Allie Jo
I tap my clipboard like Dad does and read my assignments out loud. “Chase and boys: brass. Sophie, Tara, and I: kitchen duty.”
“No fair,” Chase says, groaning. “You guys are just going to be eating.”
Clutching my clipboard, I go, “It’s a proven fact girls have more sensitive taste buds than boys.” I read that somewhere, so you know it’s true. Besides, “Tara’s a seafood expert.”
We’ve gathered in the front parlor to divide the tasks. I snuck out one of the front-desk jackets so everyone would know I was official. And they do too, because I see some of them glance at me and smile. “Welcome to The Meriwether,” I say to their smiles.
“That’s another thing,” I remind my employees. “Always be friendly to the guests. Even if they put their hands all over your just-polished rails, you just smile and wait till they’re gone and do it again. Remember, the customer is always right.”
Nicholas throws his rag to the ground. “I don’t want to do this.”
“You have to,” I say. “I’m babysitting you right now.”
Chase grins. “Actually, I’ll be babysitting them right now, so …”
I tighten my lips and put a mark by his name. Supervising is hard work. “I’ll be back to check on you.”
Chase salutes me and snaps his feet together. Nicholas and Ryan laugh, then copy him.
Tara, Sophie, and I slowly work our way down the crowded hall. I know the customer is always right, but would it kill them to move over a little? I lead the way in my Meriwether jacket.
Sophie had been surprised to see Tara at the parlor. She whispered in my ear, “Who’s that?”
I’d spent so much time with Tara I clean forgot not everybody had met her. “This is Tara, Melanie’s cousin.”
Tara bent a little. “Nice to meet you.” I smiled proudly at my student.
“Sophie’s teaching me to knit.” My scarf was longer than a ruler now. I’d already put it up against my favorite shirts to see what looked most fashionable with it.
Tara said, “Oh,” and I realized they probably didn’t knit underwater.
Now in the dining room, I push on the swinging door and see the kitchen is as busy as an ant colony. Cooks in white uniforms—I don’t know why they wear white; they should wear shirts with splotched-up colors so they never look dirty—glide across the floor with trays and some work over the grills. The walk-in refrigerator needs a revolving door for all the traffic.
“Allie Jo!” Chef calls out. He glances at my clipboard and my jacket and pulls his fuzzy eyebrows together under his hat. “You’re not here to inspect, are you?”
I laugh and introduce him to Tara and Sophie.
He nods. “A committee, huh? Go around then, I’ll meet you in the break room.”
Even though I do so much work around here, I’m not technically considered an employee, so Chef doesn’t like me to walk through the kitchen for insurance reasons. We walk around into the hallway and slip through an unmarked door.
“Ooh,” Tara says, looking at the shrimp cocktail.
Chef has outdone himself. Seven peach-colored shrimp curve over the rim of a martini glass. Thin ribbons of yellow squash and green cucumber cascade over the side, and he’s drawn a zigzag in cocktail sauce across the plate. It looks like a present.
We sit at the table and I shove the shrimp over to Tara. “You first.”
Lifting one from the glass, she giggles. “No shell!”
“Of course not!” Chef says. “I peel them.”
Tara crunches into one and savors that bit for so long, I get impatient. “Well—how is it?”
Tara closes her eyes and smiles. Chef puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “We’re in the presence of a gourmet, not a gourmand like you.” By that he means Tara likes fine food, while I just like a lot of food.
It hits me then that Chef would probably hire Tara. My plan is working out well.
“You’re right,” I say. “Where are my pancakes?”
He takes the cover off a buffet pan and serves Sophie and me blueberry pancakes, silver dollar size. They look like cookies. I pick one up with my fingers and eat it whole. “Excellent,” I say with my mouth full. “Doesn’t even need syrup.”
Sophie laughs shyly and picks up a fork.
Tara makes nice little comments to Sophie and Chef, and everyone likes her. I’m so happy. She fits right in. In fact, I don’t see why she has to hide upstairs—when the festival is over, we’ll have plenty of extra rooms. I’m sure Dad would give her one.
Or—and my heart practically bursts with joy when I think this—she could stay at my house! My room is plenty big enough, and I don’t mind using a sleeping bag on the floor. Mom and Dad would get so used to her, they wouldn’t even want her to move out. Maybe they would adopt her!
I plow through the pancakes, I’m so excited.
A sister. A sister! Every night, we’ll stay up late talking. Probably she’ll go out on dates and I’ll be all mad because she used my nail polish or perfume or something, but then, when she comes back, we’ll lie on our beds and she’ll tell me everything. She’ll tell me who she went out with and what movie they saw and if they kissed at the end of the night. Our secrets will come out in the darkness.
“Slow down, Allie Jo!” Chef says. “Slow down!”
I laugh. “I can’t! Everything is too good.” And I mean it when I say, “This is going to be the best Taste of Hope ever!”
The committee is doing pretty well eating, so I decide to check on Chase and the boys. Good thing too, because when I get there, all three of them are leaning against the wall.
Chase gestures with a rag before I can say anything. “It’s that guy,” he says. “He’s keeps talking with Clay and your dad, and he’s all over the brass.”
Probably looking for a room or something. Too bad. We’re full up. I wander closer in to overhear the problem.
“Allie Jo,” Dad says. His face is very serious. Quickly, I review my day and decide I haven’t done anything wrong.
I step up to the desk, careful not to put my shoe on the footrail in case it’s already been polished. Unlike some people, I think, looking down at the man’s sneakers.
“This man, Mr.— Uh, what was your name, sir?”
“Mr. Smith.” His voice is flat.
Dad turns to me. “Mr. Smith here is looking for his niece. She was staying with him but—”
“She ran away.” The man turns his watery eyes to me. They’re cracked with red lines. “She … has some problems.” His eyes droop; his shoulders sag; everything about him is pulled down.
He flashes a picture. “Have you seen her?”
Fire alarms ring in my ears. My mouth drops open and my eyes pop out. It’s Tara, inside a messy living room. Beer cans and peanut shells litter the room; the TV’s on, but she’s not watching it. She’s staring into the camera like a wild animal. My breath comes out in short bursts.
His eyes focus. “You’ve seen her.”
“No.” My heart bangs so loud I’m sure he can hear it. But I’m not ready to say yes. I stare at the picture. It’s Tara, all right, and she’s got on the same outfit I first saw her in. “I’ve never seen her,” I say.
My heart hammers and I turn away, but he grips my wrist. “Are you sure?” He slants his eyes. “It looked like you recognized her.”
“Let go of my daughter,” Dad orders. He comes around and inserts himself between me and Mr. Smith.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mr. Smith says, lifting his palms up. Then he raises glum eyes to Dad. “I’m sure as a father you can understand how upsetting this can be. She’s been with me since her parents died.” He presses his palms against his eyes. “Pamela’s very special to me, but she’s not quite right in the head. She lives in a fantasy world. I’m afraid someone could hurt her.”
“Have you tried the police?” Dad asks. He leans over the counter, pulls up the phone, and is about to dial when Mr. Smith shakes his head and waves his hands.
“Police, private detective, shelters—everything. They haven’t found her. That’s why I’m out here on my own.” He swipes another look at me. “But if she’s not here, she’s not here.” His shoulders slump and he heads toward the front door.
Thoughts dart in my head like tadpoles in the water. I feel all hurly-burly. Maybe I should run after that man and tell him what I know. I don’t know what to do. My eyes well up.
Dad puts his arm around my shoulders. “Are you okay? It looks like he scared the heck out of you.”
I turn my face into the crook of Dad’s arms, and big, fat tears roll down my face. I know he’s got to get back to the guests, but I need him right now. After a minute or so goes by, I mumble into his chest, “I’m okay.”
He holds me by the shoulders and looks at me. “Are you sure?”
I nod and smile. It’s always the smile that convinces them.
After he returns behind the desk, Chase rushes over. “What’s the deal?” he asks in a low voice. He lasers in on me.
I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and sniffle.
“Did you get in trouble again?” He’s talking very gently, like you would to a cat you were trying to get out from under a bush.
Dazed, I turn past him, walk around the grand staircase to the parlor, and drop onto a couch. Nicholas, Ryan, and Chase follow me.
“You guys play cars,” I say. Like magicians, they produce cars from their pockets and race them along the banister.
Chase sits beside me. “What’s wrong?” he asks again.
I turn to him in a trance. “That was Tara’s uncle.”
His face contorts. “What?”
“He said her name is Pamela and that her parents died, which is why she lives with him, and she’s sort of … sort of …”
He leans in. “Sort of what?”
My eyebrows pucker and the corners of my lips turn down. “She’s sort of crazy.”