Standing in the Flaming Mesquite’s kitchen, Nick inhaled the rich aroma of sautéed garlic and onions. Fresh mussels steamed in a large pot while red peppers sizzled on the open grill. Allen, his new dishwasher, appeared to be working out well. He was a retired vet suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, sent by the Safe Haven Ministries. The guy, aged sixty-five, had gone through Safe Haven’s rehab and life skills training. He currently lived in a halfway house a few blocks away but hoped to find low-income housing by fall.
“Hey, there, Boss Man.” Sauntering over, Rictor tucked a hand towel into his apron belt. “Think we’ll get a lunch rush today?”
Nick glanced at his wait staff milling near the food counter, and shrugged. “Hope so, but you know what they say—slow and steady wins when frantic falls apart.”
“Not in this business.” Rictor glanced at the stainless steel prep table where Julio, also a new hire, sliced tomatoes. In front of him, bins of chopped romaine, boiled egg slices, and other salad fixings sat in ice. “But look at the bright side. You’ll have plenty of food to take to the Helping Hands.”
“Thanks for the voice of confidence.” For the past week, Nick had been taking leftover items to a local soup kitchen. No sense throwing away what someone else desperately needed. But as generous as he strived to be, selling the items would be even better—for everyone. Because if his business failed, there’d be no leftovers to donate.
He frowned, thinking of the sale offer lying on his desk. He’d hate to see this place bulldozed, but what could he do? Things were picking up, but not fast enough. And that high-priced commercial he’d hoped would help? It’d been a major, humiliating flop.
“You good, man?” Rictor studied Nick with a furrowed brow.
“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“You know . . .” Rictor rubbed his chin and gazed past Nick. “What if we did some sort of eating contest? Like those on TV. It’d be a great way to generate buzz. Might even be able to get the local media out here.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Something like, ‘Eat five pounds of ribs and your meal’s on us.’”
“And if they can’t?”
“Then they gotta pay. At say, forty bucks a pop, we could make a killing.”
“Or land even more in debt.”
“Nah.” Rictor flicked his hand. “We may get a few human garbage disposals, but most folks will bail after the second pound. And they’ll bring their burger-munching, soda-slurping friends.”
“When can you pull this off?”
“I can place an order today. We should have the ribs by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Okay. I’ll call the newspapers and local radio station to see if we can’t get the media out here.”
“Keep your chin up.” Rictor fist-nudged Nick’s shoulder. “This place survived riots, two tornadoes, three changes of ownership, and a major economic downturn. It’ll ride through this little hurdle, no problem.” His gaze intensified. “We’ll ride through this one.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “All of us. Because we’re family. Always have been.”
Nick’s stomach soured. He couldn’t sell this place, destroy his grandpa’s legacy, and leave Rictor without a job. He’d find a way to make things work. Somehow.
Arriving late, Tammy slowed as she neared Constance’s house for her son’s welcome-back-to-the-states party. Minus a dented minivan, a Camry, and the pastor’s maroon pickup, the street was oddly bare. Maybe she had the time wrong, and she was actually early? Great. Just what she needed—an extra hour of awkwardness.
She pulled into the driveway and cut her engine. There was a soft click of Tylan’s seatbelt unfastening, followed by a flash of movement as he lunged for something on the floor. After a series of grunts and moans, he emerged holding a wrinkled Sunday school paper, his plastic dinosaur, and a storybook called Jesus Loves You. Stains dotted the cloth cover, the pages made of thick cardboard, corners chewed.
Tammy turned to face him. “What’s that for?”
Tylan beamed. “I found this in my closet. Want to show it to Ms. Constance. She’s got a box of books like this and old toys and everything. She likes this kind of stuff.” He tilted his head and studied the grungy cover, as if trying to figure out why, then shrugged. “I’m going to give this to her. For her collection.”
Tammy’s heart warmed. “That’s very thoughtful. I’m sure she’ll love it.”
While she led him up the walk, Tylan chattered about the other “treasures” Constance had in her box. Items she had played with as a child, her children after her. Now stored in a box kept in her attic.
Tammy pressed the doorbell, Tylan practically bouncing beside her. His bouncing would likely escalate less than thirty minutes in. “You brought your DS, right?”
Tylan nodded.
“Good.”
The door swung open and Constance greeted them with a smile that widened upon seeing Tylan. “Hello.” She placed her hand on his shoulder and glanced past them. “Where’s Becky?”
“At a friend’s.”
“I see. Please,” she moved aside, “come in.”
Tylan headed for the couch.
Tammy greeted everyone, extending her hand first to the pastor, then to his wife, and picked one of many empty chairs. Constance stood in the center of the room, looking a bit wilted, or perhaps out of place.
“Well.” She checked her watch, then glanced out the window. Facing her guests, she pressed her palms together and offered a tight smile. “Brent should be here any moment.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “Can I get you a glass of tea, Tammy? Or a cup of coffee?”
Tammy looked at the silver-serving tray on the coffee table. Beside this sat a matching platter filled with deviled eggs, cheese squares, and mini-cucumber sandwiches. Sugar cookies with delicate frosting filled another tray next to tiered, pedestal plates.
Tammy rose. “Everything looks lovely, Constance.” Tammy placed some cheese chunks and a sandwich on her tray. Not hungry, she nibbled the crust and watched Tylan from the corner of her eye. He seemed content with his DS game. A blessing and a curse. It made the moment easier, but if his contentment continued, it negated an easy excuse for leaving.
“So . . .” Pastor Broers set his plate down. “How has Brent been? Still doing a lot of traveling?”
Constance looked again to the window. She nodded. “He’s working in mergers and acquisitions now. He’s been quite busy, as I’m sure you can imagine.” She checked her watch, then looked back at the window.
“I can.” The pastor shifted and looked around the room before settling on a painting of a golden pitcher set behind a bowl of fruit. “Interesting piece. Do you enjoy art?”
Constance followed his gaze. “My great-grandmother painted that.”
“How lovely. I like how . . . the gold contrasts with the pale blue background, don’t you, dear?” He looked at his wife.
Dabbing her mouth with her napkin, she nodded. “Oh, yes. It really makes the fruit stand out. In fact, it looks good enough to eat,” she chuckled.
Soon everyone returned to staring at their plates.
Twenty minutes later, guests began to politely excuse themselves. Tammy touched her purse, ready to do the same, but the frown on Constance’s face stopped her. It was like watching a child—one with wrinkled skin and gray hair—rejected in the lunchroom. Suppressing a sigh, she settled back into the seat cushions. Staying another ten minutes wouldn’t hurt.
After seeing her guests out, Constance returned to the living room. She watched Tylan for a moment before excusing herself. She darted down the hall and returned carrying a wooden crate filled with toys and fairytale books.
Tylan jumped to his feet and held out his book. “I brought this for you.”
“Thank you.” Constance set her items down and took the book.
Tammy watched them for a while longer, her expression one she’d seen countless times from her mother. Something contentedly maternal.
She sat with her back straight, hands folded in her lap. “I apologize for my son’s absence. He is quite busy. And you know how men are with phones and messages.” Her smile returned. “Enough about me. How are you?”
“Good. We’re good.”
“When do you work next?”
Tammy fidgeted. “Tuesday. But I should have . . .” Childcare? Considering she hadn’t even scheduled interviews yet, not likely. Because no one had responded to her ad. Where were all those people searching for jobs?
Feeling a bit exposed, she observed the room. Three picture frames decorated the mantel—one of a much younger Constance holding a toddler and an infant. To the right was a photo of a man in a college cap and gown, to the left a blond woman wearing a shin-length jean dress.
“You have a daughter?” Tammy asked.
Constance followed her gaze. “Yes, that’s Melanie, my youngest.” She stared at her hands, tightly intertwined. “I haven’t seen her in ten years.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
She watched Tylan, the lines etched from her lips to her chin deepening. “I made many mistakes when my children were young. I was a single mom, like you.”
Tammy winced, but kept her expression void.
“I spent more time watching television than taking my kids to church. Children need their fathers, and in lieu of biological fathers, they need to see godly men living out their faith. Positive male role models help children recognize predators, and believe me, they’re out there, for what they are.”
She frowned. “The closest my daughter came to seeing a godly man was from the back pew on Easter and Christmas. Then one day charismatic, well-dressed cult leader Geoffrey Laine started showing her attention, and she fell hard.” She studied her nail then, shaking her head, raised sad eyes. “I tried to reason with her, but after years of living like strangers . . .” She shook her head. “It was too little too late.”
Years of Constance’s comments came rushing back. Words Tammy took as condemnation now clarified in the context of Constance’s admonitions. As abrasive as her approach was, she meant no harm. Quite the opposite. She was nothing more than a wounded woman living with a lifetime of regrets, trying to find restitution.
How hard would it be to humor her?
Tammy offered a genuine smile, one that warmed her from the inside out. “In answer to your earlier question, I’m on call Tuesday through Friday. My schedule’s pretty unpredictable. I could get called in at any time or not at all.”
“Wonderful. Tylan and I will find something to do, I’m sure.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate your help.” Tammy stood. “We better go. Thank you for having us.”
“Ah.” Tylan’s shoulders slumped, his torso practically flailing forward. “Five more minutes?”
Tammy raised an eyebrow. Interesting. She shook her head. “Sorry, sweetie. Maybe next time.”
They said their good-byes, and Constance showed them out. With a hand on Tylan’s shoulder, Tammy strolled to her car. At the curb, she paused to glance behind her. Constance stood in the doorway, watching them.
Once again, Tammy’s heart pricked. That woman needed them as much as Tammy needed her. Maybe more.