by C. B. Stagg
It was cool, I was cool. I certainly wasn’t a stowaway in the weird little hobbit hole under the stairs this guy may or may not even know about.
“Yes?” Oh, it was the guy I’d named Napoleon. Hardly taller than the desk itself, but built like a brick outhouse to compensate for his ‘shortcomings’ I guessed. I must have smiled at the thought because the guy’s face broke out in a wide grin.
“Hey, glad I caught you. Chance wanted me to give this to you.” He held out a book, wrapped in a nondescript plastic sack. “He said you might come through, so I’ve been looking for you.” Great, Chance. Way to keep this thing on the down low.
“He’s usually here at this time, right?” I asked, wondering why he hadn’t just given it to me himself.
“Well, yeah, but it’s barbecue day at the cafe, so he had to go tend to the smokers or pull the pork or some other nonsense.”
“Okay. Well, thanks—” I waited, wishing I was less of an introvert at times like these.
“Oh, Leon.” He smiled and pointed to his ID tag. “My name is Leon.”
And I know I laughed at that. I certainly wouldn’t ever forget NapoLEON’s name.” I waved and we turned in opposite directions, him going back to his job and me going to, what, my apartment? Sure, that worked for the time being.
Once safely inside the confines of my temporary dwelling, I removed the book from the bag. Only it wasn’t a book, it was two freakishly thick magazines. The first, The New England Journal of Medicine, dated a few weeks back and the second, Psychology Today, was more recent. Both, I noticed, had pages flagged, but there was also an envelope tucked behind the cover of one.
Bennett,
Today is barbecue day at the cafe and I sure hope you’ll join us. Lillie says you’re losing weight and I only seem to pass you on your way out. I can always drop a plate by, but it wouldn’t kill you to get out and socialize a bit.
So, because it’s barbecue day, I had to leave early, which means I had to come in early. That being said, I heard you having a hard time in there this morning. Dreams, I’m guessing?
I don’t mean to pry, but my father had CSR (Combat Stress Reaction) after coming home from fighting on the Pacific front in WWII. There wasn’t much known about it back then, but in the last ten years, that’s changed. I marked some articles that might put words to what you’re going through and, when you’re ready, I’d like to point you in the right direction to get some help.
Hope to see you tonight,
Chance
Chapter 8
Jillian
“LORI… I HAVE, LIKE, FIVE minutes and then I have to report for duty.” It was barbecue day, which only happened once a month, and proved to be the busiest. It seemed as though the entire impoverished population of College Station could smell the smoker and came running. I guess I couldn’t blame them. Chance was a magician in the kitchen.
My stomach had been doing funny things at the mere thought of tonight. The last barbecue day, my first time volunteering at The Community Cafe, was also the night I met Bennett Hanson. Or as I like to refer to him, Mr. Distraction. Because that’s exactly what he was.
“Jillian, are you even listening to me? God, what has gotten into you? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head in that wreck?”
Why was this girl my friend again? Oh right, politics. Her step-grandfather, which she acquired with her mother’s third husband and a couple million dollars a few years back, was waiting in the wings for some old geezer on the Supreme Court to die, and my father thought that connection would be beneficial. I was taught at an early age not to befriend anyone unless they had something to offer.
“I’m sorry, Lor, what were you saying?” I checked my makeup in the visor mirror, then checked the time. 4:52. Wow. I was early. That was a first.
“I was saying that Daddy Ron said we could go anywhere I wanted for Christmas break, so I thought about Aspen! Wouldn’t that be so awesome, celebrating your engagement? On the slopes? Together?”
Of course she would choose Aspen. As I opened my mouth to give an opinion I hadn’t yet formed, Mrs. Lowe pulled up next to me and waved. “Um, Lori, I have to scoot, it’s time for my meeting, but that is a very interesting idea and I will give it some thought.” Not. I hung up the phone and zipped it up in its black leather pouch, before tucking it under the seat.
Even as recently as a few months ago, the idea of celebrating my engagement to a man as rich and powerful as Gareth Johnson was all-consuming, every moment filled with planning and plotting to fulfill my destiny. But for some reason, these days it was having the opposite effect.
In fact, I found myself seeking out distractions to avoid thinking about it. I should have poured myself into my studies, or my sorority, but those things meant so little these days. In most cases, the distraction had a scruffy, auburn beard, piercing tan eyes, and lips the color of summer raspberries.
I shook all thoughts of Bennett Hanson away and trudged up to the back door of the cafe, refusing to be even one minute early on principle.
Things were relatively quiet and if I hadn’t smelled the barbecue, I may have questioned if I’d gotten my days mixed up. “Hello?” I called, but I was greeted by silence. I placed my purse in the office, but when I turned to grab my apron from the hook, it was gone.
“Where’s my apron?” Sure, there were other aprons, but I wanted my apron. I’d stocked the pockets with paper napkins and plastic utensils, anything to avoid having to run all over the place during the rush.
Water started running in the kitchen about that time, echoing down the hall. Peeking around the corner, I spotted Chance at the sink. Back home, I was famous for my temper. I learned from a young age, the louder I screamed, the more likely I was to get my way. But with the water on full blast, no one would be able to hear me no matter how big a fit I threw, so I stomped down the hall and right up to Chance. Tapping him on the shoulder, I squared my own. “Where is my apron?”
“Oh, is this the apron you’re screeching about?” Sure enough, strolling in from the dining room was none other than Bennett Hanson, wearing my apron. “So you say this is yours? I wasn’t aware we had assigned aprons.”
A slight, indecipherable smirk crept to his lips as he drank me in, head to toe. Had he been anyone else, he’d be walking away with my handprint across his face, but there was something about his eyes that spoke to me. They held an intensity I’d never been witness to before, almost like his gaze had hands, touching me in all the right places. I caught Chance’s eye. He was enjoying the show.
“Why are you even wearing an apron? Those are for the volunteers.” Hands on hips, I’m sure I more resembled a defiant toddler than a grown woman.
“Well, it seems as though you just answered your own question.” He started toward me, slowly untying the knot at his back. “But, please, please… ” He lifted the apron off over his head and presented it to me with a flourish. “I beg of you, Princess Jillian, forgive me for my transgression. I vow to never, ever don your green and turquoise apron again.” Princess Jillian?
Rolling my eyes, I snatched the apron from his outstretched hands and slipped it around my neck, not stopping to think about where it had just been until after the fact.
“You’re the reason hurricanes are named after people, Soldier.” I left the insolent man with that little barb and walked toward the back door.
Where am I going? Chance’s deep laugh pulled me back to reality. I turned and marched right up to the boulder of a man who may have once intimidated me, but now was just irritating me.
“Enjoy that, did you?” My eyebrows had long since disappeared into my hairline and I stood, one hip jutted out as I waited for his reply.
“Oh, honey. More than you know.”
Another roll of the eyes and a hair flip for good measure reminded me who I was and why I was there. I was a Walker, of the Georgia Walkers. And I’d be damned if I was going to stand around being insulted by a man elbow deep in soap bubbles.
Benn
ett whisked past us, in search of a different, unclaimed apron, and I couldn’t help but notice his piney, manly scent that lingered on the fabric of the apron. How, after only a few encounters, was I connecting that smell to the handsome, bearded derelict that just walked by? And why did it give my heart an unwelcome little jump? Princess Jillian indeed.
Chapter 9
Bennett
“SO, SOLDIER, I haven’t seen you around lately.” Her chipper tone was masking something else. Accusation, maybe? Chance assigned Jillian and me to the buffet line, so we stood side by side at the edge of a full to bursting dining room, serving food with the expertise of two old ladies working the lunch rush at Luby’s. She was serving steaming green beans with bits of bacon in them and I was slicing brisket with an electric knife, but we were in close enough proximity for small talk.
“Wow, Princess. If that’s the best pickup line you’ve got, you’ll never find your prince.” Teasing her was fun. Maybe a little too much fun. There were few things I liked more than watching Jillian’s cheeks explode from a light, golden tan to pomegranate, and that seemed to happen fairly often. Was it me or did that happen all the time?
“Oh my God, stop it. You know what I mean… ” She talked from the side of her mouth in between serving up artificially sweetened smiles as she scooped beans onto the sectioned plates.
“You know, the first time I saw you here, I thought you were like them.” Her chin jutted in the direction of the full dining room. “You know, a customer?”
“I’m not sure ‘customer’ is an accurate term.” Most of these people hadn’t been actual customers in a place this nice in a long time, myself included.
“Okay, guest then?”
I nodded. That seemed appropriate.
“Well, what if I told you I was a guest?” I continued to cut the smoked brisket as the line of people ambled past us, but I watched her from the corner of my eye. No reaction. I’d been around girls like Jillian Walker. The ranch where I spent my high school years fed into an incredibly well-off district. It was the kind of place where, if you didn’t drive a BMW, it was only because Daddy gave you a Mercedes instead. One thing about the rich and spoiled; they all seemed to buy their personalities from the same factory. But instinct told me this girl was different.
“I guess I’d lose respect for you, taking handouts like that. This organization was built for the community, not for students.”
Chance relieved me of my meat cutting duties, so I grabbed a big metal spoon and took up residence at the potato salad—same distance from the princess, just on the opposite side. “I heard you, you know. A few weeks back, talking to Chance out in the parking lot? I heard when you said that drifters and bums were just taking advantage of him.”
I continued serving, as if I’d just spoken of the weather. She continued too, mask firmly in place. But I could tell my overhearing their conversation made her uncomfortable, a fact I found encouraging. Maybe I was right and she wasn’t a Stepford daughter.
“So, what’s your point?” She played it cool.
“I just want you to know you’re wrong. These people,” with an open hand, I swept my hand across the room, encompassing everybody, “the ones in this room, each have a story. If point A is a safe, secure life and point B is having to rely on the generosity of strangers to survive, these people can tell you there are many paths from one to the other. They aren’t here by choice, not really.”
She tilted her head in my direction, a snarky snort escaping her smirking lips. If I had to guess, I’d say the noise was automatic, involuntary. She was too classy to lose control like that.
“You’ll never convince me of that.” Superiority and entitlement could be such ugly accessories. They could ruin even the most beautiful of creatures.
“You wanna make a bet?” That was the army talking. With very little by way of entertainment, we gambled. On anything and with anything. Lots of guys had women back home and they’d send cookies and candy. One guy even got tiny little bottles of Jack Daniel’s since his lady worked for the airlines. Once a month, that guy was everyone’s best friend.
“What are you mumbling about?” She grabbed her empty bean tray and headed for the kitchen. All the people had come through and were busy eating and chatting with each other, giving us the green light to start breaking things down and getting them clean. I grabbed my almost-empty tray and followed her.
“A bet. You know, a bet? I tell you I can do something and then we put stakes on it. If I succeed, I get this, and if I don’t, I have to give you that.” Only this time, we wouldn’t be playing for MREs and mustard packets.
She rolled her eyes. “I know what a bet is, jackass. So what is it you want to bet on?” She grabbed the sprayer and started hosing out the stainless steel container with vigor. Her attempts to seem unaffected at my standing so close were unsuccessful. She licked her lips and avoided eye contact, but still stood with a confidence that couldn’t be bought for any price.
“I bet that I can change your mind… about those people out there. Give me,” grabbing a number off the top of my head, “four weeks and I bet I can change your opinion of the guests that come here.”
She flipped the water off and returned the nozzle to its hook, then spun around, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking one eyebrow like she’d done so many times tonight. “And if you don’t?”
“If I don’t change your mind after four weeks, I’ll never touch your apron again.”
She laughed, big and strong, before sending a pointed look in my direction and waving a perfectly manicured finger inches from my face. “Oh, you’ll never touch my apron again no matter how this plays out, but I’m intrigued. You forgot to mention one thing, though.” If her laugh had been a song, I’d play it again and again until I couldn’t get it out of my head.
“What’s in this for you? What happens if you succeed?” She’d included air quotes around that last part and it should have pissed me off. But it didn’t. It was almost cute.
“Well, if… no, when I succeed… you help serve Thanksgiving dinner here, at the cafe.” I felt my heart beating in my throat and wondered if she could tell, and for a moment, I begged the words to jump back into my mouth. But it was out there, and couldn’t be unsaid, so imagine my surprise when she offered up one little word.
“Deal.”
Chapter 10
Jillian
THAT INSUFFERABLE MAN and his damn bet. I hadn’t seen Gareth in months and had only spoken with him a handful of times since he started at Harvard Law. Thanksgiving was going to be our chance to be together again… to rekindle the romance of last year when he was a senior and we were together all the time. There was no way I was letting Thanksgiving slip through my fingers. But I wasn’t worried. This was easy. I was in complete control.
“Now, remember. You’re not here to grill them. You’re just here to befriend them. When they trust you, they’ll open up and share some of their stories.” I slapped him on the arm.
“I’m not an idiot, Mr. Hanson. I’ve dined with presidents and foreign dignitaries. Vagabonds ought to be a piece of cake after that.” Bennett slapped his forehead. What did I say?
We’d agreed to meet for dinner at the cafe on Wednesday nights. Never mind that Bennett had a late class on Mondays… there was no way I was going to miss my sorority’s weekly chapter meeting to hang out with people who couldn’t be bothered to help themselves. And Friday was my night to volunteer. And now his too, apparently. My mysterious Friday night absences from Greek social events had not gone unnoticed. Plenty of perfectly manicured eyebrows had been raised in my direction lately.
For the most part, I’d held it together, but I had a mild panic attack at the thought of actually dining with real street people. When I expressed my concern, Bennett assured me that he would keep me safe. He’d set this all up, but I still didn’t trust him.
“Before we go in, tell me. How do you know these people?” He stopped on the front porch of the cafe an
d turned to look at me.
“I spend a lot of time here. It’s kind of my hangout now.” Okay, loser. Time to get new friends if you’re hanging out at the local soup kitchen for companionship. Of course, I didn’t say that, my bitch filter firmly in place. I nodded with my pleasant smile also firmly in place.
Entering through the front doors felt weird. Other than the absence of a cash register, there was nothing to indicate this wasn’t just a typical Southern mom-and-pop joint you’d find in any little town. It was a sweet place, minus the clientele. The same clientele I would soon be dining with.
Grabbing a plate and helping myself to scrambled eggs and bacon on a tortilla topped with salsa and cheese felt like the Twilight Zone. I was on the other side of the serving line. I was breaking bread with them. And there were no words to describe what was going through my mind as I sat down next to a woman who didn’t look much older than me, with two small children flanking her, already digging in. I gasped when I glanced down and saw that she was incredibly pregnant.
“Rosalinda Macias, I’d like to introduce you to Jillian Walker. Jillian, meet Rosalinda and her daughters, Gabby and Ari.” The two girls (one I’d place around eight years old and the other about two) both shared their mother’s wide, black eyes and thick eyelashes. The girls’ long, straight black hair was artfully braided and the older one, Gabby, had a wilted dandelion flower tucked behind one ear. They were beautiful, all three of them, and clean. I was surprised.
“Hello there.” The look on my face must have been priceless. The young mother stared at me like I was wearing a turtle as a hat. “Howwww arrrrre youuuuuuu?” What was this slow, loud voice coming out of me? I felt possessed.
Bennett noticed it too. He poked me in the ribs and casually whispered, “Rosalinda is from the Panhandle, not Mexico. Talk to her like she’s human, not something that just deboarded a flying saucer.” He then turned to Rosalinda, whose soft smile indicated she’d heard every word. “Sorry about my friend here. She doesn’t get out much.”
