by Locklyn Marx
Her mother was right on time, pulling her black Range Rover into the driveway at twelve-thirty on the dot. Sylvia Benson was a small woman, and the fact that she had a Range Rover was completely ridiculous. But she’d bought it after Lindsay’s father died, saying she needed something to show for the years she’d spent with him.
Walter Benson had been a horrible man, one who loved to drink and screamed when he didn’t get his way. Sylvia stayed because she couldn’t afford to divorce him.
Lindsay suspected her mother had a deep-seeded guilt about subjecting Lindsay and Jamie to Walter’s wrath for all those years. The girls were thirty and twenty-eight now, neither of them married, neither of them in long-term relationships. Sylvia thought it was because they had daddy issues.
“Hi, Mom,” Lindsay said as she climbed into the car. She’d been waiting on the porch, running to the driveway before her mother could have a chance to get out and ask if she could come inside “just for one minute to use the bathroom.”
“Hello,” her mother said, her eyes lingering on the jeans and sweater Lindsay was wearing.
“Mom,” Lindsay said firmly. “It’s just lunch. Jeans and a sweater are fine.”
“I know, I know,” her mother said, sighing. She put the car in reverse and began to back out of the driveway. “Back in my day, we used to get dressed up for lunch.
Especially the single ladies.”
Oh, Jesus Christ.
“Now,” Sylvia said, “I thought we could finally try The Trib. Remember? It’s that cute little restaurant we always used to pass on our way down here.”
“Sounds good.” Lindsay could care less where they went to lunch. Her mind was back at her computer, calculating the amount of words she was going to have to write tonight to catch up on her word count. Writing at night was the worst. Your brain wasn’t as sharp, and you had to miss all the good TV shows. Not that she had cable service yet.
But still.
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of The Trib.
Lindsay’s mother leaned forward and peered through the windshield. “Is it open?
It doesn’t look like anyone’s here.”
“It says it is,” Lindsay said, opening the door and stepping out of the car. The last thing she wanted was to get into some kind of back and forth with about where they should eat. That could take hours. “It’s probably just one of those places that’s dead during the off-season.”
“Oh, great,” her mother said. “A tourist trap. I hope they have good salmon.”
They walked into the restaurant. Warm air and delicious smells enveloped them.
But the air and the smells were in direct contrast to the visual. The walls were in need of a good coat of paint, only half the tables were set, and the specials board hadn’t been updated in two weeks.
There was a hostess stand, but no one was manning it.
“Hello!” her mother called. “Is anyone here? Are you open?”
“Mom!” Lindsay said, mortified. “Keep it down! I’m sure someone’s going to come out. Give it a second.”
“Usually they have a bell or something, so you can ring it if – ah! Here they come! Young man, are you open?”
The kitchen door had swung open, and a man had emerged from the kitchen. It took Lindsay a second to realize it was Chace.
He’d changed since she saw him this morning, into a pair of khakis and a soft-looking green sweater. He was wiping his hands on a dishtowel, and when he saw Lindsay, he stopped.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
“So you’re not open?” her mother asked accusingly. “Because the sign outside says you are. So which is it?”
Lindsay said a silent prayer of thanks that her mother had never met Chace, had never even heard his name. She would have been off on some embarrassing tangent, asking him what had happened between him and her daughter, why’d they’d broken up when Lindsay was such a nice girl.
“Oh, no, we’re open.” He reached behind the hostess stand and rummaged around until he pulled out two menus. “Is a booth in the back okay? We’re expecting a big party, and I’m assuming they’ll want to take the tables up front.”
“Sounds good to me,” Lindsay said, before her mother could protest or, worse, Chace could say something embarrassing.
He led them to the booth in the back. What was he doing working here, anyway?
Chace was a hedge fund manager in Boston, or at least he had been. She knew his father owned a restaurant on the Cape — was this it? And if so, had Chace moved here to help his father take care of it?
“I’ll give you some time with the menus,” Chace said, then hurried back toward the kitchen.
“What a hottie,” her mother said once he was gone. She licked her finger and held it up, making a sizzle sound with her mouth.
Lindsay stared at her.
“Get it?” Sylvia asked. “Because he’s sizzling hot?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“Bet you wish you hadn’t worn that bulky sweater, now, huh?”
Lindsay sighed and opened the menu. Just get through lunch, she told herself.
Just get through it and then you can get the hell out of here.
***
Chace’s heart was pounding as he walked back into the kitchen. Why the hell had Lindsay shown up at The Trib? Did she know he worked here? The thought filled him with equal parts excitement and fear. If he wasn’t careful, he’d pull her right back into his world, and she didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t fit for any woman right now, especially not one like Lindsay.
“Yo,” Chuck said, hanging up the phone. “Dolores isn’t coming in.”
“What?” Chace asked. “What the hell do you mean she’s not coming in?”
Chuck shrugged. “She said she’s not feeling well.”
It was bullshit, and Chace knew it. Dolores just didn’t feel like working, was intentionally trying to screw with him just because she could. Even after all this time, she still blamed him for what had happened to his father.
Chace heard the sound of womens’ voices filling the dining room. Shit. The Ladies For the Preservation of the Cape were here.
“Okay,” he told Chuck. “Call Marcela, ask her if she can come in.”
“And if she can’t?”
“Then looks like I’m their waiter for the day.” He’d worked summers here when he was a teenager. How hard could it be?
***
An hour later, the Boston Ladies for the Preservation of the Cape were dangerously close to holding a permanent place on Chace’s shit list.
“Excuse me, young man,” one of them was saying. She was a large woman in a white silk blouse, with big, ash blonde hair. “But is there butter on this asparagus?” She held up her plate, like she wanted him to inspect it.
“No, ma’am,” Chace lied.
“Because I’m on a very special diet, one in which I’m not supposed to be having any butter. It’s very bad for my weight.” She smoothed her blouse. “I’ve lost two pounds so far.”
“That’s amazing,” Chace said with a big fat fake grin on his face.
Jesus Christ, these women were crazy. Every other second it was something else.
More water. A question about ingredients. Someone complaining they couldn’t eat tomatoes because they were too squishy.
He’d been running his ass off.
He heard someone calling his name from the back, and he turned. Shit. Lindsay and her mom. He’d forgotten all about them.
“Sorry,” he apologized, rushing over to the table. “Can I get you guys anything else?”
“No, thanks,” the mother said, giving him a smile. “Busy, huh?”
“Yeah,” Chace said. He started clearing their plates, loading the dirty dishes into a nearby bucket to be brought back to the kitchen. Chuck wasn’t going to be too pleased when he realized how many dishes there were to do. Chace would have to stay late and help him.
“L
isten,” he said, “I’m sorry for making you wait. The meal’s on the house.”
“Really?” The mother’s eyes brightened. “That’s so sweet of you. Isn’t that sweet of him, Lindsay?”
“No,” Lindsay said, shaking her head. “No, I want to pay.”
“Why?” Chace asked. “Someone offers you a free meal, you take it.”
She shook her head again, then reached into her purse and pulled out a credit card.
Chace narrowed his eyes. What did she think? That if he gave her a free meal, she’d owe him something? His cock twitched at the thought, thinking of all the other ways she could work off her meal. Her hair was down, and he remembered this morning, how the dark locks had looked glinting in the sunlight.
“That’s very rude, Lindsay,” her mom admonished. “The man wants to do something nice for us.”
“It wouldn’t be fair,” Lindsay said. She slid the credit card toward him. “Just because we had to wait a little bit doesn’t mean we deserve to get our whole meal for free.”
“Huh,” Chace said, not able to help himself. “Well, that’s true.” He pretended to think about it. “But I don’t want your money. So maybe we’ll have to work out some other kind of payment.” He kept his eyes on hers, enjoying the way her face flushed as she realized he was teasing her. It really was too bad he was so fucked up. He wanted her so bad it hurt.
“A barter system!” The mom, who was obviously crazy and didn’t get that it was a joke, was delighted. “You mean like for Lindsay to work here? That would be wonderful. She’s a writer, which means she gets paid very… sporadically.” She lowered her voice on this last part and gave Chace a knowing look, like “sporadically” was code for “not at all.”
“Oh, yeah, that would be great,” Chace said, playing along. “I would love for Lindsay to work here. Do you have any waitressing experience?”
One of the ladies from the preservation society was calling his name from the other side of the restaurant, but he ignored it. He was having too much fun.
“She does!” Lindsay’s mom said. “She waitressed at Bob’s Big Boy when she was in high school.”
“Bob’s Big Boy!” Chace exclaimed. “Oh, then you’ll be great here. I’m sure that was a high traffic kind of restaurant, we don’t do nearly that much business.”
Lindsay looked at him, hatred in her eyes. Good, he thought. He wanted her to hate him. Needed her to hate him. Because he couldn’t trust himself to stay away from her, and she was better off without him.
But then, all of a sudden, she stood up, her long dark hair swinging behind her, determination on her face.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay what?” he asked, frowning.
“Okay, I’ll work here.” She took the dishtowel out of his hand. “What do you want me to do first?”
“Yoo hoo!” one of the women on the other side of the restaurant was yelling.
“Can someone come over here and help me please? I think there’s a piece of cilantro on my fish, and I specifically said no cilantro.”
“Of course,” Lindsay called. “Be right there!” She started walking purposefully across the dining room.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Chace asked, following her.
“I’m working here. Like you said, it’s not Bob’s Big Boy, but I’m sure I’ll manage. I’m a fast learner.” She’d reached the woman with the cilantro problem now, and gave her a big grin. “Hello! I’m Lindsay and I’ll be your server this afternoon!
What seems to be the problem?”
“Okay,” the woman said, seemingly taken aback by Lindsay’s cheerfulness.
“Um, you see, I’m not allowed to have cilantro. I’m allergic, and if I eat even one tiny morsel of it, something horrible will happen.”
“What will happen?” Lindsay asked, curious.
“It will taste like soap.”
Lindsay gasped. “Not soap!” She picked up the plate and peered at it. “Yup, that is definitely a piece of cilantro.” She shook her head. “Who took your order, ma’am?”
“I took her order,” Chace said, grabbing the plate out of Lindsay’s hand. “You know I took her order, I’m the only one here.” He looked down at the plate. “That’s not cilantro,” he said, handing it back to the woman. “It’s parsley.”
“It takes like soap,” she said.
“No, it doesn’t, it tastes like parsley,” Chace persisted.
“What’s going on down there?” Martha, the woman who had called earlier, the president of the group, was looking down the table with a pinched look on her face.
“Nothing,” Lindsay called back. “It’s just that the waiter made a little mistake.
Got some cilantro mixed into something that he shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, Lulu can’t have cilantro,” Martha yelled, nodding knowingly. “It will make her whole dinner taste like soap.”
“I’ll take it back to the kitchen for you,” Lindsay said.
“That would be wonderful,” the woman said.
Lindsay started walking toward the kitchen, and Chace followed her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Chace asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you! You can’t just go and start interacting with the customers!”
“Why not?” she asked. “Isn’t that what you wanted me to do? Didn’t you say we were going to work out some kind of barter system?”
“No, that’s not….I mean, I didn’t… That woman did not have cilantro on her plate. And even if she did, I’ve never heard of any kind of allergy that makes cilantro tastes like soap!”
“Chace,” Lindsay said as she pushed open the door to the kitchen and stepped inside. “Haven’t you ever heard of the customer always being right?”
But before he could answer her, Lindsay’s foot slid against a wet spot on the floor. Chace reached out to grab her, but he wasn’t fast enough. She slid right through his hands. The plate of salmon flew up into the air and then landed on the floor, shattering into a million pieces.
Lindsay hit her head on the hard tile as she went down.
And then she lay there on the floor, not moving.
Chapter Four
They’d met on the internet.
Lindsay knew it was a completely corny thing to do, meeting on the internet, but she got roped in by one of those commercials that started giving out crazy statistics about how one in five relationships now started online.
It definitely seemed like it could be true. If she thought of five random people, she was sure at least one of them would have started their relationship online. Her sister Jamie dated a guy she’d met on the internet once. Of course, it had turned out he was hiding an ex-wife and sixty thousand dollars in debt that he’d run up buying prostitutes and drugs. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that times were changing, and nowadays you really did need to use every tool at your disposal to meet men.
You couldn’t just sit at home, waiting for someone to pop up in front of you. It didn’t work that way. And since Lindsay spent most of her time at home, writing by herself, she decided to take matters into her own hands.
So she’d logged onto the most popular website there was (the most dates, relationships, and marriages of any site, at least according to their ads), figuring it was best to cast a wide net. She uploaded her photo, filled out the questionnaire with what she hoped were pithy and interesting responses, and then waited. She didn’t get any winks – the site’s way of letting you know someone was interested — for at least six hours, which made her slightly anxious.
Was it possible she wasn’t even interesting enough for random men on the internet? What about the stalkers who were always looking for someone to bother and cajole into cybersex?
Although maybe people didn’t do that anymore. It was probably all webcam sex now, people taking their clothes off while Skyping. She would ask Jamie about it later.
Jamie was alwa
ys up on the latest trends, especially if they had to do with sex.
Lindsay did her best to put the profile out of her mind, and the world of internet dating must have worked like a watched pot, because when she checked her email box that night, there were four winks.. None of the men seemed particularly promising (one was married, another had a colony of ants he kept as pets, etc.), but she was so thrilled someone was responding that she wrote a little note back to each one, saying they looked lovely, but that she didn’t think they would be a good match.
The man with the ants wrote back and called her an entitled bitch, which kind of soured her on the whole internet dating thing. Still, she’d spent all that time setting up her profile, so she decided to keep it up, hoping that perhaps someone interesting would reply.
But after a few weeks, sorting through all the winks had gotten tedious, and she usually just deleted the messages without even reading them.
A few months later, around ten o’clock on a warm summer night, Lindsay was trying to catch up on her word count for the day when she heard a pinging sound come from her computer speakers. She minimized her word document and clicked on the safari window to see what it was.
A message. From RedSoxChace, a user on the dating site. She must have forgotten to sign out last time she signed in to delete her winks, and now this guy was using the site’s instant message service to communicate with her.
“I love romance novels,” the IM said. “Glad to see you like Susan Elizabeth
Phillips, too, She’s one of my favorites!”
Lindsay rolled her eyes. Men were always giving her shit about the fact that she wrote romance books. She couldn’t count the number of times guys asked her if she was going to write them into a book, or thought she was into kinky sex just because she wrote love stories.
Usually Lindsay would have ignored a message like that, but it was late, and she was avoiding her manuscript.
She typed out a quick response. “Glad to hear it — what’s your favorite book of
hers?”
The reply came almost immediately. “MATCH ME IF YOU CAN. I just love
sports agents. They’re so sexy.”
She laughed out loud. Yeah, it was a little cheesy, but the guy got major points for looking up a Susan Elizabeth Phillips book before he messaged her. It showed a willingness to make an effort.
