by Vivi Holt
“No, you can’t. It’s my workplace, John. I love it here. I’ve made friends with the owner, the other staff. It’s a wonderful restaurant. The community loves it as well.” Her words trembled.
He sniffed. “Obviously not enough.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, her eyes flashing.
“If the community loved so much, it wouldn’t be closing down. Would it?”
Her nostrils flared. “How dare you?”
He laughed to hide his discomfort, palms moist. How long before a member of his team came over to check on him? Or one of her friends figured out who she was talking to? Thank heavens the media hadn’t arrived yet. “Come on, you know I’m right.”
“I’ve only just started here. I’m working on improving the menu, drawing in more customers. Just give me some time.”
He shook his head. “Eve, you know I can’t do that. The bank already foreclosed on it. My staff has been working on this deal for months. They have people lined up to tear the building down, and then hundreds of construction workers ready to get started on the foundation for our new building.”
She groaned. “But…what about Pickles? What about Petra?”
“Who’s Petra?” He arched an eyebrow.
She growled. “You don’t even know the name of the woman you’re taking this building from?”
He frowned. “I’m not taking it. I bought it. And the bank took it from her because she couldn’t pay the bills. I’m sorry I didn’t know her name, but I do dozens of these deals every month.”
“Well, you’re such a big shot! Aren’t you?” she shouted, her eyes shooting daggers even as they glistened with moisture.
His eyes widened. She’d never gotten angry with him before. Not like this. She’d always seemed so calm, so easy going.
“I think this conversation is over,” he stated. It would be ridiculous to let a business decision impact their relationship. Surely, she could see that.
She glared at him. “Not by a long shot.” Then, she stamped her foot in the dirt and stormed back to the protest line.
He stood there, staring after her, unsure of what to do now. He’d never been married before. Did it change anything? Should he back down? But there were so many people on his payroll, counting on the work that he was supposed to be providing them. He couldn’t walk away now. They’d already committed to his project and likely turned down other work to do it. They and their families relied on him.
It was a feeling he was accustomed to—the responsibility weighed him down at times. But he was proud as well. Proud that the work he did provided an income for so many. He’d always loved that. Until this moment. She’d looked at him as though he’d done something wrong. Like he was the head of an evil corporation unconcerned with the little folk. But that wasn’t true; he thought about them a lot. Every job he did fed hundreds of families, and he gave a significant portion of his own income to charity.
Still, his gut churned.
“So, boss, whatcha want us to do?” asked the crane driver, scratching his head with one dirty hand.
“Wait,” said John with a shake of his head. “Just wait. I’ll make some calls. They can’t stand out here forever, and we’ve got to get this job done.”
“Yessir.”
He marched back to the SUV, climbed into the passenger seat, and the rest of the group joined him. As they drove away, an image of Eve’s troubled face imprinted on his mind’s eye. He couldn’t get her out of his head. But she was wrong on this one, and she’d work that out soon enough. No doubt she’d be angry with him at first, once the building had been torn down, but she’d realize it had to happen. And if it hadn’t been him, it would’ve been someone else. The land the restaurant was perched on was prime real estate, and the restaurant wasn’t a sustainable business. It was just the way things worked. Survival of the fittest, economically speaking.
It was business. Not personal. And in time, she’d see that.
Chapter 13
Eve stacked glasses into a box, her heart heavy. Outside, the protesters were still chanting, though their voices were more lackluster with each passing hour.
Some had already gone home, unwilling to spend the night standing in front of the building in the cold. She’d come inside to begin the arduous and depressing task of packing away some of the glassware, silverware, china, and memorabilia.
Petra may not be able to admit defeat, but she knew it was just a matter of time until the demolition crew got their way. And she didn’t want Petra to have nothing left of the place to remember it by.
Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. There’d be time for that later. For now, she had to work quickly. There was so much to pack, and likely not long to do it.
She taped the box shut and reached for another, grateful that the storage closet in the back of the restaurant had housed a stack of flat-packed boxes ready to use.
A door banged shut behind her and she spun about to face Petra, her brow furrowed.
“How’s it going?” Eve asked.
Petra shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how long we can hold them off for. If we could just get through to the morning, I’ve got an appointment with my lawyer…”
Petra strode toward the back of the room where her small, square office clung to one side as though it’d been tacked on after the fact.
“I hope you find a way to save this place, but in the meantime, I’m packing a few things away for you…you know, just in case.”
Petra nodded before disappearing into the office and slamming the door shut behind her. Eve grimaced. She hated to see her friend this way. A thunder cloud hung over Petra’s head, and the glazed look in her eyes made Eve’s throat ache.
She sighed and reached for a vase to wrap. How could John be a part of this? He knew what this restaurant meant to her. How much it’d changed her life since coming to Atlanta. Having somewhere to go each day, people to work with who cared about her. She still couldn’t believe he’d betray her like that. She’d been so certain he cared about her, maybe not in a romantic way, but at least as a friend, a companion.
Another sniffle and another knickknack to wrap.
The restaurant was full of memorabilia: photographs, vases, porcelain figurines, silver spoons, paintings. Things Petra had collected over a lifetime hung, perched, and balanced in the various corners and crevices of the old building and along its faded walls. It might be worn and weary, but it had so much personality and warmth. That’s why people kept coming back, week after week, to eat at Pickles. That and the amazing food.
Eve smiled through a sheen of tears and set her hands on her hips to gaze around. Just as she did, she noticed the smell of smoke wafting in from the kitchen, under the door that separated it from the main eating area. Her brow furrowed and she studied the base of the door. That was definitely smoke curling grey beneath the timber frame.
Eve gasped and ran toward the door. Then stopped short and set her hands on her forehead. What should she do? She tried to remember all the fire drills and training she’d endured after years of working in restaurant kitchens. If the fire had spread, she shouldn’t go in there, but what if it was still small? There were fire extinguishers in the kitchen and a sprinkler system overhead. Why hadn’t it gone off? And what about the smoke alarms?
Just as the thought flitted through her mind, an alarm at the end of the hall began to keen.
The sound made her jump, her heart thudding in her chest.
She had to check the kitchen, just to make sure. She pushed gently on the swinging door and peered inside. Heat slapped her face, pushing her backward with a cry.
The fire was bigger than she’d thought it would be, fiercer too. How had it gotten so out of control in such a short space of time?
The closest fire extinguisher was just inside the door by the stove. If she could reach it, she might be able to quench the flames.
Eve tugged her cell phone
from her pocket and dialed 911 as she inched through the kitchen door. She was expecting the force of the heat this time and scrunched up her face against it, her eyes squeezing almost shut.
“Hello? Fire please,” she shouted to the operator who answered her call. She described the situation as best she could, then hung up just as she reached the stove. She pushed her hand out toward the fire extinguisher, reaching for the handle to wrench it from the wall.
There was a popping sound over by the gas oven set into the far wall. She eyed it. What was that?
A loud explosion rocked the kitchen, and the force of it sent Eve hurtling back toward the door. She landed on her rear end with a grunt, whacking her head against a cabinet.
With one hand cupping the injury, she scurried backward and out through the door into the hallway. Then inhaled sharply. There was no way she could extinguish those flames now. She’d seen them leap up the kitchen walls, engulfing the room before the door swung shut behind her.
She had to get out of there. Fast.
Another bang, thunderous in the cavernous restaurant. The sound reverberated off the high ceilings. Eve scrambled to her feet. She pulled her hand from her head and studied it in the dim lighting. Blood. She must have cut her head on the cabinet when she was thrown against it.
She wiped her palm down the front of her black pants and headed for the exit. Then stopped and peered back down the hall over her shoulder. Light filtered beneath the office door.
Petra was still in there.
Her phone chimed in her pocket, and she pulled it out to answer it even as she jogged toward the office.
“Yes?”
“Eve, it’s John. I know today was rough, but I think we should talk.”
She interrupted him, her breath coming in short gasps. “John, there’s a fire.”
“What?”
“A fire, at the restaurant.”
“Are you inside?”
She nodded but didn’t answer. She turned the knob on the office door, and it didn’t move. It was locked.
She frowned. “I have to get Petra out. She’s in her office.”
“No, just get out of the building Eve.” His voice was forceful, loud.
“But Petra…”
“Get out of there! I’m calling 911 and then coming down there.”
“I called them, the fire department are on their way. I can’t leave her in here.”
“Eve…”
She hung up the phone before he could say another word and shoved it back into her pocket, her nostrils flaring with resolve.
Then she raised a fist to beat against the office door. “Petra! Petra! There’s a fire.”
There was no response. She knocked louder. “Petra! We have to get out of here.” Her voice was hoarse from smoke, and she coughed as the last words bellowed from her mouth.
A glance toward the ceiling showed smoke swirling and pooling there. It hadn’t filled the restaurant yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Chapter 14
John’s heart raced as he rode the elevator down to the basement. He couldn’t wait for the concierge to bring up his car, he’d get it himself. He sprinted across the tarmac and pressed the button to unlock the vehicle, then climbed in with a grunt.
Why did she have to be so stubborn?
She should’ve gotten out of the restaurant at the first whiff of smoke, but instead, she was trying to be a hero. And she’d get herself killed in the process.
He grimaced and gunned the engine in reverse, backing violently out of the parking space, then shoved it into first and accelerated up the ramp and out into the night.
The radio blared his favorite channel from the last time he’d been in the car. He punched the dial with his thumb and the car fell silent but for the roar of the engine.
She’d be okay.
Surely there were other people around. When he’d left there a few hours earlier, the place was lousy with protesters. Someone would help her and make sure she got out of the building before it was too late.
Still, his pulse raced, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
Why were there so many sets of red lights on Peachtree Street? He hit the brakes to wait for the lights to change, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
The old restaurant was an eyesore. She couldn’t see that, all she saw was the charm she said it held within its walls. But now there was no denying the place was a death trap. If only she’d listened to him instead of reacting with her emotions and blaming him for what was inevitable. The failure of a restaurant that couldn’t generate enough business to keep its doors open or fresh paint on the walls wasn’t his fault. He was just taking advantage of a situation, not causing it.
She was so frustrating. He’d never expected to care for her when he signed the contract between them. He knew he’d develop some kind of fondness for her as a wife and companion, at least he’d hoped he would. But the protective instinct welling up inside him now surprised him with its intensity.
He slapped the steering wheel in frustration, just as the lights glowed green. The engine revved loudly as the car sped forward.
As he approached the restaurant, he heard the unmistakable call of sirens. Then, saw the flashing lights. They seemed to fill the entire street. A fire engine’s horn blared as the truck pulled into the parking lot beside the restaurant. He followed it in, his eyes already scanning the darkness, looking for any sign of Eve.
He found none.
His heart thudded, and he pulled the car as far away from the fire crew as he could manage. He didn’t want to get in their way, but he had to find out where Eve was. Why wasn’t she out front with the rest of the protesters?
The group huddled off to one side beneath the branches of an old oak tree, their shoulders hunched, arms folded, and faces stricken with fear and panic. One woman had her hands clasped to her head as tears wound down her dirty cheeks.
His throat tightened.
They were losing a lot tonight. Although it would’ve been gone tomorrow anyway, once the bulldozers got their way.
His cell phone was in his hand and he glanced down at the black screen. No calls or messages since she’d hung up on him. He dialed her number and it went to voicemail after three rings. With a sigh, he shoved his phone into his back jeans pocket and set his hands on his hips to study the billowing smoke that rose from the roof of the building and the hint of yellow and red flames he could see through cracks in the walls and the glass windows that framed the entry.
He had to find a way inside the restaurant. Eve wasn’t out here, so she must still be in there. The front door was crowded with police officers and firemen. There was no way they’d let him go inside a burning building. He’d have to find another way in.
With a deep breath, he jogged around the outside of the building. Where was she? He’d told her to get out, but she’d insisted on finding her friend. If only he’d taken the time to walk through the place when the rest of his team had toured it before the purchase went through—then he’d know the layout and where Petra might have been working.
He found a door and pushed against it with a grunt. Then realized it was nailed shut. An old entrance, no doubt, that had been sealed off during one of the many facelifts the building had endured over the years.
John slapped his palms against the wall as he walked, looking for some sign of another entry way. It was dark, and smoke clouded the air. He stumbled on a potted plant and cursed beneath his breath, clutching at his bruised shin.
“Eve?” he shouted.
All he could hear was the wail of the siren from another approaching fire truck and the shouts of the firemen as they prepared to enter the building through the front door.
There was a cracking sound, and a bang as something inside the restaurant fell to the ground.
“Eve!”
He jogged to the rear of the building and came to a small, narrow porch. A few steps led up to the porch and a doorway nestled itself into the wall. He inhaled s
harply as relief washed over him. He tried the door and it opened. As he stepped through, he tugged his T-shirt up over his mouth. Acrid smoke made his eyes water.
“Eve!”
He saw her almost immediately. A door to his left was splintered around the handle, as though it’d been locked, and she was trying to force it open. She lay in front of the door on the floor, one arm flung across her face, her eyes shut.
“Eve!” He rushed to her side and knelt to feel for a pulse.
She was alive, but her pulse was weak. John picked her up, looping one arm beneath her shoulders and another under her knees. Then, stood to his feet and hurried out through the still-open back door. Outside, he strode away from the building, found a small patch of grass, and laid her down gently on it, a hacking cough making him double over.
He gasped at the fresh air, inhaling great lungfuls of it with each breath, his hands pressed to his knees. Then, he picked her up again and jogged with her around to the front of the building.
“Help!” he called.
Two first responders, alerted by his cry, ran toward him. They took her from his arms and laid her on the ground. John watched, his hands on his head, his heart in his throat.
“Is she okay?”
They didn’t respond. One man checked her pulse, the other listened for a breath.
“She’s breathing.”
“I’ve got a pulse. I’ll get the oxygen.” The man stood to his feet and ran for a nearby ambulance. It was parked haphazardly, its lights strobing silently.
“Is she okay?” repeated John, still breathing hard.
The man looked up at him with a smile. “She’s got a pulse and she’s breathing, but it’s hard to say how much damage she’s sustained. We’ll take her to the hospital and get her checked out. What’s her name?”
“Eve. Eve Russo. She’s my wife.”
“Okay, well you can ride with us then, Mr. Russo.”
“Thank you. She said her friend Petra, the owner, might be in there still…”
