by Gail Sattler
Copyright
ISBN 1-58660-765-0
© 2003 by Gail Sattler. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. niv®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
One
“Hi, Chantelle. How’s the job hunt coming?”
Chantelle Dubois cradled the phone between her chin and her shoulder as she settled in for a good long talk with her uncle Joe. She laid her red pen down on the table and stared blankly at the Help Wanted section spread all over the kitchen table in front of her. “I haven’t found anything yet. But there are a few promising ones today.”
“Do you mind suspending your job search for awhile? I need a favor. And it’s a big one.”
Chantelle grasped the phone properly with one hand and turned to the calendar on the wall. If she didn’t find a job within the next week, she wouldn’t have enough money in her account to make her next month’s rent. As it was, she’d been living on macaroni and wieners for the past week to stretch her last dollars as far as possible.
However, because her uncle Joe was asking, Chantelle suspected that, once again, he had pushed himself past his limits. Most likely, he was shorthanded and needed her to run some kind of errand that had to be done during business hours.
She really couldn’t spare the day, but she couldn’t turn down her favorite uncle. “What do you need?”
“It’s Jack. He’s had an accident.”
Chantelle swallowed hard. She’d always liked her uncle’s best friend and business partner. Her stomach churned as she contemplated the worst that could have happened. She struggled to speak through the lump in her throat and couldn’t. Fortunately, her uncle continued without waiting for her to respond.
“Jack’s car was broadsided on the way to work this morning. Susan phoned from the hospital. She didn’t say much, only that he’s been hurt. It sounds pretty bad, but she says he’s going to make it. Praise God for that. But the point of it is that the diner’s shorthanded with no notice. Since you’re still looking for a job, how about if you come and work for me until Jack is back on his feet? I’ll pay you what I would pay anyone else. I don’t expect you to do this for free.”
Visions of her uncle’s restaurant flashed through her mind. Jack and Uncle Joe had owned and operated Joe’s Diner since she was a child.
Over the years, many of her cousins had worked for her uncle. For most, it had been a first job or a place to work part-time during high school or college. However, Chantelle’s first job had been as a cashier for a large discount department store. After graduation from high school, she’d found various office jobs where she spent most of her time seated behind a desk.
“I don’t know. I’ve never done that kind of thing before. Can’t you ask somebody else?”
“Kevin called in sick and I gave Esther a couple of weeks off to move, so I was already shorthanded in the kitchen when Susan phoned. As to part-timers, Bob quit last week, and Jackie’s not finished school. I need you, Chantelle.”
His pleading tone made her squirm in her chair, so she stood to continue the conversation.
Jack did the bookkeeping, but his main functions were as head cook and kitchen manager.
Chantelle didn’t like to cook, which probably explained why she wasn’t good at it. Everyone knew she wasn’t the most coordinated person in the world. She’d also never held a supervisory position in her life. Uncle Joe’s request told her his state of desperation.
The figures of her dwindling bank account ran through her mind, as well as the speech she’d been composing to explain to her landlord why she had to, once again, write another post-dated check for the rent.
A few weeks, as he said, wouldn’t ease her money worries, but it would pay the next month’s rent on time.
Chantelle checked her watch. By now, the restaurant had opened, and with Jack’s absence, things would already be backing up.
“Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
❧
“I’m so sorry, Uncle Joe! I don’t know how the lid fell off like that. At least it was only sugar. I’ll sweep it up.”
Her uncle shook his head and smiled, but she could tell he was trying to be polite. “Make sure you do a thorough job. All foodstuffs are kept in sealed containers because we can’t attract bugs. We’ll have to power-wash the floor tonight instead of the usual mopping or we’ll get ants. But we’ll worry about that later. For now, I’ll go into the locker for another bag. The orders are backing up. Make sure you’re not burning those eggs.”
Without another word, he spun on his toes and hurried down the stairs.
Chantelle held her breath while she frantically grabbed the flipper, removed the eggs in question from the grill, and laid them onto the waiting plates. She wiped the sweat off her brow with the corner of her apron, then pressed the accompanying pieces of bacon down with the flipper to help them cook faster, hopefully before the eggs got too cold to serve to waiting customers. “I’ll have this ready in a minute,” she called out to Brittany, who was not very patiently waiting at the pickup counter.
She managed to get through the lunch rush with slightly less difficulty than breakfast. However, by the time the supper period was in full swing, she had passed her maximum level of efficiency and started on a downward spiral.
Even though it was Thursday and the restaurant wasn’t busy, she somehow mixed up a couple of orders. She’d also accidentally sprinkled sugar instead of salt on someone’s fries. She didn’t mean to spill the gravy on the stack of dishes as they came out of the dishwasher, and she certainly hadn’t meant to drop the frying pan on Uncle Joe’s foot when he unexpectedly appeared beside her. After burning a couple of hamburgers, she decided to time everything using the alarm on her wristwatch. It wasn’t her fault that spending extra attention to get the hamburgers right slowed down everything else.
By the latter part of the evening, Chantelle could finally relax. The only things she had to worry about amounted to serving the odd order of fries, cutting up fancy cakes and pies, and making sure to start a fresh pot of coffee every twenty minutes or so. After just one day in the restaurant business, she confirmed in her mind, body, heart, and soul that, when she resumed her job search, she would definitely not be seeking employment as a short-order cook.
Finally, Uncle Joe unplugged the neon open sign, signaling to the outside world that the restaurant was closed for the day. When Uncle Joe locked up behind the last customers as they left, Chantelle sagged against the wall, barely keeping herself from sinking to the floor.
“Okay, everyone! Time to clean up! It’s been a tough day, and I appreciate all your extra work. Chantelle, you can start with sweeping up, and then give the kitchen a quick mop. Dave, you power-wash after she’s done. And Chantelle, when I’m done doing the deposit, we need to talk.”
Numbly, Chantelle nodded. If her boss for the day had been anyone other than her uncle, she knew, rather than going into paid overtime, she would have been fired right after mistaking the ice bin for a trash compactor. Still, the words she knew her uncle was going to say echoed through her head as she cleaned up the mess, most of whi
ch she’d either made or caused to some degree.
“I’m sorry, I know you tried your best, but this isn’t going to work.”
“I’m sorry, I should never have asked you to do this.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to find someone else.”
With every response rehearsed in her head, she, too, started with “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t wait for her uncle. To spare her uncle the difficulty of having to fire her, Chantelle walked into his office and shut the door behind her as soon as she finished mopping.
“I’m so sorry, Uncle Joe. I’ve made such a mess of things today. I’m really not cut out for this.”
He nodded as he entered some numbers into the computer. “I know. Don’t forget that you’ve had to work more than a regular eight-hour shift, too. I know that’s hard, especially for the first time you’ve done this. So I’ve decided to move Evelyn into the kitchen and have you do serving. I think I’ve got a uniform or two that will fit you.”
Chantelle blinked and sank into the chair in front of his desk. “Pardon me?”
“I shouldn’t have put you in the kitchen when you didn’t have any experience. That was my mistake, and I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t turned you off to restaurant work for the rest of your life.”
“You’re really willing to give me another chance? You’re not going to fire me?”
His hands froze over the keyboard, and he looked up at her. “Of course not. You’re my niece and I love you. You came because I asked you to help me. I’m not going to fire you for an error in my own judgment.” He smiled. “Besides, you can’t do as bad a job as a waitress as you did as a short-order cook. Now if you’re done, just punch out and go home. Before you go, pick a uniform from the back closet. I’ll see you about noon.”
❧
Mark Daniels stared at the computer screen in front of him. His brain had gone blank, and he couldn’t remember the next step in a simple reconciliation he’d done thousands of times.
Of course, the pounding migraine, which seemed to be a daily occurrence, didn’t help. Hoping to make the banging in his head stop, Mark leaned back in his chair, pushed his fingers into the center of his forehead, and rotated his thumbs into his temples. When massaging the pressure points failed to ease the incessant throbbing, Mark opened his desk drawer and gulped down a couple of prescription headache tablets with a sip of his cold coffee.
Hoping that refocusing his eyes on a faraway point would help to clear his mind, Mark sought a momentary distraction from the mountainous volume of work on his desk. He flexed his fingers at his sides and glanced around the room, focusing on the calendar hanging on the office wall. Instead of looking at the picture of the sports car, he studied the colored lines indicating the staff’s scheduled vacations.
The only vacation not listed was his own. He had so much work he couldn’t leave until he was caught up enough to take a couple weeks off.
There hadn’t been a good time in two years. And now, with the ban on overtime, when someone went on vacation, the rest of the already overworked staff had to absorb the duties of the missing person. Since Mark was the supervisor, he was the only salaried employee in the department. According to the company owner, being middle management meant Mark was the one required to work until the cows came home, without being paid overtime wages. Therefore, most of the extra work ended up in his already overflowing basket filled with client files with looming deadlines, some of them already past.
“Mark? I need the McHenry file.”
Mark blinked and stared blankly at the secretary, who had just stepped through the door into his office. Joanne stopped in front of his desk, expectantly waiting for him to produce the requested file, as if he knew where it was in the mountain of paper.
His chest tightened. “I don’t remember that one,” he mumbled.
“It’s really Darren’s file.”
Darren, his assistant, had been off sick for a few days, but that didn’t explain why Joanne thought he had the file.
Joanne glanced between all the piles on his desk. “They just phoned to say they need their last month’s profit-and-loss statement completed by eight a.m. Monday.”
He scanned all the piles of folders and stacks of computer disks in his office, from the four piles lined across his desk, to those stacked over the surface of his credenza, to the new pile he’d started on top of his filing cabinet. “I don’t remember you giving me that file,” he mumbled as he squeezed his eyes shut and again pressed his fingers into his aching temples.
“I didn’t actually give it to you. You weren’t at your desk, so I left a note on it and put it in the pile of the day.”
Mark blinked again. He scanned each pile, trying to think of where it could be.
He arrived at the high-rise office tower to open up the office an hour before the first person started. He left many hours after everyone else, even on weekends. Every day for the past six months, he’d worked through his lunch, even though there was barely room for a sandwich and his coffee mug between his computer and the mess on his desk. The only time he was absent from his desk was when he left to use the men’s room.
“What day did you leave it with me?”
“Tuesday. I think. Or was it Wednesday? Does it matter?”
Mark slid the document folder from the bottom of the first pile, then slid one out of what he thought might be the middle of the accumulation of the third pile. “Let’s see. The deadline on this one was last Wednesday, and the deadline on this one is the middle of next week. So that means deadlines for Monday would be. . .” He let his voice trail off as he thumbed midway through the second pile, inching toward the direction of where he had pulled the latter file. “Here,” he mumbled as he pulled out the McHenry file.
As soon as he saw the note attached, which outlined the extent of what needed to be done, he saw himself once again working until two in the morning in order to meet one more critical deadline.
Something in his chest tightened. At age thirty-two, he figured he was probably too young for a heart attack, so he passed the sensation off as a reaction from swallowing the pills too quickly.
He could only guess how many more of Darren’s files had ended up on his desk without his knowledge. Mark made a mental note to cut down on his coffee consumption. Less time leaving his desk unattended meant less opportunity for the staff to sneak more work onto his desk.
He sighed and pushed aside the file he was working on that was already late. Tomorrow, Saturday, he would be back for another full day—and then some—likely again working until midnight. The building’s night and weekend security staff almost knew him personally. In the past six months, he’d spent more time with the graveyard-shift night watchman than he had with his best friend.
“I need the file for a change of address, and then I’ll give it right back.” Joanne removed the file from his hand and returned to her desk.
With his hands once again empty, Mark stared at his computer. It had been left untouched for so long, the screen saver had come on, with varying actions of a pink rabbit toting a bass drum across the screen.
He let the rabbit continue to walk in circles across his monitor and stared blankly at the voluminous piles of client files around his office. Most of the files on his desk didn’t need a CPA’s handling. As the supervisor, he needed only to sign the files to verify that the calculations had been checked before turning the results over to the client. However, when each file took ten minutes, the accumulation of ten-minute intervals added up to hours. Days. Weeks.
Mark buried his face in his hands. The total had grown beyond what could be considered realistic for one person to do, yet he was trapped.
The phone rang, irritating the headache the painkillers hadn’t yet had time to numb. In addition to the headache, his sore back, and his stiff shoulders, tightness enveloped his entire body.
He cleared his throat and tried his best to sound cheerful, when all he felt was exhaustion and defeat. “Mark Daniels
. How can I help you?” As the words came out of his mouth, he regretted having to ask, because the question inevitably meant more work.
“Mark! It’s Joe Dubois. How are you doing?”
“Fine,” he said, first wondering if it were more appropriate to be polite than honest, then wondering why Joe was calling.
“I guess you’ve heard about your uncle Jack.”
Something in his stomach went to war with the stale sandwich he’d eaten for lunch. The thing he regretted most about moving away from little Aidleyville to follow his career was missing his family and the friends with whom he’d grown up. After hearing bad news yesterday, he didn’t think his uncle’s business partner calling him at work during the day was a good sign. “Yes. Aunt Susan phoned me yesterday. Is Uncle Jack worse?”
“No, don’t worry. He’s showing improvement after the surgery. The reason I’m calling is that I need a favor, and it’s a big one. Last night the compressor sprang a leak and hosed down the computer. I took it to the shop this morning, but the technician says the thing’s fried. We’ve lost all the data, and that means all the restaurant’s company records.”
Mark released a sigh at learning his uncle wasn’t worse, but his relief was short-lived. While computers made it easy for small businesses to do their own accounting, that unfortunately meant when things went wrong, they went very wrong.
Mark was afraid to know the answer, but he had to ask. “What about a backup?”
“The backups were all on the computer, so they’re gone with everything else. The last backup we have that wasn’t on the computer is the one Jack gave our income tax accountant at our fiscal year end. Somehow, I’ve got to catch up on everything using all our paper invoices and what we’ve got on file here. I don’t know how Jack does that stuff, and things are a real mess. I don’t know if we even have everything we need. I at least need to somehow re-enter the bank balances, but I can’t figure out Jack’s system.”
Joe stopped talking, but there was nothing Mark could say. He’d seen his uncle’s system for handling the diner’s business records. He had clients like his uncle. Many of their portfolios were now on his desk, driving him to an early grave.