Quinn couldn’t believe it was possible for things to get worse at the diner, but they did. The constant stream of lookie-loos never abated. She ran out of pancake mix, eggs, bacon, and was running dangerously low on coffee. She searched for something, anything, she could make quickly that could feed a crowd. Rummaging her way through the pantry, she found a giant-sized container of marinara sauce and some bags of various types of pasta. As she checked her watch to see if it was too early for spaghetti, she spied a large container of quick oats and almost wept with relief.
She manhandled the biggest pot she could find on to the stove, then filled it with the correct proportion of water to oats. She knew it was correct because it took her three tries to fill the liquid measuring cup to the precise level. As she waited for it to boil she went into Jake’s office and looked in the file cabinet for the employment files for Chris and Kristi, the weekend cook and waitress, who were also husband and wife. She’d only met them once, but they were her best hope. Not knowing their last name, she had to search through half the drawer before she found a folder with Chris’s name on it. She scanned his application to see if he’d listed Kristi anywhere, thus verifying it was his file and praying she was not deeply violating some privacy law. She added Chris’s number to the contact list on her phone, fairly certain she’d need to call him again before this ordeal was over.
When he answered, she blurted, “You guys have to come in. Jake’s not here and I’m dying!” Quinn immediately regretted her wording. “I’m running out of everything and I don’t know what to do. Can you swing by the grocery store and get some stuff, then come in and help me?”
“Who is this?” Chris asked.
“It’s Quinn.”
No response.
“At the diner?”
Still nothing.
Then: “I’m just yankin’ you.”
Quinn was so relieved, she forgot to be annoyed by his prank. She returned to the kitchen and glanced into the pot of water. Not even close to boiling. “When can you be here?”
“Can’t. We already have plans.”
“Can you break them? This is kind of an emergency.”
“Well, darlin’, it might be an emergency, but it’s your emergency, not mine. My emergency today involves tubing down the river with an ice-cold six-pack, maybe with some fried chick—”
“Seriously? You’re not coming to help me? Neither one of you?”
“Kristi can’t come neither. She’s my DD.”
“Your what?”
“Designated drinker.”
“You mean designated driver.”
“I know what I said.”
Frustration boiled up out of Quinn. “Have a nice day, then!” She disconnected and refrained from throwing the phone against the wall. Nothing else was boiling, so she hurried back into the office and yanked open the file cabinet drawer with all the employee files.
Even though she, Chris, Kristi, and Jake were the only employees right now, the drawer was full. Clearly, Jake never weeded ex-employees from the file cabinet.
Quinn pulled as many as she could from the drawer and plopped them on Jake’s desk. Then she ran out to the dining room to make sure everything was okay—or as okay as possible—under the circumstances.
“There you are. Are you going to take our order anytime soon? I’ve got to get the salon opened soon.”
“I’m trying, Mrs. Olansky. I should have some oatmeal ready in a bit.” Quinn was glad to see someone had taken the initiative to make coffee.
“Oatmeal. Yuck.” Mrs. Olansky plucked her purse from the back of her chair. “C’mon, Henry. We’ll come back for lunch instead. Maybe there’ll be some news then too.”
Before Quinn could respond to her, someone called out, “This is the worst coffee I’ve ever had. It’s too weak.”
“No, it’s too strong,” another called.
Quinn fled back to the kitchen, where the pot of water was finally boiling. She picked up the container of oats and dumped them into the water, then turned to find a big enough spoon to stir. By the time she turned back, the oatmeal was bubbling over, spilling on to the burner. Without thinking, she grabbed the handles of the pot to slide them off the heat. When they scalded her hands, she let out a shriek and dropped the pot. She watched helplessly as it teetered in slow-motion on the edge of the stove, then toppled to the floor. It landed with a loud crash.
Quinn was rooted to the spot, shaking her hands in front of her as if she could wave away the pain. People crowded into the kitchen, and some peered in the pass-through window. Someone clicked off the flame under the burner. Silence reigned as everyone assessed the impressive display of oatmeal coating most available surfaces. A few wrinkled their noses at the acrid smell of burning oats.
Finally, a woman in her forties wearing a skirt suit and sneakers steered everyone from the kitchen. “Show’s over, folks. You all run along home and eat your breakfast there today. And your lunch.” She flapped her hands in front of her. “Shoo. Go along now. Unless you’re going to stay and help clean up this mess.” The group shuffled backward out of the kitchen, with the woman herding them all the way out of the restaurant. “If you already ate, don’t forget to leave your cash. And give that poor girl a generous tip for going above and beyond.”
The door jingled as everyone left, a few complaints hanging in the air of the suddenly silent diner.
Quinn realized she was still shaking her hands. She held them close to her face to see how badly she’d burned them. She jumped when the woman touched her elbow.
“Let’s get some cold water on those. Did you grab the pot without mitts? Why didn’t you just turn off the gas?”
Tears filled Quinn’s eyes because of the pain, the stupidity, the unfairness, the humiliation, and the woman’s act of kindness in taking care of everything.
“Never mind.” The woman steered Quinn toward the sink and gently placed her hands under cold running water. After a bit, she lifted one and inspected it. “That doesn’t look so bad. I don’t even think they’ll blister. You were lucky.” She placed Quinn’s hand back under the water.
“Thank you. I don’t even know your name.”
“Cynthia. I’m Abe the handyman’s daughter. Looks like you got yourself a doozy of a cleanup.”
Quinn turned off the water and dried her hands. “And I better get to it before the lunch rush.” She glanced toward the pass-through window. “Or anyone else looking for breakfast.”
“Don’t worry about that. I locked the door. People can do without the Chestnut Diner for a while until you get yourself squared away.”
“Thank you so much for taking charge like that. My brain just shut down completely. I couldn’t even count.”
“Count what?”
“Never mind.”
“I wish I could stay to help you clean up, but I’ve got to get to work myself.”
“You’ve already done enough. Thanks again.”
“How are those hands?”
Quinn opened and closed her fists a few times. “I think they’re okay.” They both inspected her palms closely. “See? It’s just red. No blisters or anything.”
“Your instincts were good to drop the pot, even though you knew it would make a mess. But maybe next time just turn off the gas under the burner. And wear oven mitts!”
“Thanks.” She studied the mayhem forlornly. “Better get to it.”
“Walk me out and lock the door behind me. You don’t need customers for a while.”
“Jake’s gonna kill me if he hears I closed up the diner.”
Cynthia cocked her head.
“Not kill me…just be real mad…but not real mad, just the regular, appropriate amount of mad.” Quinn winced.
“Close the diner. Jake will understand.”
Quinn twisted the dead bolt behind her and hoped that was true. Twisting the dead bolt caused her brain to rev. A battery pack of intensity ramped up to overload. A cascade of worry wove its way through her. She felt like the needle of a sewing machine. She’d always liked when her mom let her press the foot pedal on the machine to create perfectly even and straight stitches in the fabric. Today, however, each rhythmic thunk of her anxiety signaled another catastrophe.
Jake will be mad.
Jake will yell.
Jake will fire me.
The diner will fail.
Jake will be bankrupt.
He’ll lose his house.
Jake will sue me.
Mom and Dad will be disappointed.
They’ll try to pay Jake and lose their house too.
They’ll kick me out.
I have no money.
I’ll be homeless.
I won’t be able to afford my meds.
I’ll never get back to normal.