Recipe for Romance

by Snyder, J. M.

  Roger shrugged. “Let her ride the bus. I did when I was her age.”

  Preston sighed in disgust. And like that, the feel good bubble of domestic bliss he’d hovered in all morning burst, depositing him into the hot, stinking fry pan of the daily grind. As much as he loved to cook, he hated his job. He hated the restaurant’s lackluster menu that didn’t allow his culinary talents to shine. He hated the greasy grill and the fryer and the subpar ingredients. He hated the long hours on his feet, which made the small of his back ache for the rest of the day.

  But, more than anything else, he hated his boss. Roger Adams was a sanctimonious bastard who regularly regaled his employees and customers alike with long-winded tirades about his views on the government, religion, and gays. In fact, any hot topic in the news was up for grabs when Roger got started, and he didn’t tolerate anyone disagreeing with him. He had a good twenty years on Preston, and his views were archaic, to say the least. He didn’t like gays in the military, he didn’t vote for the black president, he thought the South should’ve won the Civil War. Hell, he even liked to say Sundays were reserved for church and nothing else, though he didn’t go so far as to close the restaurant and give his workers the day off.

  Preston couldn’t stand the man. He’d learned early on in his career at the River City to keep his mouth shut when Roger’s was running. But the job paid well—damn well, actually, given Preston’s culinary degree and knowledge, better than any of the high end establishments he’d applied to when he first started looking at cooking positions around town. Plus the hours worked well with his schedule. He could drop Abby off at school, work the morning and lunch rushes, and leave in time to pick her up. On weekends, his neighbor Mrs. Schroedinger watched Abby while he worked his standard six-hour shift. With half hour lunch breaks, it came out to forty hours a week, though working every day in such close quarters with Roger would probably kill him in the end.

  Or eventually he’d kill his boss, one of the two. That or he’d have to quit.

  But the pay was good, and Preston had learned to tune out most of the vitriol Roger spouted. It was easy enough when Preston was on the grill and Roger up at the front counter, running the register. The pass-through window separated them then, and Roger’s voice would carry into the restaurant’s dining area but not back into the kitchen.

  But there were the days when he decided to bust Preston’s balls, like he did whenever Preston was running late, and he was harder to deal with then. Preston already knew Roger would mention these ten minutes when it came time for his shift to end at two. When that happened, Preston would grip the spatula and play out a scene in his mind where he rammed the damn thing into his boss’s skull.

  It wouldn’t matter if anyone else was there to cover the grill—and there would be, of course. Preston might be the head cook, but he wasn’t the only one in the kitchen. At the moment Roger was on the grill himself only to underline the fact that Preston was running late. His daughter Colleen was on the register; a college freshman, she worked at the restaurant between classes, helping out when she could in the family business. His wife Maureen was chopping lettuce at the prep station. Two line cooks were busy pushing out tickets, and a couple of waitresses milled around in front of the pass-through, waiting on orders. Either of the line cooks could have manned the grill; Roger did it only to make a point.

  You’re late, he was saying, not in words but in action. I’m having to do your job as well as mine.

  God, Preston couldn’t stand the man.

  He knew Roger was angling for an argument, but he wouldn’t give his boss that satisfaction. He’d seen line cooks get drawn into shouting matches with the man, and the rules were simple—go up against the boss and you never won. He owned the place; he had the last word. Sometimes that meant telling a belligerent employee to get out. Preston had seen it happen.

  As much as he hated his job, he needed the paycheck, so he tightened his apron straps, grabbed another spatula, and took a close look at the food already underway on the grill. He wouldn’t give Roger the satisfaction of asking what ticket to work on next. He’d figure it out himself.

  * * * *

  Shortly before 10:30, Preston had the line to himself when his cell phone rang. Well, no, it didn’t ring, really—Roger frowned on employees having their phones at work, but Preston needed to keep his in case the school tried to call him about Abby. So he hid it in his front pocket and kept it on vibrate, and after the breakfast rush was over but before the lunch rush began, he was restocking the produce on the station when he felt it go off.

  He took a quick look around to make sure no one was watching him.

  Neither Roger nor Maureen were anywhere in sight; most likely they’d gone to the manager’s office in back to review the restaurant’s surveillance tapes from the evening before. Someone was dumping trash in the cans out back after hours, and since Roger had to pay the city for waste disposal, he didn’t like the idea of paying for someone else’s trash pickup, either. So he’d taken to reviewing the tapes whenever he could, hoping to catch whoever was using his Dumpsters without permission.

  Preston thought Roger should put locks on the cans and be done with it, but that wasn’t good enough for his boss. No, Roger wanted to prosecute the perp—his words, as if dumping garbage in someone else’s receptacle was a federal offense or something. But checking the tapes could keep Roger occupied for an hour or more at a time. His daughter was still at the register; from the way she leaned over the counter, Preston suspected she was playing a game on her phone. The waitresses were in the dining area, checking on their tables, refilling drinks and handing out checks, while the line cooks were busy looking busy. One was in the walk-in freezer doing…something, Preston couldn’t tell, and the other lingered near the back screen door, most likely sneaking a smoke.

  Good enough for him. Keeping an eye on the hallway that lead to Roger’s office, Preston fished his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the number. Abby’s school, all right. Quickly he answered it. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Pruitt, please,” an older woman said sternly in his ear.

  No matter how old he got, Preston would always feel a sliver of dread whenever he heard the voice of someone from the principal’s office. Why was that, exactly? He’d never been a bad kid himself, but there was something in that stern tone of authority that set every nerve on edge. Even if it was only the receptionist and not the principal himself, the effect was still the same.

  Clearing his throat, he admitted, “Speaking. Is Abby alright?”

  “Mr. Pruitt, please hold for Ms. Davis.”

  Before he could answer, there was a click and then silence. The principal herself, Preston mentally corrected. He wondered if she really was a Ms. or if it was the politically correct term to use. Was Mrs. no longer in vogue? Miz Davis. He mouthed the name, emphasizing the title. Miz. As if she were some sort of movie star, or something.

  What was this all about, anyway?

  He was about to hang up and call the school himself, demanding an answer, when there was another click and a younger woman came on the line. If anything, though, she sounded even more no-nonsense than the battle axe who had placed the call. “Mr. Pruitt? Thank you for holding,” she said, the words perfunctory and not the least bit genuine. “I’m Margo Davis, the principal here at William Pennock Elementary. Your daughter Abigail—”

  Preston cut her off. “Is a student there, yes. What’s this all about? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Ms. Davis assured him. “But there’s been a little bit of an…incident.”

  Suddenly he felt too hot, and his heart seized in his chest. “What? When? What happened?”

  “Everything’s fine, Mr. Pruitt.” But somehow her words were little comfort, and Preston found himself gripping the phone so hard, his hand hurt. He forced himself to take a deep breath to calm down and clear his mind. He had to focus on what she was saying. “It’s just—you’re aware that today is picture day, I’m sure.” />
  He sighed. “Yes, Abby told me.”

  “Well.” Ms. Davis seemed to choose her words carefully. “Your daughter’s outfit is…inappropriate, one might say. Unless you can bring a change of clothes before the photographer leaves, she won’t be able to have her pictures taken with her classmates.”

  Preston frowned as he tried to remember what Abby had been wearing when he dropped her off at school. “Inappropriate? In what way? Jesus, she’s eight years old. It isn’t like she was wearing a mini-skirt and a tube top or anything like that.”

  “If we let one child wear a costume,” Ms. Davis told him, “they’ll all want to wear one. She can change into something else or she can sit the pictures out this year, that’s all there is to it.”

  “What costume?” Preston asked. Then it hit him—she must have been talking about the My Little Pony jacket. “Is this about those wings? Tell her to take them off.”

  Ms. Davis sighed, exasperated. “Mr. Pruitt, don’t you think if that had worked, I wouldn’t have had to call you?”

  * * * *

  Abby could be stubborn, Preston knew, and all morning long she’d had her heart set on wearing her “wings,” as she called them. Still, he knew how much she wanted her school pictures, too, particularly because she wanted to send one to Tess. So how hard was it to take off the stupid jacket long enough to smile for the camera? Did he really have to go home, get a change of clothes, and drive all the way back to school to smooth over the situation?

  Apparently the answer was yes.

  Ms. Davis gave him little less than an hour; the photographer would be leaving before the first lunch began at 11:20. Preston could make it, barely, if Roger didn’t put up much of a fight and if traffic wasn’t bad. And if he could convince Abby to change. That would take the most time, and was the upcoming argument he dreaded the most.

  Roger turned out surprisingly easy to deal with. Preston found him and Maureen in the office, but they weren’t looking at surveillance tapes. Well, the tapes were playing on the screen, but weren’t being watched. No, when Preston knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a response, he found Roger leaning back against the small desk, pants unzipped, cock jutting out from his open fly. Maureen sat in the chair in front of him, both hands grasped around his erection, lips pursed as she pulled away at the intrusion. “Oh!” she cried.

  She must’ve squeezed involuntarily, because a moment later, Roger yelped. “Ow! Preston! What the hell?” He slapped his wife’s hands away and hurried to zip up his pants, but caught himself on the zipper and howled with pain instead. “Fuck!”

  Preston looked away and struggled not to grin. “Um, look, I have to go.”

  “What? Now?” Roger yanked on his zipper, only half paying attention. “Damn it the hell…”

  “Language, hon,” Maureen chided.

  Seriously? Preston thought. You suck him off one minute and correct his profanity the next.

  Out loud, he said, “It’s Abby. The school called—”

  “Oh dear,” Maureen murmured, suddenly concerned. “I hope everything’s okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Preston assured her. “I need to run by there for a little bit. I should be back by noon. I wouldn’t normally ask but the principal called, and—”

  With an annoyed wave of his hand, Roger said, “Just go. Put it down as vacation time, though. I’m not paying you when you’re not here.”

  Preston felt a flicker of annoyance but nodded anyway. “I know. I’ll be back as fast as I can. I’m sorry I interrupted you two.”

  “Yeah, well, knock next time,” Roger muttered.

  As Preston turned to leave, Maureen said, “He did knock, honey. Didn’t you hear him?”

  He didn’t hear much of anything over your slurping, Preston thought with a smirk, closing the door behind him.

  * * * *

  Fortunately morning traffic had thinned by the time Preston left the restaurant, so he didn’t hit any snags on the way home. He didn’t bother running up to Abby’s room to search for something for her to wear; digging through the disaster zone that was her bedroom closet would’ve taken most of the time he had left. Instead he found a pretty, sparkly top and a pair of jeans folded in a basket in the laundry room off the kitchen, waiting to be taken upstairs and put away. There was a clean dress hanging up there, as well, but she’d been wearing a dress when she left for school, and apparently that hadn’t been good enough for Ms. Davis, so Preston didn’t want to push the issue. The jeans wouldn’t show up in the picture anyway. Abby was tall enough that, if she managed to get in her class photo, they’d most likely stick her on the back row.

  He hesitated over the top—the sparkles might reflect the camera’s light, causing a glare, but any photographer should know how to counter that, no? Besides, it was one of Abby’s favorites. And after the morning she was having, Preston knew his daughter would need a little pick-me-up to get her through the rest of the day. If she couldn’t wear the My Little Pony jacket for the pictures, her favorite shirt would be the next best thing.

  With the change of clothes in hand, he hurried to the elementary school. It was ten to eleven when he pulled into a spot in the visitor’s parking lot. Things would be so much easier if he could throw on his hazards at the curb where he’d dropped Abby off earlier and go in through the side door; her classroom was only a short walk down the hall. But no, he had to check in at the front office, then wait to speak with Ms. Davis, who luckily didn’t keep him waiting for long.

  Preston didn’t know what he was expecting, but the short, busty blond who strode up to him in a fire engine red blazer and pink skirt was not it. When she jabbed a hand out to him, he noticed each finger was tipped with three-inch long nails like claws. “Mr. Pruitt?” she asked, in a voice that left no question as to who this might be accosting him.

  Ms. Davis. The school’s principal.

  Quickly Preston stood and found himself towering over her. Even in heels, she barely came to his shoulder. Her hair flowed down her back in long, spiral curls, but the sides near her face were pulled up and pinned behind her bangs, which had been teased and sprayed high above her forehead, as if trying to add height to her diminutive stature. It was a stunning hairstyle, and combined with her blue eyeliner and pale pink eyeshadow to make Preston think he’d somehow stepped into a time warp sending him straight back to his childhood. The whole look was something his mother might’ve tried to pull off back in the 1980’s.

  If she noticed his stunned silence, Ms. Davis didn’t remark on it. She pumped his hand once, hard, and let it drop. “Margo Davis,” she said, introducing herself. “I’m glad you could come on such short notice. It’d be a shame for Abby to miss out on her school photos. Did you bring a change of clothes?”

  “Um, yeah.” Preston held up the folded shirt and jeans, and couldn’t stop himself from making a snide remark. “I hope these are okay.”

  Ms. Davis barely glanced at the outfit. “Oh, those will be fine, I’m sure. Your daughter’s in the library waiting for you. I’ll show you where it is myself.”

  As she headed for the door, Preston asked, “Why isn’t she in class?”

  Over her shoulder, Ms. Davis told him, “Her outfit was a bit too disruptive to the other students. We thought it best she wait for you there.”

  It’s a damn jacket, Preston thought, and a kid’s jacket, at that. When this was over, he planned to write the school an angry letter about the whole incident, and maybe copy the local news station, as well. Whoever heard of such nonsense? Didn’t these people have better things to get upset over?

  Chapter 4

  To get to the school’s library, Ms. Davis led Preston out of the principal’s office and into the front foyer. As they passed the open doors of the combination cafeteria/auditorium, Preston could see the stage at one end was set with camera equipment and a curtained backdrop for the class photos. One student sat on a chair on the center of the stage, bright lights shining all around him, as a photogr
apher flitted around trying to line up the perfect shot. Classmates queued off to one side, waiting their turn in front of the camera. More students sat quietly at the long tables unfolded in even rows that filled the rest of the room. Preston remembered those tables all too well from his own school days, with their scratched tops and uncomfortable attached stools, and the teachers who patrolled between them like sharks waiting to attack.

  Ms. Davis set a fast pace down the hallway, and Preston hurried to keep up with her. He knew from his visits on parent/teacher conference nights that the school was shaped like a T, with the principal’s office and other administrative and communal rooms at one end, and all the classrooms confined to the back hall. After the cafeteria came the library, which had large glass walls, both interior and exterior, looking out onto the school playground as well as onto the hallway. When walking by, students and teachers alike could look through the library and catch a glance of the world outside.

  If Preston were attending William Pennock Elementary, walking past the library would be his favorite part of the day for that reason alone. How fun must it be to come in from recess or P.E. and steal another few seconds of sunshine in the time it took to cross the hall going to the cafeteria for lunch. He’d asked Abby about it once, but she didn’t see anything cool about it anymore. “It’s just the library, Dad,” she’d said.

  “Yeah, but you can see outside when you walk by,” he tried to argue.

  With a shrug, she replied, “So what? I can see outside the window in class, too. My desk is only two rows away. And when we go out at recess—”

  “Never mind,” Preston told her. If she didn’t get it, he’d never be able to explain it. “I think it’s neat, that’s all.”

  Abby had laughed then. “Sometimes you’re weird,” she told him. “But it’s okay. I love you anyway.”

  Now as they approached the glass-encased library, Preston peered through the windows searching for his daughter. The room was empty this time of the morning; no students inside, everyone in their classrooms or the cafeteria getting their pictures taken. The librarian behind the circulation desk stamping books could have been the same, perfectly coiffed woman who’d had the same job in Preston’s elementary school twenty-odd years earlier. She looked up as she saw them in her peripheral vision and gave him the same close-mouthed smile he’d seen on librarian’s lips all his life. Then her gaze shifted to Ms. Davis and her smile vanished, as if it had never been there in the first place.