A few days after the funeral, Alice, Jemma and Miriam squeezed into the bank manager’s claustrophobic office. And their world fell apart for a second time.
CHAPTER THREE
Odd details were stamped in Jemma’s memory of that day—the dusting of dandruff on the manager’s shoulders, the incongruous calendar of kittens playing with yarn hanging on the wall behind him, the sharp smell of paper and pencils.
“Mr. Hedge went against the bank’s advice when he made these investments.” The manager had appeared pleased when he made the disastrous announcement. “He borrowed heavily against the equity of the house, using that equity to purchase high risk stocks and bonds. Unfortunately, his gamble did not pay off.”
“What does that mean?” Dark circles bruised the skin under Miriam’s eyes. Jemma had begged her to take sleeping pills, but she had refused. She hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in more than a week.
“It means Mr. Hedge, at the time of his death, owed the bank this amount.” He slid a piece of paper to Miriam.
She picked it up with trembling fingers. Jemma and Alice leaned over. A moan escaped Alice and she dropped her head in her hands. Jemma blinked, and blinked again. The astronomical sum didn’t change. “My grandmother’s not responsible for this, is she?”
“She cosigned for the line of credit, as well as a second mortgage on the house, which has not been fully paid, either.” The manager leaned back in his chair, swivelling gently. “Therefore, she is responsible.”
Jemma’s dream evaporated.
During the next few months, she battled to control her fury at her grandfather’s carelessness. The house was put up for sale, but the market dipped and even after it sold there was still debt to pay. Miriam fretted about finding a job, but she had never worked outside the home, had few marketable skills.
Jemma turned to Alice for comfort and support. She was given nothing. Instead of pulling herself together and pitching in to help, Alice grew sour and cold.
She thought now she had been lucky, not knowing back then that life would get worse before it got better. Straight out of high school, with no experience, Jemma was thrilled to land a job in a café down the block. She moved on a couple of times, hoping for more money, easier hours, until one day she realized eight years had passed. Her dream had been smudged out by reality, but she was content, happy, supporting her grandmother and working for the Smythe’s.
Until Dane.
The next morning, Jemma packed up the laptop for which she’d scrimped and saved and headed to a nearby coffee shop. She didn’t begrudge Miriam her cable television―she asked for so little―but Jemma couldn’t justify paying for an Internet connection in the apartment. Not when she could sip her caffeine fix and use free wifi.
She ordered a small, stomping out her guilt over the minuscule expense.
“We don’t usually see you this close to dawn, darlin’.” The man behind the counter poured her plain black. Colin Luxton was shorter than average, with a head large in proportion to his thin body, giving him a cartoonish look, and he sounded as if he was chewing a mouth full of gravel.
“I’m looking for work. Going to use your wifi, see what I can find.” She plugged her laptop into an outlet and came back for her coffee. “You wouldn’t happen to need a server, would you?” she asked without any expectations.
Colin shook his head, his dreadlocks swinging. “Sorry. I’ll keep you in mind, though, if anything comes up.”
She found a few “Servers Wanted” ads and picked away at her resume. It looked awful thin. What did she write about Spoonful? In the end she included her start and end dates, and under ‘References’ typed ‘Available upon request.’ She’d wobble across that tightrope when she came to it.
After making copies at a nearby QuickPrint, she hopped on the bus. She would hit the restaurants with help-wanted ads, and drop the rest at other likely places. Food service was a high turnover business. Restaurants were always hiring. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a new gig.
Rent was due next week. Miriam’s medications needed refilling soon, and her Medical Services Plan didn’t cover it all.
She had to get another job. Fast.
Jemma couldn’t eat. She loved her grandmother, but Miriam’s tuna-macaroni casserole had never been her favourite. After a long day handing out resumés, she simply didn’t have the energy to fake enthusiasm.
“What’s wrong,” Miriam asked. “You’re not eating.”
“Nothing.” She pushed a crunchy, dark brown elbow of pasta to the side of her plate and stabbed a chunk of dry tuna. “Just tired.”
“Are you worried about finding work?”
“Of course not. It’s only been one day.” A long, grueling day. She had a doom-filled feeling it wouldn’t be the last.
Miriam gathered Jemma’s plate. “Here, let me take that. I can’t stand to watch you torture it any longer.” She took the few steps necessary to reach the kitchen. The apartment had a narrow galley-style kitchen, L-shaped living and dining room and a short hallway leading to two bedrooms and a bathroom. At first, Jemma shared a bedroom with her mother. But then Alice gave up, and it was only Jemma and Miriam.
The phone rang. “I’ll get it.” Jemma abandoned the table thankfully.
“What the hell’s going on with you?”
At the sound of Lainie’s voice, Jemma flopped onto the couch. “Gramma’s been talking, hasn’t she.”
Lainie Ziminski was the lone friend Jemma had held onto after high school. They’d grown up three houses apart, and for much of their childhood and teenage years had been inseparable.
“You loved working at Spoonful. What were you thinking?”
Indignation burned in Jemma’s chest. She wanted to blurt out the truth so badly. She couldn’t tell Miriam. But Lainie... “What are you doing?”
“Talking to you.”
“Ha. Ha. Do you have time to get together tonight?”
“I’ll see you at The Pub in ten minutes.”
Jemma rose from the couch, tucked the phone under her chin and lifted the casserole dish off the table. “Make it an hour. I have to help Gramma clean up, and then catch the bus.”
Miriam popped around the corner. “Is that Lainie?” Jemma nodded. “Go. Go see her. She will cheer you up.”
A rush of gratitude swept through Jemma. “Gramma’s giving me a free pass on dishes. I’ll be there in ten.”
Paul ignored the trickle of sweat wriggling between his shoulder blades. And the black lens of the camera looming in front of him.
“Let me show you to your seat, Ms. McMartin.” He picked up one of the soft, leather-bound menus stacked neatly on the ornately carved, darkly stained table he used as a reception desk. “The rest of your party has already arrived.”
Ms. McMartin, a sleekly groomed brunette wearing a tweed grey suit, eyed the videographer with his camera propped on his shoulder and the attendant reporter. “So, what’s going on here?” she asked as the four of them made their way into the main room.
Paul strove to speak calmly, as if having a camera crew recording his every move was a regular occurrence. “One of the local television stations is doing a feature on new restaurants, and Paulo’s was one of those chosen.”
“Congratulations. That’s amazing publicity. I’m in marketing—having a plum like that drop in your lap is great luck.” Her brown eyes sparkled with warmth. Resting a hand on his sleeve, she drew him to a stop before they reached her table. “Here, let me give you this.” She slipped an embossed ivory card from the elegant courier bag she carried. “When you make it big, give me a call.” Her voice lowered as her gaze swept up and down his body. “Or even if you don’t.”
Her frank appraisal did nothing to settle Paul’s nerves. The last thing he wanted was an amorous customer making him look like a fool. He accepted the card, careful not to touch her fingers. “Thanks. I’ll keep it on file.”
He continued on, and with a hidden sigh of relief left her to the three expe
nsively dressed businessmen already there.
While the restaurant was decently full, no one was waiting to be seated when he, the reporter and videographer returned to the reception desk.
“Do you think now might be a good time to do the interview?” Samantha Adams asked. A petite blonde wearing skyscraper heels and carrying an iPhone as if it was life support, she had been watching him with a determined expression since she’d arrived.
“How long have you been working at NationWide?” he asked, putting off what he knew to be the inevitable.
“About six months now. But don’t worry”—she widened blue eyes framed in thick black mascara—“I am very good at my job.”
Paul swallowed the nervous knot blocking his throat. “All right. We might as well take advantage of the lull.” Not that he was certain more customers were coming. But he could hope.
The videographer, a stocky, grim-faced man with a whiskery neck and wearing a hoodie with ratty sleeves, clipped a black microphone the size of the eraser on the end of a pencil to his shirt. He handed Paul a small battery pack attached to the microphone by a thin wire, and instructed him to hide it in his pocket, then returned to his post behind the camera, now resting on a sturdy tripod.
“Are we ready?” Samantha asked, and the videographer answered with a grunt. Taking Paul’s consent for granted, she fixed him with a straight look and jumped right in. “Tell me about your background. Where did you grow up, how did you get into the restaurant business, that sort of thing.” She crossed her arms over her chest, long, manicured fingers tap-tapping silently.
You’re not helping me relax. Paul did his best to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I was born and raised in the restaurant business. My parents run a successful diner, right next door, actually. Our kitchens are connected at the back.” He didn’t hold out hope his father’s disapproval would lighten with free advertising, but it couldn’t hurt. “I did my first training here in Vancouver, at the Pacific Institute of Culinary Arts, followed by an apprenticeship also here, and then I took further training at Emeril Batali Culinary Arts in Los Angeles.”
“What inspired you to open Paulo’s? The restaurant business is known for its unpredictability. It’s not exactly a secure investment.”
A fact that kept him awake late into the night more often than not. He was struggling to find the right words to describe his obsession with owning his own restaurant when Daniel appeared.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Almeida, but there’s a problem with table ten.”
“Can it wait?”
Daniel tugged on his earlobe, a signal they’d designated to indicate urgency. “Preferably not.”
Samantha pounced eagerly. “This is great, Paul. This is what we want. Behind the scenes, you know. We can take up the interview later.”
He nodded and followed Daniel to a table in the middle of the restaurant. “I’m Paul Almeida. Is there something I can help you with?”
“You could help my wife get a decent meal.” The man was in his fifties, lean to the point of gauntness. His collar hung loose around his scrawny neck. “Her steak is so well-done you could use it as a hockey puck, when she ordered medium-rare.”
“I told you it was fine, Steve.” The woman, as thin as her husband, smiled nervously at Paul. “It’s fine, really.”
“I thank you for your forbearance, but I will not allow anything other than what you asked for to be served.” He turned to her husband. “Please accept my apologies. Both your meals will be on the house, of course, and we will make your wife a new meal immediately.”
The man’s belligerence softened at the promise. After a few more soothing words, Paul offered one more apology and strode to the kitchen. Samantha and the videographer hurried after him. He certainly didn’t want them on hand when he confronted an employee. He stopped at the kitchen doors and stared them down with his best top chef glare. “I know I promised you could record whatever you wanted. But I am drawing the line at this.” He metaphorically crossed his fingers, hoping he wasn’t ruining a wonderful opportunity. “You are doing a feature on my restaurant, not a hard-nosed exposé. I need to discipline an employee, and while they might deserve it, they do not deserve to be humiliated on your newscast. It will not be part of your story.”
Samantha’s eyes narrowed. “What if we promise we won’t use it?”
“No. If you’re not going to use it, there’s no need to have a camera anywhere nearby.”
“What if we record from the doorway? You can talk to whoever it is on the far side of the room. They can stand with their back to us if you like.”
Paul hesitated. The compromise seemed reasonable. Then he remembered the wireless microphone he wore. “Only if I take this off.” He removed it from his collar and handed it to the reporter.
Samantha tightened her lips. “Never mind. Go do what you have to do. We’ll wait out here.”
Paul approached a tall, lean chef rapidly chopping mushrooms.
“Who handled the order for table ten?”
The woman’s actions ceased abruptly. She laid down her knife and faced him squarely. “I did.”
“What happened?”
The woman swallowed but answered quietly. “I overcooked the steak.”
“And what are you to do when a mistake like that happens?”
“Tell the server, so he can offer the diner his apologies for the delay, and start over.” The woman’s shoulders shifted restlessly.
“And what did you do?” he asked.
The woman stiffened her spine and stared him in the eyes. “I sent out the dish anyway.”
“You sent out the dish anyway.” Paul nodded slowly. “I have made my apologies to our customers. Now you will go and do the same.” Relief washed over the woman’s face and she stepped away. Paul’s voice, quiet in the noisy room, stopped her. “If you do such a thing again, I will fire you.” The woman jerked her head in acknowledgment, and disappeared into the restaurant proper.
As the door swung shut, he saw Samantha lying in wait on the other side. He closed his eyes briefly, gathering strength. He’d spent sleepless nights, worked endless days, trying to build Paulo’s into a destination restaurant. Surely he could handle another hour or so under the microscope if it meant giving his dream a fighting chance.
He drew a deep breath and waded back out into the fray.
The Pub was five stops up on the route that ran right outside Jemma’s building. Miriam had been heartbroken when she had to leave her house, but at least the apartment was close to the old neighbourhood, so she could easily visit her cronies, including Lainie’s grandmother. It had been a hard adjustment for them both, but after eight years, the apartment was home.
Jemma pushed open the door to the crack of billiard balls and the cacophony of dozens of voices, overlaid with eighties rock music. Even on a weeknight, The Pub was packed, thanks to the fact it was the only decent place to get a burger and a beer in the area.
Lainie perched on a stool at a tall, round table. The red light from a neon sign advertising whiskey bronzed her curly blonde hair, pinked her tailored white blouse. The jacket of her navy-blue power suit hung over the empty seat next to her.
Jemma shoved her way through the masses and climbed onto the cracked vinyl seat.
“I ordered you a beer.” Lainie leaned close to avoid yelling. “But now I’m wondering if I should have asked for something stronger.”
“Do I look that bad?” Jemma waited while the server tossed cardboard coasters on the slick wood top and plunked down chilled mugs of amber ale.
Lainie saluted with her glass. “Honey, you look like you haven’t slept in a week, and while you’ve never been what I’d called stout—much to my envy— you’re fading away before my eyes.”
The beer was bitter and cold. “Don’t sugarcoat it. Tell it like it is.”
“I calls ’em as I sees ’em.” Lainie propped her elbow on the table, her chin on her hand, and waited expectantly. “Okay, now, spi
ll.”
“Dane had me fired when I refused to join him in a ménage à trois.”
Lainie blinked.
Jemma waited.
Lainie blinked again. Her mouth opened and closed. She squeaked, “What the hell? What the hell?”
Jemma let it all hang out. Lainie’s reaction was exactly what she’d hoped for, and together the two of them cursed Dane Smythe until their mugs were empty. Lainie signaled for another round.
“Let me get this one.” Jemma fished in her hip pocket for the twenty she’d stashed there.
“Oh, no. Not tonight. Tonight is on me. You deserve one free night at the pub after dealing with that asshole.” She paused while the waitress slopped their new drinks onto the table, then raised her glass. “A toast. Men are jerks—may their balls rot off.”
Jemma laughed and drank, but the memory of warm brown eyes and sexy half-smile forced her to be honest. “I suppose it’s not fair to lump them all together. My date was a bust, but the maitre d’ at the restaurant had potential.”
“Really?” Lainie lifted an eyebrow. “Tell me more.”
Jemma wiped foam off her lip. “There’s not much to tell. Dane was pretty pissed. I wanted to leave and he grabbed me. The other guy made him let go.” His quiet authority was impossible to forget, and a delicious shiver tickled her spine.
“Planning on seeing him again?”
Jemma snorted. “He may be cute, but he’s not my type. Too button-downed, too serious. Besides, I’m not exactly in a position to have a relationship. Miriam depends on me, and my first priority is supporting her.”
“So, what are you going to do now?”
She sighed. “Find another serving job, of course. I don’t know how to do anything else.”
“You can do anything you put your mind to.” Lainie tapped her fingertip on the table. “If you can pay off your grandfather’s debts working as a waitress, you have the guts to find a different job. A better job.”
Jemma remembered the glorious day, two months ago, when she’d made the last payment. “Thank God I don’t have that to worry about anymore.”
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