The waitress named Cora Mae had her back to him as she waited on a couple of customers.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said to Olivia as he passed, noticing her faint floral scent.
Joe turned, revealing his slightly sagging belly, and sent him a wide grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hey there, young man. I got some pancake batter here for you. How good are you at flippin’?”
“Probably nowhere near as good as you, sir. The griddle ready?”
“Water’s dancin’ on it.”
“Good sign,” he said, walking behind the counter. The mere notion that this kitchen would one day be his ushered in a round of nervous jitters.
“Ain’t many who can flip a pancake like ol’ Joe, here,” said one of the cook’s cronies.
“I’m of the opinion it’s not so much the flipping that makes a good pancake but the secret ingredients,” Will replied. “Shoot, I can flip a rock, but would you care to eat one?”
Joe laughed. “He got you there, Quinn. You ain’t dealin’ with any pushover, I tell ya. This here feller’s gonna give y’all a good run for your money. You watch.”
Will appreciated the vote of confidence, but, right now, he felt about as bold as a tortoise crossing Market Street. He would be testing his memory to the limit to recall Harry’s recipe for pancakes. In fact, when he sat down tonight to write him a letter and share the news about his new job, he just might ask him to send the recipe. And, while he was at it, he’d ask for a bunch of his other recipes—as many as he was willing to share. Thanks to Harry, meals in the prison dining hall hadn’t been half bad. Heck, mealtimes were what the inmates at Welfare Island State Pen most looked forward to each day.
Harry wasn’t the only cook there, of course, but he was everyone’s favorite. The warden used to get after him for feeding the jailbirds such tasty food, but Harry refused to change his ways. He called the pen his “mission field,” a place where he fed the mouths of hungry convicts, and then, as God led him, fed their hungry souls with the truth of His love. It’d worked on Will and a number of others, and they’d started a Bible study some months prior to his release. Whenever the Lord brought that group of men to his mind, he prayed they’d have the strength and stamina to continue meeting together. Living a Christian life behind bars meant enduring ridicule, even though most of the other inmates had never thought to mess with Will Taylor, what with his size and reputation.
“Just so long as he can fry me up a good hamburger, nice ’n’ pink in the middle, he’ll be fine in my book,” said an old codger, who looked fit for the grave but had somehow managed to perch himself on a bar stool between two others.
Joe laughed and looked at Will, who then poured several spoonfuls of batter onto the griddle. Grease sparks popped in all directions. He kept his eyes trained on the pancakes, watching for the sides to brown to perfection before he flipped them over.
“You’ll find Coot here is pretty particular about ’is hamburgers,” Joe said, nudging Will playfully with his elbow.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The banter at the bar continued, and customers came and went, as Joe showed him around the kitchen, telling him where he’d find every utensil and tool he might need, then introduced him to everybody and his cousin. Will was amazed how Joe kept his cool amid each rush of orders. He himself sweat bullets, wishing to the high heavens he’d worn a short-sleeved shirt instead of this long-sleeved affair he’d bought at the Salvation Army secondhand store. Joe wore only a T-shirt and a worn pair of dungarees. Live and learn. The last time Will had worked in a kitchen, he’d had no choice but to sport black-and-white stripes.
Around ten o’clock, there was a lull, enabling them to take a break from cooking like fiends and start cleaning up. “The lunch crowd’ll start filterin’ in ’round eleven thirty, so now’s when we start gatherin’ stuff together for that,” Joe explained. “Usually, Livvie ’n’ Cora Mae help out, dependin’ on what’s on the menu. I normally do a daily special and have a kettle o’ soup on hand, but you and Livvie can discuss that goin’ forward. You did real good in that breakfast rush. I kept an eye on you, and you really got a knack for stayin’ calm and handlin’ yourself under pressure.”
Will laughed. “I was just thinking the opposite. I guess you didn’t see the sweat rolling off my brow.”
“And into that forest on your face, I suppose,” Livvie muttered as she came around the corner, carrying a stack of dirty dishes. It was the first time she’d spoken to him all morning, not counting her initial greeting. “I hope you didn’t shed whiskers on anybody’s breakfast.” She set down the plates and topped them with a collection of silverware she pulled from her apron pocket. Then, she wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face him. “You didn’t, did you?”
Man, she could be a killjoy. “Not that I know of, ma’am. I suspect they’d blend in pretty well, though.” Those pursed, plump lips produced a shallow dimple in each cheek. Rather cute, actually. If he ever managed to get a good smile out of her, he might even see them at their peak.
The front door opened, and Will and Livvie both looked over to see a lone customer walk in. Cora Mae greeted the man and got him situated at a small table, where she stood and chatted with him. Hardly missing a beat, Joe went to the icebox and started shuffling things around, while Livvie stood over the trash bin and began scraping off what remained on the dirty dishes.
Will stepped closer to her and lowered his face within inches of her petite ear. “Do I detect some disgust at my facial hair?”
She scoured the plate in her hand even harder. “It doesn’t do anything for me, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well, I’m not out to impress you, madam.”
“Humph. I gathered that. Besides, I don’t impress easily.”
“You’re just itching to see what I look like, aren’t you? Admit it.”
She paused and glared up at him. “I should say not. I don’t care if you have the face of a toad. At this establishment, we uphold the highest standard of sanitation, and the idea of your—your whiskers falling into somebody’s soup makes me shudder. That, Mr. Taylor, is the only reason I’d like you to shave. Or, at the very least, give some shape to that carpet.”
He tugged on his beard, which had grown well below the second button of his dress shirt. “Shaggy” probably didn’t come close to describing it. Heck, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen his clean-shaven face. He probably wouldn’t recognize himself. And he would have been lying to say he wasn’t curious to see how much he’d visibly aged in the past ten years.
But this woman’s telling him what to do ignited a spark of rebellion, never mind that she was his boss. “Now, see, that would require me to visit a barber, and, since I haven’t received my first paycheck, well, I’m rather strapped for cash.” Of course, he had more than enough money for a shave and a haircut, now that he could expect some pay soon, but he preferred to make her think otherwise. “If you’ll recall, we did agree on a small stipend.”
“Which you will receive in two weeks, provided you prove yourself a capable cook.”
“Ah. Well then, I guess you’ll have to put up with my shaggy appearance for a while longer.”
“Livvie cuts her boys’ hair,” offered Joe, who had finally emerged from the icebox with a couple of defeathered chickens in hand. “Bet she could make quick work o’ that beard o’ yours.”
Will folded his arms. “I bet you’re right, Joe.” He looked at Livvie and arched his eyebrows. “I’m just not sure I’d trust her with a razor.”
“Well, that’s good, because I wouldn’t come anywhere near that bird’s nest,” Livvie retorted, then turned on her heel, marched out of the kitchen, and resumed clearing tables.
Cora Mae approached the counter and plopped down a piece of paper, directing her gaze at Will. “Got an order for steak ’n’ eggs. He wants the steak done medium and the eggs sunny-side up. Think you can handle that?”
What was it with these
two women? Were they conspiring to make him miserable? Determined not to let her condescending tone test his patience, he gave her an overdone smile and snatched up the order. “Coming right up, Miss Cora Mae.” When she started to turn, he said, “By the way, that’s a mighty nice dress you’re wearing. The color suits you.”
Her eyes made a quick downward sweep of her blue gingham garb, and he detected the slightest hint of a blush as she swept a few strands of gray hair off her plain, round face. In truth, the dress had a couple of stains in front and looked to be about as worn as an old saddle. “Why—thank you.” She picked up a damp cloth from the bar and set to wiping empty tables. Within a minute, she’d started humming a little tune.
Will went to the icebox for a meat patty and the prepared potatoes. At the sink, Joe chuckled while he rinsed a chicken under the faucet. “You’re gonna do just fine ’round here, young man,” he said with a grin. “Just fine.”
***
Despite what little information she had on Mr. Taylor’s experience, Livvie found him to exhibit an air of confidence and know-how in the kitchen. She’d watched him fry up a batch of pancakes, crack and separate eggs, slice slabs of bacon and ham, and peel and dice potatoes, as if he’d done each task a thousand times before. And, little though she liked to admit it, it seemed that he would be a fair fill-in for Joe. He’d even started mingling more with the customers, winning them over with his charm, wit, and relaxed demeanor. Yet this made her suspicious. Plenty of people used their charm to gain folks’ trust, only to take off with their money the next minute.
She prayed that would not be the case with Mr. Taylor. Hoped it wouldn’t, rather. She hadn’t been much of a praying woman since Frank’s passing. How could she count on God to give her clear guidance if she didn’t ask for it? There had been a time when she would have prayed good and hard for the right replacement for Joe. Instead, she’d relied on others to find him for her. Yet it struck her as almost providential, the way Mr. Taylor had wandered into her restaurant when her need for a new cook had reached a state of desperation.
At two o’clock, they locked the front door, same as every day, not to reopen till five for supper. Of course, Joe and Mr. Taylor would return earlier than that to get ready for the evening customers. Few people dined there on weeknights, even though Livvie had long tried to lure more patrons into her establishment for dinner Monday through Thursday. She figured most people were too tired after a long day of work to go out again. Of course, the regulars never failed to show, but their orders often consisted of nothing more than a cup of coffee and an occasional bowl of soup. Some days, it hardly seemed worth the extra money and effort to keep the kitchen open from five to seven.
With her tasks completed, Cora Mae scooted out the door at two on the dot. On her heels was Joe, who waved at Mr. Taylor before exiting.
Livvie pulled down the shade on the front door, where the sign that read “Cook Needed” was still taped securely to the pane. In haste, she reached behind the shade and peeled it away, crumpling it into a ball.
“That mean I passed muster, ma’am?”
She pivoted, unaware that Mr. Taylor had been watching. His blue eyes sparked with amusement. “I suppose you handle yourself as if you know your way around a kitchen,” she conceded.
He tugged on that awful beard, as if trying to make it longer. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Go ahead, but don’t go getting all cocky and confident, Mr. Taylor. The true test will come once Joe leaves and you’re on your own.”
“Ah. I trust you won’t throw me out on my ear.”
“And I trust that you won’t leave us high and dry,” she muttered under her breath.
“What’s that?”
“Never mind. Would you like to see the apartment upstairs?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s nothing much to look at.”
“Does it have a bed?” he asked, untying the strings of the apron Joe had insisted he wear. My, he was a giant of a man!
“Well, of course!”
“Then, I’ll be happier than a dog with the biggest bone in the world.” He chuckled softly.
And she couldn’t help but return the faintest smile.
***
The stairway to the second and third floors was located just outside the back door of the restaurant. Olivia explained that he could access it either through the back door or from outside, through the narrow alleyway on the side of the building. This was how the partygoers accessed the third floor on Saturday nights. Will had heard that those events gathered good-sized crowds, and Joe had recommended he check them out. He just might.
As they climbed the stairs, Olivia reached inside her pocket and pulled out two sets of keys, each dangling from a short chain, and handed him one. When they reached the second-floor landing, she held up the largest key of her own set. “Use this one to unlock the outside door.” To demonstrate, she pushed on the door, which squeaked and creaked as it opened, and led him into a dimly lit hallway. “The only ones with keys besides you are my boys and me.” To his left was a door, which he figured led to her apartment, since it was adorned with two colorful drawings that had the signatures “Alex” and “Nate” scribbled in the lower left-hand corners. To his right was another door, and at the end of the hall was yet another.
Olivia opened the unlocked door to his immediate right. “This is just a small storage room,” she explained in a matter-of-fact tone.
He peeked inside. A window on the far wall revealed a two-story building next door, and another window overlooking the alley ushered in enough light for him to see a mishmash of chairs, a couple of rickety tables, precarious-looking stacks of crates and boxes, a cluster of fishing poles propped in a dark corner, and a few baskets overflowing with assorted Christmas decorations—strings of lights, tinsel, and some gaudy ornaments. A lightbulb with a long, dangling chain was affixed to the ceiling in the middle of the room.
Without further explanation, Olivia closed the door and nodded in the direction of the end of the hall. “That’s your apartment. Your other key opens the door. I’ll show you around, if you’d like.”
“That’d be nice,” he said, meaning it, as it would give him a whiff of her flowery scent now and again. Mrs. Olivia Beckman might be testy and tough, but she was feminine to the core.
Just like he’d done at the Dixie Hotel, Will rubbed his thumb along the rough metal edge of the key, feeling almost giddy. He’d gone more than ten years without unlocking a door. Now, he had a job, a place to live, and a key of his own. What more could a man possibly need?
The key worked like a charm. Will pushed open the door and stepped aside to allow Olivia to enter first. Then, he followed her inside and saw the tiny kitchen and the cramped living area beyond it. She’d said that the apartment was “nothing much to look at,” but to someone who’d spent the past ten years sleeping on a narrow cot in a cell behind locked bars, this place looked like a castle. Sure, it had some peeling plaster and a stain on the ceiling, probably caused by a leak, and could probably use a fresh paint job and a little sprucing up, but what did he care? This was home, and all he wanted to do was slump into the ancient-looking sofa with the popped spring, prop his feet up on the dilapidated footstool, and read a good book while breathing in the blissful air of freedom. He knew that he’d probably have little time for reading, but the mere thought of it was enough for now.
Of course, his all-business boss took no note of his inner gladness and just began pointing things out to him. “This first door is your washroom. It isn’t much, as you can see, but at least it has a tub, sink, and commode. I know it’s old, but I did the best I could to clean it up after old Mr. Fletcher left. You’ll soon learn the hot water takes a while to get up here, and it won’t last that long if you plan to fill the tub more than halfway.”
“I’ll be sure not to. Thanks.”
She craned her neck and fixed her emerald eyes on his beard.
“Please, feel free to use up all the hot water tonight, if that’s what it takes. You may also borrow my barber shears.”
He lowered his chin and gazed at her, a teasing smile on his lips. “Well, that’s downright generous of you, ma’am, but I have no need of them.”
Rather than comment, she shook her head and heaved a sigh that sounded like it went clear to her toes. Why this bent to frazzle her intentionally? He supposed it had something to do with the way that spark ignited her hazel eyes—green one day, blue the next. The way those slender shoulders tightened. The way she pursed her pretty mouth, which, in turn, made her dimples deepen irresistibly. He would shave his beard at some point, had always planned to. Admittedly, the thing did resemble a dense timberland, and it bothered even him. But why shave it now when, by putting it off, he could enjoy Olivia Beckman’s fiery spirit a little longer?
“Here’s your kitchen, such as it is,” she said, gesturing to their left. “The stove doesn’t work that well, but, since you’ll be eating your meals downstairs, you shouldn’t need to use it often. Everything else is in working condition but old, as you can see.”
Next, she swiveled to the right and opened another door, which led to a small bedroom consisting of a three quarter bed with a stained, lumpy mattress and a stack of folded bedding atop it. If he lay down and stretched out, his feet would surely extend over the end by at least six inches, but that had been the case since he’d reached adolescence. As in the storage room, a single lightbulb with a chain hung from the ceiling.
“The sheets and blankets have been laundered,” Olivia said in her no-nonsense voice. “If you want to turn that mattress over, it might look a little better on the other side, but I make no promises.” She nodded at the armoire in the corner, its doors hanging open, and the straight-back spindle chair, the only other pieces of furniture in the room. On the floor in front of the armoire was a braided rug that looked like it’d seen better days.
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