by Nicole Bross
“Dammit. You’re probably right.” I sink down onto the couch and drop my head into my hands. As much as I want to pull rank on Cora and tell her off, it’s not going to help me. It might even cause her to quit on the spot. Maybe that’s what she wants, and she’s trying to maneuver me into a position where it will look like she has no choice. Either that or she wants to make me so angry I fire her, which would gain her untold sympathy with the townspeople and probably turn them away from me for good.
“Is your mom working right now?” I ask him. He looks confused but checks his watch and nods.
“She started about fifteen minutes ago. Why?”
“Can we go over to your house? I need to work some stuff out, and I don’t want to be quiet about it.” I check to see if he catches my drift. The slow smile spreading across his face tells me he does.
“That’s a plan I can get behind. I’m at your service. Let’s go.”
On the way past Cora’s desk, I inform her that I need to be notified in advance of any future staff meetings, keeping my voice and expression as coolly neutral as possible, and then leave the inn before she can reply. While we manage to keep a walking pace on the way there, when we get to Kellen’s house, he ushers me downstairs at almost a full run, his feet thundering on the steps, pulling me along by the hand.
“You made me a promise yesterday,” he says as we burst into his room. His hands are already up underneath my skirt, and mine are busy at work on his jeans.
“Yes, I did,” I recall with relish. “I want to start with that.”
***
Shortly before he has to leave for work, Kellen makes us an enormous stack of sandwiches and brings them down to his room. I’m lying on my stomach in his bed, naked, feeling sore in places I barely knew existed, and perfectly content, for the time being, at least.
“Looks like it worked,” he remarks, setting the plate down and stretching his long body beside me. “You’ve got a goofy little smile on your face I’ve never seen before. Kellen Greene’s perfect dick for the win.”
“God, I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?”
“Never ever.” I swing a pillow at him, but he dodges it easily like I knew he would.
“You going to stay awhile? You can if you want,” he asks after we’re through eating. He’s eying my prone position as he shrugs into his pub uniform shirt. It’s true I don’t want to move, but I shake my head and swing my arm over the side of the bed, half-heartedly fishing around on the floor for my skirt.
“No, I’ll go do some work. If I stay, I’ll fall asleep.”
“That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, coming home to find you already naked and waiting in my bed.” He waggles his eyebrows at me, making me giggle.
“You don’t have to go, you know,” I tell him with an inviting look.
“Yes, I do,” he tells me, and his voice loses its playfulness. “You don’t think people are already talking about whether this”—he gestures back and forth between the two of us—“is causing any favoritism? I don’t want to give them any fuel for that fire. You’re my boss, Audrey. It’s a fact, and we need to keep our personal lives completely separate from work. It all goes back to your credibility as the new owner. No skipping out on shifts. No fooling around on the clock. I won’t be a part of anything that keeps you from succeeding. I’ll quit first.”
“You can’t quit your job,” I say, horrified.
“Well I’m not quitting you,” he says, and bending over the bed, he kisses me deeply. His hands start to trace their way down my body, followed by his mouth. “I’m not on the clock yet, and I still have ten minutes before I have to leave. Let’s see if I can put that smile back on your face before I go.”
***
The next day passes by uneventfully. Cora doesn’t share any further information about the operations of the inn, but on Friday Naomi does, walking me through the kitchen’s inventory and ordering system, staff scheduling, and the little things like what days the table linens get picked up for laundering.
“How come we don’t wash them ourselves?” I ask her. “We’ve got the machines on the inn side that do the bedding.” The question takes her by surprise.
“I…I don’t know. We’ve always sent them out. They take the dirty ones away and drop off clean ones at the same time. It’s convenient, I suppose.” I make a mental note to see how much the service costs the inn, and whether switching to doing it ourselves would save money in the long run, once I factored in the extra labor, detergent, and the cost of buying our own linens instead of renting them.
Kellen goes over the bar operations in a similar fashion, showing me how he keeps track of the liquor stock, where we order from, and how the computer system that tracks food and beverage orders works. True to his promise, even when we’re alone in the stockroom there’s no groping or even whispered dirty talk about what we have planned for later. The inn has filled up now that it’s the start of the weekend, and the pub is busy as the supper rush begins.
“Want to grab an apron and give us a hand?” Kellen says as I fiddle around with the computer system some more. I stare back at him incredulously. “It’s easy,” he says with a grin that doesn’t increase my confidence at all. “Ask people what they want, write it down, and if it’s a drink you tell me, and if it’s food you tell my mama. Then you punch their order into the computer, and when it’s ready, you bring it to them.”
“Just like that, huh?” I swallow nervously.
“Just like that. Here you go.” He pulls an apron from behind the bar and I tie it on, stalling for time by trying to make the bow perfect.
“Wait, how do I know who’s already been helped and who hasn’t?”
“Here, Drew will know.” He beckons Drew over as he emerges from the kitchen. “Audrey’s going to help out for the rush,” he says. “Any tables that haven’t been served yet?”
“Three, eight and eleven. All have menus, no drinks,” he says, slapping an order onto the bar and entering it into the computer. I look out at the pub, clueless. Kellen’s arm appears over my shoulder, pointing.
“That one,” he indicates a party of four to my left, close to the bar, “that one,” a couple, “and that one.” Another couple. They’re all grouped fairly close together. “That’s going to be your station tonight, all right? I’ll let Livvy know.” Livvy’s the other server who works in the pub. I just met her tonight when Kellen introduced us. “You’ll be fine,” he tells me. “Now off you go.” He gives me a push between my shoulder blades and I head for the table of four, pasting what I hope is a friendly smile on my face.
“Hi, I’m Audrey,” I say, making eye contact with each of them in turn. Should I shake their hands? No, servers don’t shake hands, you idiot. Just keep smiling. “Umm, what would you like to drink?” I write down each of their orders in turn and take the slip over to the bar. “That wasn’t so hard,” I tell Kellen as I pass him the paper.
“Couple tips. First of all, write the table number at the top of your order pad so I know where it’s going, in case I send it with Drew or Livvy. You can also bring me the orders from all your tables at once. Goes a bit faster that way. Okay? You’re doing great. I’ll have these ready in a couple minutes. You go take those other two orders.”
Taking the first couple’s order goes off pretty seamlessly, but at the second, the man seated at the table begins firing questions at me.
“What beers do you have on tap?” he starts out with.
“Umm…” I turn to squint at the handles at the bar and name them off. I can’t read the last one because it’s too far away so I leave it off the list.
“Any of ’em local?” I freeze.
“Let me check,” I say and scurry over to the bar. “Which of the beers are local?” I hiss at Kellen. He points out three and has me repeat the names back to him. “This should be on the menu,” I tell him.
“We never update the drink menu,” he says. “Just the seasonal keg and the daily special on the boar
d.” Crap. I haven’t mentioned the specials to anyone.
“Well, we’re going to start.” I whirl back to my table and rattle them off. After what seems like an eternity’s thought, he chooses one. Then his date asks me what label the house red is and I feel a headache start to come on.
“It’s a merlot,” I say, hoping that will satisfy her, but she insists on knowing the actual brand, which means I have to make another trip to the bar. She orders a beer instead, and I struggle hard to keep my expression neutral. Having delivered the two orders to the bar, I collect the first table’s order, balancing the four drinks precariously on a tray as I shuffle between tables at a snail’s pace. That’s when I realize I don’t remember who ordered what, or even which drink is which, in the case of two of them. You suck so bad at this. Sweat is starting to pool in my armpits.
“Okay, who had the gin and tonic?” I say with a giant smile. “And the IPA.” Hands go up and I pass them around. “Now this one is the—” I glance up at Kellen, who’s watching me and trying hard to keep a straight face. Red ale he mouths to me. “Red ale.” I’m almost shouting and these people are looking at me like I’m a bit mad. I feel like I am. “Which means this last one belongs to you.” I plunk the last pint down in front of its owner. “Awesome, folks. Enjoy.”
“We’re ready to order,” one of them says.
“Right, yes. Food. The food is so good here. I mean, it’s, like, the best,” I gush. Now Kellen is openly laughing as he’s pulling pints. Table 8 I write at the top of a new slip. This time, I make a point of memorizing who ordered what, and after enthusiastically ensuring them they made some great choices—what are you doing—I make my way to the kitchen.
“Over with the others,” Naomi indicates to me where to put the order slip. I give her the thumbs up and she nods in reply, busy at the stove.
The couple with all the questions about their drinks has even more about the menu. At least this I have more experience with, having eaten my way through most of it. They’re particularly concerned with where everything comes from.
“We’re locavores,” the man informs me in a snooty tone. I tell him both the crab and the salmon are locally caught, and many of our vegetables come from area growers as well. I even mention the pies that are baked right down the street. Much of this I learned from Naomi earlier today, but again, the information isn’t featured on the menu itself. Another mental note: time for a redesign and new descriptions. “You don’t have any non-seafood local options?” he says with a frown.
“Not entirely, no. The beef in the burgers is American—” I start, but he interrupts me.
“Beef is almost always American.” He heaves an irritated sigh. “I suppose I’ll have the burger.” His partner chooses the salmon, and after confirming their sides, I take the order to the kitchen.
“These ones are cranky,” I say to Naomi. She rolls her eyes but is too busy to ask for specifics.
Fifteen minutes later, not long after I’ve brought them their food, he beckons me over, pointing at his place with an angry expression.
“What is this?” he says, poking at the fried egg on top of the beef patty.
“It’s an egg,” I reply, not sure how else to answer. “It comes on the burger. It’s in the description.” I grab a menu to show him.
“Take it back,” he says to me, shoving the plate away. “I despise eggs.” Given that a moment ago I saw him sample a piece of his partner’s salmon, which is served with hollandaise sauce, I have to wonder if that’s actually the case. Maybe he’s not the foodie he thinks himself to be.
“Do you want to take the egg off?” I ask. It seems like the most reasonable solution to me. I mean, when I don’t like something on my plate, I leave it on the side and eat around it. It’s a life skill I picked up when I was three or four.
“I want a new burger. With no egg.” I raise one eyebrow but take his plate back to the kitchen.
“He doesn’t like the fact that there’s an egg on it, but he never told me he didn’t want it on there in the first place,” I tell Naomi.
“This is the same cranky table?” I nod. “Some people you can’t please no matter how hard you try. I’ll get a new one made up on the fly.” True to her word, in less than ten minutes she has a fresh plate ready. As I take it from her, our hands accidentally brush.
REGRESS
Her hand was still shaking when she picked up the bottle of cheap red wine and poured herself another glass. She shouldn’t have spent the money, but if she wasn’t going to be able to make rent at the end of the week anyway, what would it matter if she was short another couple dollars?
“There’s nothin’ to do for it,” she’d complained earlier to Mona, talking across the lane at the grocery store they both worked at. She’d pretended to be busy wiping down her counter so Joe, the manager, didn’t get on her case about standing idle. “Frank’s been out of work for almost two months now, and with Jamie needing to see the doctor twice on account of his damn ears, I don’t know how we’re going to manage. We got no more savings left, and Joe won’t give me any more hours. We barely got any food in the icebox.”
“You can have my shift on Friday,” Mona had offered.
“I’m already working Friday. I’m working every damn day between now and the end of the month. Besides, we won’t get paid until after the first, and that’ll be too late.” Their landlord had warned Frank he wouldn’t accept any more late payments. If they came up short again, they’d be evicted on the spot. It would be their third move in a year. She was tired of packing boxes.
“Can’t Frank get some handyman work, or maybe do some day laboring?”
She’d shrugged, pressing her lips together until all that was visible of her coral-colored lipstick was a thin line. The truth was, Frank was a proud man, and too accustomed to an easy life. He’d never cut it as a laborer. He wanted to find work as an accountant again. To him, lowering himself meant taking a bookkeeping position, but he hadn’t even been able to find that. Now he mostly sat around the house, watching TV, and minding the baby while she stood in the checkout line all day. Maybe she could sell the TV to make up the difference in rent money. That might wake Frank up. She, like Mona, felt he should be doing anything and everything necessary to support his family, even if it meant delivering newspapers door to door, or pulling sodas over at the drugstore. The thought of a big empty space in their living room where the TV now sat filled her with a sense of bitter vindictiveness. Hell, she’d sell the radio too.
She’d rung a customer through mechanically as she made her plans. Probably it would be easiest to offer the TV to their landlord in lieu of some of their rent money. It would certainly save her the trouble of lugging it all the way to the pawn shop.
“I’ll be right back, Mona,” she’d said. “I need to make a phone call.” In the break room, she’d dialed their landlord’s number, rehearsing what to say while the line rang. “Mr. Eastman, it’s Mrs. Frank Garland, one of your tenants,” she’d begun. “I’m calling because…well, Frank and I have a bit of a predicament this month. You see our son, Jamie, has been sick with an ear infection and with the doctor’s bills, and the medicine, we’re a little bit short this month, and—”
“Mrs. Garland, I told your husband last month if you didn’t pay the full amount, on time, you were out. I have no time or patience for deadbeats,” he’d interrupted.
“I know, Mr. Eastman, and I understand. We’re only about fifty dollars short. What I was hoping was that you’d be willing to take our TV as part of the rent. It’s a real nice one, only a few years old. We paid a hundred and twenty for it brand-new.”
“I’ve already got a TV, and a kitchen table, and whatever else you might be thinking about offering me. What I want is cash, do you understand me? Now either you have your money to me on the first like you’re supposed to, or you start packing your things. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, of course. I understand. I thought I would ask, is all. Sorry to bother you. We�
�ll have it all for you by the first, I promise.” She’d dropped the receiver back into the cradle and sat staring at the wall for a long moment before walking back out to her register, mulling over her options. In truth, she didn’t think she’d get even half of what they needed by pawning the TV. Was she willing to sell her wedding ring to keep from having to move yet another time? She’d looked down at the thin gold band. It was probably worth less than the TV.
“I give up,” she’d said to Mona when there was no chance of being overheard again. “I guess we’re going to have to move. I don’t know how I’ll manage it, what with being here all the time. The stress is givin’ me a headache already.”
“You need to relax, Jeannie,” Mona had said, and came around to her lane, looking around to see if anyone was watching them. “Here. Open your hand.” She’d pulled a matchbook-sized silver pill case out of her apron and gave her three bright red pills. “Put those in your pocket, and after the baby’s in bed, take one. I promise you’ll have the best sleep of your life. In the morning, you tell Frank to get off his behind and either get a job or start packing up your things. You hear me?”
She’d stared down at the pills, then slipped them into her pocket like Mona had instructed. “What are they?”
“My doctor gives them to me for when I’m thinkin’ too much and can’t get to sleep. They’re marvelous, I promise.”
Now she was staring at them again, looking like oblong droplets of blood in her palm. Frank was in the living room, staring sullenly at the TV, which was playing Gunsmoke. Rather than waiting until morning to give him her ultimatum, she’d brought it up as soon as the baby was down and they’d had their biggest fight in years, with her accusing him of failing their family, and him blaming everything on her for wanting to move out of the city in the first place.