragtime tune, which made me smile, despite the few out-of-tune keys. The tuner I’d brought in months earlier said it wasn’t really worth paying to get it up to primo playing quality.
Corrine posed next to Turner’s table and greeted all newcomers, arms outstretched, schmoozing. Her red-painted mouth held a permanent welcoming smile. Various townspeople drifted in, in twos and threes and fours. Several added items to the donation table, while others headed straight for the cold drinks tub or the boxes of red wine. Corrine sure called that one right, ordering wine boxes so nobody needed to struggle with corkscrews.
At a commotion near the door, I looked up from the mini quiches I was arranging. Corrine was in the process of giving Don O’Neill a bear hug. He extricated himself, glancing around. She gave him a big old slap on the back.
Wait. Don? So h
e’s out of jail. Huh. What’s that about? I glanced around. Buck wasn’t here or I would have asked him. If I got a chance, I’d ask Don himself. I was pretty sure Wanda wouldn’t tell me a thing if I inquired of her.
“So they let you free, did they?” Corrine asked in her usual booming voice. “I didn’t think they caught the right person.”
As I recalled, she’d expressed an entirely different opinion earlier in the day.
Don smiled wanly and swallowed. “Told them all along it wadn’t me.” He sidled toward the beer tub like a man in the desert.
Danna and I worked together to set out the appetizers and sliders, along with the labels Christine had included. I’d taken a minute earlier to print up a couple of similar ones for the sliders and for Phil’s brownies. Jim finished cooling the drinks, shed his apron, and now held a bottle of beer. I’d never gotten a chance to tell him about either Roberto’s or Don’s involvement in the accident. Well, life was going to settle down one of these days, wasn’t it? Jim headed toward Don, who was now talking with Barb from the hardware store and Georgia. Maybe Jim would get the story from Don. Or not.
Abe strolled in next, wearing a tuxedo with green suede sneakers and no tie. This guy had style. He saw me and headed my way, a small brightly colored piece of cardboard in his hand.