“Errric?” The woman dragged out the syllables in slow, dentureless Monty speak, and examined me from weathered boots to raised-by-wolves hair. I resisted the urge to pat down my unruly locks. “I’m sorry, dear.” She shook her head. “There’s no one here by that name.”
“You know,” I prompted. “Eric. Tall. Messy brown hair that kinks up at the ends.” I cocked my head. “He works in the back, with the pasta and the spaghetti. Look, it’s early and you’re not open and I’m not at my best, it’s been a kooky morning, but could you please tell him I’m here?”
A gust of wind blew over my shoulders, sending a blast of cold around me and through the open door. A shiver caught me off guard and I pulled Monty’s coat tight around my waist. The woman’s lashes flickered in sympathy. She took a step back and I thought I had her. I’d tapped into her mother instincts. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she abandoned me to the harsh weather.
Then, unexpectedly, her just-like-Eric’s nose twitched, nostrils flared. Instead of welcoming me inside, she narrowed the gap in the doorway.
Clearly the lady had smelt something unpleasant, and insinuated it was me. Uh oh, she was one of those. Some people, especially older people, can’t handle it - wet kid smell. I’d even noticed the distinctive odor a few times from Owen, so I understood the repulsion.
I inhaled a bit to see how bad it was and got a nose, mouth, lung blowing whiff of my own stench.
Filthy McNasty.
Monty obviously didn’t waste money on dry-cleaning his fresh-off-the-corpse finds before hanging them in his closet. Cheap bastard. No amount of warmth was worth this. Snow and dampness had sunk deep into the aged wool, awaking a putrid blend of B.O., Brylcreem, and Gold Bond.
I didn’t know how to explain the injustice, the reek was all me, and yet it wasn’t ME. Where was a jug of Febreze when you needed it?
“Look, forget Eric.” I moved away from the door, sparing her further Charlie-fume exposure. “He’s not the issue anyway. My friend and I were here last night and forgot our coats at our table. Eric said he would put them aside for us.” I waved a hand along my torso. “As you can see, I’m wearing a loaner and it’s not quite up to par.”
The woman’s lips twitched. “Eric putting coats aside.” She shook her head. “If that were true, my dear, I would know about it. I know everything that goes on in my restaurant. There are no stray articles of clothing here.” She examined the gold watch on her wrist. “We open at nine am and not a second sooner. There’s much to prepare, excuse me.” She shut the heavy colonial door in my face, not with a slam, but with polite finality.
Conversation over.
So much for my inherent charm.
I stood, unsure of my next step. This wasn’t how my mental run-throughs went last night when I’d storyboarded the idea, plotting it like a romantic comedy. In those, Eric either:
1. Answered the door himself and dropped to his knees, overcome by me in my glory.
Or
2. We encountered each other on the street where he had been tromping through the snow, asking random women to try on my coat. Complete with a bird-singing, mouse-humming Cinderella montage.
Never once did I imagine he’d be AWOL.
I moved along the brick exterior to peer through the restaurant’s windows. I pressed my face to the glass, blocking the morning sun with my hands, but the blinds were shut and I couldn’t see inside.
Another shock of wind blasted me with my own stink.
Damn. Now I really wanted my own coat back and it had nothing to do with Eric or his tight butt in those hideous polyester pants, or the way his shoulder muscles moved under his chef uniform. Or the way he kept catching me when I fell.
Or…
I returned to the door, frustrated, furious and in need of fumigation. “Hey in there.” I banged on the thick wood and kicked at the brass footplate. “I want my coat and I want it now.” Nothing. “Okay, I’m seriously not thrilled. I may have to write the paper about this, a letter to the editor.” Still nothing. “Your spaghetti’s not that good you know. You use canned mushrooms, don’t you? I can tell. I bet you don’t even make your own sauce, you sneak around and buy it from the grocery store.”
“Shh…” a quiet voice rumbled from inside, “if she hears your threats, she’ll use her connections and then there will be much trouble.”
The door re-opened, revealing the busboy from last night’s kitchen adventure. The guy Grace had wanted to pet. Up close, I could tell he was a few years older than me, but still, for Grace, definitely jailbait.
He joined me outside, carefully adjusting the door to rest on the latch so he could get back in.
“Connections? Like Mafia connections?” I laughed. My breath smoked around my head. “Right. That’s mildly amusing.”
Busboy crossed his arms against the invading chill. He didn’t look amused. In fact, he seemed grim.
“Mafia?” I breathed.
He gave a sharp nod.
I let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”
“What happened to you?” He grimaced.
“It’s a long, painful story and I don’t want to get into it. What I need is Eric,” I said. “I mean, I need to see him. He’s got something of mine. Well, mine and my friend’s….”
“Your friend?” Bus Boy looked up and down the avenue. “The blonde nymph? Is she here?”
Nymph? His word choice and Italian accent lent more romance to the moment than it deserved, but still, I’d have to tell Grace. Nymph. She’d love it.
“Does she hide from me?” His lips formed a sexy pout. “No woman can resist Tony. I will find her or leave-a-this world.”
Uh oh, Tony had it bad. Grace had skills. No wonder she struggled with monogamy - power like that would give Mom’s Valium addiction competition.
“You seem like a nice guy and everything,” I told him, “so I’m going to say this flat out.” My eyes scrunched up in sympathy. “Grace is married.”
“Grace. My amazing Grace is married?” Busboy ran a hand through his well-moussed hair. “You shitting me?” he asked, accent gone. Vanished. Non-existent.
“Nope,” I said. “Your window of opportunity closed a few months ago. She met a guy on the internet.” I didn’t tell him the marriage was rocky, no use getting his hopes up. “Does that fake accent really work with women?”
He shrugged. “You’d be surprised.”
“I’m guessing there’s no mafia don in the family either?”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Tony said. “We’re not Italian. We don’t understand half of the staff we inherited when we bought this place. We’re Scottish, Irish, a little of this, a little of that, basically, we’re mutts.”
I nodded. “The canned mushrooms make sense to me now.”
“See, a place like this can only survive if it’s got loyal regulars.” He rubbed his arms for warmth. “It’s a fucking blizzard out here and I have to re-organize the freezers today. Another few hundred bucks and I’m in Mexico. Can’t come too soon.” He cupped his hand over his mouth, blew on them for warmth. “Anyway, my uncle decided to keep the Italian Stallion theme going for a while. Doesn’t mean he won’t try to change the menu. I personally talked him out of a Thursday night Haggis special.”
His teeth started to chatter. “It’s too damn cold, I’m going in. One second.” He dashed into the restaurant, and returned with coats draped over his arm. “Here, I saw where Eric stashed them.”
“Thanks.” Immediately I shed crotch rot coat and held it aloft. I’d be a virgin forever if I stayed wrapped up in that thing. “Got garbage?”
Tony, if that was his real name, made a face and retreated into the doorway. “Back there.” He jerked his thumb toward the alley.
I started off. If I had the time and the inclination I could probably sell the coat on eBay, marketing it as the modern chastity belt.
“Eric works nights,” Tony called after me. “He’s usually here after six.”
I waved my hand and I kept walking.
“Come back anytime. Bring Grace. Tell her I said hi. Tell her I think she’s beautiful. No, tell her she’s the most beautiful woman in the world!” He yelled louder. “What should I tell Eric?”
“Nothing!” Good Lord, why would I want Eric to know I showed up looking like roadkill?
“You think he’s cute?”
“Nuh uh.”
“You want him?”
I said nothing and rounded the corner. I laid the coat to rest in a double-wide industrial garbage bin. The sleeve flopped over the lip of the dumpster is like a drunken arm draped over a toilet. An image I’d seen before and didn’t need any reminders.
In a flash it is Mom’s arm after she changes her mind, wants to live, and shoves her fingers down her throat to prove it. I remember the retching that woke me from a dream. A nightmare. Dad was dead. We were alone.
But my eyes had opened and it was real.