Nick entered the dim restaurant. The scent of smoke lingered in the air. The mid-morning sun pushed through the dining room windows, casting long beams on the old wood flooring.
The steakhouse, a brick building located on the fringe of the Historic Market, had been in his family for three generations. His great-great-grandfather on his father’s side, a miner by trade, had purchased the building from an old printing press. He’d kept the original flooring and left the historic brick and ductwork exposed.
The property should’ve gone to Nick’s dad, had he been alive. Nick’s grandpa willed it to Nick’s aunt instead. She tried to keep it going for seven years—almost ran it in the ground. She finally put it up for sale five years ago. Not wanting to see his granddad’s legacy lost, Nick made an offer, then spent the next three years resurrecting the place.
Only to have all his hard work go up in smoke. Literally.
With a heavy sigh, he flicked on the switch, flooding the restaurant with light. As he walked past the empty tables made from recycled wood, memories flashed through his mind. Of him as a kid, slurping chocolate milk shakes, watching his grandfather make his rounds. Then later, him as a teenager, wiping tables with a bleachdoused rag. Shortly after that, sipping his last soda before Mom whisked him away to Oregon.
That was the year he moved away without telling Tammy goodbye. Something he always regretted, not that he’d had any choice.
It was also the last time he saw his grandfather. He should’ve spent more time with him—more time here. Except it always made Mom so upset. Anyone on Dad’s side did. He guessed after Dad’s death, it was too painful. Triggered too many memories.
The thick stench of burned grease intensified as he entered the kitchen. Patches of the walls and ceiling were stained black. Everything else was a soggy mess thanks to his sprinkler system. His gut knotted as he tried to calculate all the damages. Like he knew anything about construction—except that this building was old and would probably need some major restructuring. He wouldn’t know the total, nor the amount awarded by his insurance, until the agency finished their evaluations.
The biggest question: How much would they give him for loss of business and when? Enough to keep the place afloat? Even then, his deductible would near level him. What if he didn’t have enough capital to carry him through this? After four generations, Grandpa’s restaurant could go under, destroying his legacy and leaving his employees without jobs.
Like Chef Rictor, a man who was more of a mentor than a kitchen manager. A dear friend, and in many ways, a fill-in dad.
Nick left the kitchen and headed to his office to begin gathering all the material his adjuster would need. But all he wanted to do was go to bed. And never get up.
He shouldn’t have left that night. He knew something wasn’t right. Why hadn’t he listened to his gut?
Sitting behind his grandfather’s desk, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He’d folded the card Tammy gave him and tucked it behind Payton’s school photo. The boy wore a crisp white shirt, his hair slicked to the side. His eyes sparkled, his mouth curved in that mischievous grin that suggested a crazy idea simmered in his brain.
Gone. Dead. At least, because of Payton, five others got a chance to live.
That didn’t take away Nick’s searing pain, but it provided a thread of hope.
There was a faint knock, and he glanced up to see Rictor standing in the office doorway dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. His unshaved face and disheveled hair matched Nick’s.
He motioned him in. “Thanks for coming.”
“Hey.” Rictor glanced around the cluttered office. “How you holding up?”
He fingered Tammy’s card.
Rictor approached the desk and studied Nick for a long moment before sitting.
Nick closed his wallet and tucked it back into his pocket. “I contacted a public adjuster to walk me through all the insurance stuff. He’s already been out here to assess the damage.”
“Yeah? What’s your coverage like?”
He shrugged. “I need to gather information, list everything I lost, get more before photos.” He had half a dozen, most of the exterior. Only one of the kitchen. “Then he’ll have to review my coverage and determine the replacement cost.”
“All for a fee, I imagine.”
“Ten percent of money paid on my claim. But . . .” He swept his hand over the papers scattered across his desk. “It’s worth it to avoid all the headache. You remember if my grandfather took any pictures?”
“For cataloging purposes? Doubt it. He was pretty laid back.”
Venturing on careless, but the man had one thing going for him, at least in this instance—he was a packrat.
“You checked the files?”
“Yeah.” Nick glanced at three tattered boxes on the corner of his desk waiting for him to go through. “Found these on a shelf. Full of old newspaper clippings, a few photos. Of people more than anything else.”
Rictor lifted the lid. “You mind?”
“Be my guest.”
He reached inside, sifted through some papers, and chuckled. “I’ll be.” He pulled out a photo. “Crazy Jane, and looking ready to pop to boot.” He showed Nick an image of a bleached-blond. “Haven’t thought of Crazy Jane in ages. Wonder how she’s doing. You probably don’t remember her, do ya?”
Nick studied the picture, shook his head.
“She worked for your grandpa, back in the day. Full of drama, she was, always coming in with a new man on her arm. Gotta a kick out of you, though. She often brought you candy or whatnot. ’Course, your momma had a fit. Like you could catch Jane’s loose living through osmosis or something. Always did wonder why your grandpa kept her on. Guess it was his nature, huh? Always reaching out to the lost causes. Did you know he prayed over his staff every day? Prayed over you, too.”
Nick remembered. There’d been many a time he and Mom had stopped by and caught Grandpa in prayer. As Nick got older, Grandpa invited him to join in. Best legacy the man could’ve left. One Nick always hoped to leave to his own children.
Pain stabbed at the back of his throat as his thoughts turned to Payton. At least the boy had known Jesus. Had accepted Christ the summer before at one of those neighborhood Bible camps. Though Nick would’ve liked to see his son show more fruit of his faith, to see him brought to youth group and church where he could grow, Nick was grateful to know his eternity was secure.
Rictor returned to the box, then froze, his gaze shooting to Nick. He withdrew his hand and closed the lid. “Not much in here, I ’spect.”
An odd reaction. Maybe there was a picture of another waitress in there—one Rictor preferred Nick not know about. Not that he cared about twenty-year-old scandals.
He looked at the unpaid invoices cluttering his desk. The sales log from the restaurant’s last night was curled beside an old manual typewriter. An inventory list lay beside it. Next to it was a clipboard with a long list of reservations that were never filled.
Hands on the armrests, Rictor leaned back and angled his head. “Helen’s been lighting up my phone. She wants to know when she can return to work.”
Nick rubbed his temple. If he didn’t give his staff answers soon, they’d find employment elsewhere. Which would add yet one more issue for him to deal with—hiring and training new staff.
If the restaurant stayed open.
Maybe it was time he worked somewhere else. Where he could clock in, clock out, and leave the stress of management to someone else.
Rictor propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his hands. A shadow fell over his dull eyes.
The man had a mortgage, a kid in college.
Breathing deeply, Nick pushed to his feet. “I’ll take care of this.”
Gloria, his hostess, came to the doorway, holding what looked to be a bundle of mail. With one hand fiddling with her necklace, she turned sad eyes to Nick.
He knew what was coming. The same thing he expected Rictor to say, as soon as financial needs overpowered his loyalties.
“Hi, Gloria.” Nick drew closer, stopped a few feet away.
Her gaze wavered, as if it took great strength to meet his. “I . . .” She let out a puff of air, glanced between the two men before focusing on an empty chair along the far wall.
Nick turned to Rictor who’d already made it to his feet. “I’ll call you later?”
“Yeah, sure.” Rictor left, pausing in the hall to look back one last time.
Gloria sat in front of the desk and dropped her armload of paperwork on the surface. Her posture looked rigid, her expression tight. “I brought the mail.”
Nick sat back down. “Thank you.” A thick rubber band secured the stack of envelopes. Probably more bills. He’d look at them later.
“How are you holding up?” The maternal side of Gloria radiated from her eyes.
“Still breathing.” Which struck him as ironic. Leaving Howie’s that night had done more than kill his son. More than shred Nick’s heart. It left his mom, Payton’s mom, and Jeremy leveled. It was like a chain-reaction of devastation, hurting those Nick loved most. And it was all his fault.
Maybe he deserved this, but they didn’t. Not even Marianne.
“I’ve been offered a job.” The skin around her mouth sagged. “At my church. The pay’s . . . not the best, but the hours are good.”
What could he say? Don’t go? Blow this opportunity—one she could very well need if the restaurant failed? Maybe this was God’s way of tying up loose ends.
“I appreciate all your family has done for me.”
Nick’s grandfather had hired her over twenty years back. Nick was a teen when she came in, wide-eyed and stammering. Two months into an unwanted pregnancy, she was desperate for a job. Grandpa gave her more than employment. He started what became a close-knit family—a place of acceptance and safety—for Gloria and her daughter.