by L. L. Muir
The woman waved her fingers when the lass introduced her as Sherry. She then flicked a paper hanging above the cook’s station. “How long on the steak and eggs?”
Jordan, as the cook was called, gave Fin barely a nod, then tested the surface of a generous slab of meat with the corner of his metal spatula. A spit of juice danced onto the hot surface and fizzled to nothing. The smell was pure heaven, and Fin’s mouth watered for the first time in nearly three hundred years.
“One minute,” Jordan said. His black ponytail was caught in a net at the back of his head. His denims held only to the bottom half of his buttocks, but thankfully, he had drawers on beneath them so the ladies were spared the sight of his arse.
The third staffer, a younger man called Dante, said nothing at all but continued to glance nervously at Fin’s clothes when his attention should have been on the blade in his hands. But the lad quickly realized the danger and returned his attention to chopping up a pile of pale yellow onions the size of Fin’s fist.
Sherry snatched up two food-laden plates, then not-so-slyly looked Fin over as she backed her way through the right half of two swiveling shutters. They resembled the doors on a saloon in the American Old West. Of course, he’d only glimpsed such things on small television screens, but it was amusing to see them in person for a change.
Just as Sherry was about to disappear she caught sight of Fin’s smile and mistook it for interest.
“All righty then.” Apparently, Angel mistook it for the same and widened her eyes to mask her own amusement. “Let’s get you some breakfast so you’ve got some energy to work.” She scooted around Jordan and headed for the swiveling doors, waving at him to follow.
“Nay, lass.” Fin spoke the words louder than intended, but the sound of sizzling food and clanking tools made it necessary. “I’ll not eat food I have yet to earn.” He glanced around, located the door through which a tall pile of plates could be seen, and moved that way. The lass followed. Once inside the room, she produced a bit of white cloth with little strings, then showed him where thick gloves awaited his hands.
He held up the cloth, then grimaced at her.
She chuckled. “Sorry, buddy. They’re one size fits all.”
Fin watched as she took another bit of white for herself and magically turned it into an apron, tying it neatly in front of her. He frowned at his own, then tried to find the piece that would loop over his neck. But after examining each lead twice, he gave up and offered it back to her.
“I find it passing strange to hear a woman called by her surname, aye?”
She shivered suddenly, then shook her head while she avoided eye contact. “My dad was Mott. I was called Little Mott. Now that he’s gone, I’ve been promoted.”
“My condolences.”
She grimaced and gave a wee shrug, then snatched the mess out of his hands, produced the elusive loop, and slipped it over his head. Her straight white teeth pressed into her plump bottom lip for a moment, then she gestured behind him. “You gotta…” She demonstrated how he might flip his hair from beneath the loop.
He had a wicked thought and pretended not to understand.
“Oh, here,” she said, slightly exasperated, and reached around his neck to lift his hair away.
He touched her arms casually as if to steady her. After all, she had to rise onto her toes to do the deed, and he hadn’t bent an inch to make it easier. She quickly pulled her arms back and to his dismay, she apologized to him.
“You’ll have to tie it back, you know, to keep it out of the way. We can’t have hair sticking to the clean plates. New hair ties are in that box.” She pointed over his shoulder but snatched her arm back as if she thought he might be offended by her touch.
“Soap is there. Scrubbers there. Fill the shallow sink with hot soapy water, and for a final rinse, you grab the sprayer. Step on that.” She pointed to a large button on the floor the size of a scone, “and be careful not to scald yourself with the steam. Remember that heat rises. Got it?” She backed toward the doorway without waiting for his response. “It takes some getting used to, handling dishes with rubber gloves. If you break a couple, I promise not to charge you for them. I’m just…” She blushed, and not from the heat, he reckoned, “grateful for the help. Let me know when you’re ready to cry uncle, and I’ll get you a menu.”
Kitchen noises ceased when she rejoined the others. He supposed her workers had questions about the stranger she’d allowed into their midst, but he had no time to eavesdrop. He appeared to have well over a hundred dishes to wash and he would be sorely disappointed if Angel ran out of bacon before he finished with them!
CHAPTER FIVE
Angel went straight to the vegetable sink, soaked part of a bar towel, and pressed it to her face. She was burning up, blushing like some teenager, and so out of control she couldn’t keep it together even though her staff was staring.
Sherry abandoned the steak and eggs she’d been garnishing, stepped close, and lowered her voice. “I don’t blame you a bit. I had to drop a piece of ice in my cleavage after her smiled at me.”
Angel was relieved it wasn’t just her. She dipped the towel once more and offered it to Dante as a joke. The kid’s eyes widened and he cringed like she was offering him a snake to hold. When everyone else laughed, Dante relaxed.
“All right. Let’s get back to work then.”
Sherry picked up the steak plate and the fresh pot of coffee. “Number four should be ready to order now.”
Number four. Take their order. Focus.
The pressure sprayer hissed from the wash room, and Angel jumped like someone had dropped a firecracker behind her. When a plate shattered in the sink, followed by a string of loud but unintelligible curses, she exchanged a knowing look with Jordan and Dante, then quickly fled through the swinging doors.
Number four. Take their order. Focus—
Another dish broke. Sounded like a cup. But at least the customers were smiling, right?
“Well, if it isn’t Little Mott.” The man seated alone at number four was one of their oldest customers, TJ Trainer. When she saw his grinning mug, she winced, knowing what was coming. “My, my, but it’s early in the day for you to be looking so Haggard!”
He bellowed the last word as he always did. Just like ten others would do at some time or other during the day. It was a tradition started on the first day Haggard’s opened—a restaurant named for her dad’s favorite country singer, Merle Haggard. And when anyone yelled Haggard, the employees had to turn on a Merle Haggard song. Technology had changed a dozen times through the years, and now, all she had to do was hit the big red button on the wall and the iPod in the office would choose one of Merle’s greatest hits.
She didn’t bother trying to take TJ’s order before pressing the button. She hit it with an extra loud smack just to please him. Then she held her breath and prayed it wouldn’t be Okie From Muskogee. But, with no lead in at all, the old boy’s voice rang out through the dining room…
“We don’t smoke marijuana in Muskogee…”
By the time he sang marijuana, half the room was singing, including TJ. He sang the word almost as loud as he’d hollered Haggard.
Angel groaned, then returned to his table to give him a big hug. The old trucker sat down again and finally stopped singing. He gave her hand a squeeze. “How are you, Little Mott?”
“I’m good, TJ. How are you? Have you come out of retirement?”
“Aw, no. Just traveling through to see my grandkids in Nevada. Wouldn’t think of passing through without stopping. I sure miss this place.”
The man had driven truck all his life and had stopped at Haggard’s Grill at least once a week on his cross-country routes. Angel could almost hear her dad’s voice hollering from the kitchen, saying, “TJ Trainer, haven’t they found a way to get your sorry butt off the road, yet?”
So, for old times’ sake… “We’re all just lucky they found a way to get your sorry butt off the road.”
TJ’s la
ugh was more like a bark. “Just as bad as yer dad, aren’t ya?”
She shrugged. “Maybe one day, if I work at it.” Since business was lighter than usual, and Sherry had the other tables covered for the moment, Angel sat down and tried to visit over the two minutes and forty-six seconds of the song.
Sherry stepped over to them. “Let me get your breakfast started while you two are visiting.” She took TJ’s order, asked Angel if she wanted anything, then disappeared.
After the final chorus, the room fell back to normal breakfast noises. TJ reached out and held her hands. “How is business?”
“Business is good. We’re getting pretty famous, you know.” Famous for no parking.
TJ didn’t look convinced. “You look tired, darlin’. Pretty, but tired.”
She sighed. “I am tired. I won’t deny that. But don’t worry. I’ve been thinking about taking a nice long vacation this winter.”
“Yessir. Your ol’ dad used to lie about vacations, too.” He shook his head. “This is tough work for one person to manage. You need to snag you one of these hard-workin’ men so you can get away like you say. When Mott started out, he was just a little older than you are now. Hell, he was ten years older than me, God rest him. But he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he did if you hadn’t come along.”
Angel just nodded, accepting what she already knew. “Mott could have retired and enjoyed himself for at least a decade if he hadn’t been hanging onto the business for me. He could have sold the place and travelled the world if I hadn’t shown up on his doorstep.”
TJ laughed. “Pink suitcase and princess underwear. I must have heard him tell it a hundred times.”
She often wondered if her dad wished she hadn’t come along. Of course, being John Mott, he never would have turned her away. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t wished for a different life. He was already fifty when her mother dropped her off with a note that said Angel was his child.
“Don’t kid yerself,” TJ said and squeezed her hands one last time before leaning back to let Sherry put his coffee on the table in front of him. “Best day of his life. Maybe he didn’t tell you, but he told everyone else you were an answer to his prayers—he finally had someone to leave his business to. Made him feel immortal.”
Immortal? Well, John Mott’s legacy wasn’t going to last much longer if she couldn’t turn things around. But TJ didn’t need to know that. It did make her sad, though, to think that a year from now, or two, TJ Trainer might be travelling through the canyon on his way to see those grandkids again, only to find that his favorite watering hole had closed down—or been re-opened by someone who had no appreciation for Merle Haggard’s greatest hits.
She listened to TJ ramble on for a while longer. He repeated all the old stand-by stories about how her dad handled belligerent customers, killed rattlesnakes in the parking lot, and dealt with employees she barely remembered. He was threatening to holler Haggard again when their visit was interrupted.
The crash and clink of yet another breaking plate came through the swinging doors along with a worried Sherry. But instead of saying a word, she just held the half-door open like she fully expected Angel to deal with the stranger cursing even louder than TJ sang.
Angel excused herself and marched past the waitress, knowing that every eye in the place was watching and listening. Jordan stood alone in the kitchen, not bothering to keep a straight face.
She panicked. “Where’s Dante?”
“Went out for a smoke.”
“Dante doesn’t smoke.”
“Maybe he does now.”
“You know we can’t afford to lose him.” She pointed to the back hall. “Go make sure he’s just taking a break and not trying to hitch a ride down the canyon. Tell him anything. Tell him to come eat, that I’m buying. He can sit in the dining room and relax for a little while. Whatever you think it will take.”
Jordan slid TJ’s breakfast onto a plate, handed it to Sherry, then hurried out the back way. Sherry bugged her eyes out in a universal sign for good luck, then left the kitchen again. Angel looked at the doorway to the washroom and tried to imagine what she would find there. But all she could think about were a pair of stormy blue eyes…
What sounded like cymbals crashing meant that a large pot had fallen into the metal sink, and she seriously considered running out to the parking lot herself. But this was her place. And it was her job to deal with employees, no matter how temporary—no matter how hot.
CHAPTER SIX
She took a deep breath and stepped into the opening. “I thought I hired a man, not a gorilla—” She choked on the last word, shocked by the sight of a half-naked man standing in the sinks. He’d removed his apron and shirt, but thankfully kept his kilt on, the excess of which lay around his hips like a thick, twisted belt. His right foot was planted in the left sink while his other foot seemed to be stuck in the yellow mop bucket, which for some reason had been placed in the center sink.
One of his arms was covered with wet bar towels that were secured with a thin leather belt. The other arm was occupied with holding up the detached end of a white wire rack that still held a few metal pots, though they didn’t look like they would stay put much longer. If he lowered his end another inch, the pans would come crashing down on his head. His smooth but muscular stomach was something she’d never really seen in real life.
He glared at her like he didn’t appreciate the interruption.
She held her hands up in surrender. “Hey. Sorry. You don’t want help? No problem.” She turned her back on him just so she could laugh silently without hurting his feelings.
“Wait, lass. Wait.”
She composed herself as best she could and turned around again. “What can I do?”
“If I hadn’t dropped the mop…” He grumbled something intelligible again, which she realized was an actual language. “I wondered if ye might…hand me the mop.”
The item in question lay beneath the sinks between three pieces of a plate that had broken cleanly—probably due to the inch of water that had yet to find its way to the drain. She tossed the broken pieces in the trash, then picked up the mop and offered it to the guy while she struggled to avert her eyes from the hem of his kilt. He gave a little nod and took it.
“Anything else? Would you like a ladder, maybe?”
He exhaled impatiently, then shook his head. “Nay, I thank ye.” He looked pointedly at the doorway behind her.
“Okaaay.” She walked slowly back into the kitchen and waited for the next crash. It was a stupid move and she knew it. She should have taken control of the situation and started giving orders. After all, those were her pans he was about to dent up, and if…
If I end up selling the place, or the equipment, a dent in the pots might mean a dent in their selling price.
Angel shook the treacherous thought away. They were still her pots—they would stay her pots. She could dent them if she wanted to.
She waited another long minute, but nothing crashed. She could hear him moving around, but she couldn’t imagine he could get far with his foot stuck in the bucket. Angel Mott was pretty stubborn in her own right, however, and she had no problem waiting him out. He would just have to swallow his pride and ask her to come back.
The sight of the stovetop gave her great idea to weaken him—she’d start cooking bacon, he would cry uncle.
The bell rang. Someone was either coming in or leaving. Cowardly Sherry would just have to handle them.
Angel opened a new package of bacon, laid the thick slices out on the griddle, and turned the heat back on. They started sizzling in no time. Sherry slithered in and hooked an order above Angel’s head. She glanced nervously toward the washroom, then slithered out again.
“Mr. Robertson,” Angel finally called out. “Are you getting hungry?”
“Famished.” His deep voice came from just behind and startled her so badly she nearly jumped up on the hot griddle. “But call me Fin, if it pleases ye. Will ye have any o’ that
bacon left after ye feed yer customers, do ye think?”
She looked down at his feet. Neither of his boots were wet, which meant the sink and the bucket must have been empty. But she couldn’t imagine how he’d climbed down without all those pans landing on the floor. She just had to see for herself.
“Watch the bacon. It’s for you, so don’t let it burn.” She handed him the tongs and rushed to the doorway.
Just inside the tall garbage can were the remnants of the broken dishes—more than the ones she’d heard break, but replacing them would cost twenty bucks, tops. The wire rack was hanging level again, but the bracket was missing. Holding it in place was a thick, dark string that looped around the water pipe a foot above the shelf. The pans sat back at the opposite end of the rack, where they belonged until the weekend rush.
His dripping shirt and apron were draped over hangers above the corner drain. No wonder he’d taken them off—they looked like he’d gone swimming in them.
What shocked her the most was the rolling cart with rack after rack of drying dishes. On the metal drainer at the end of the sinks were the pans from a day and a half of heavy cooking. They were all stacked up neatly, staggered so air could get between them. She’d been so shocked to find him standing in the sink, she’d completely missed the work he’d actually done.
The sinks looked as if they’d been scrubbed for hours. The terracotta tiled floor looked new again.
If the health inspector needed to drop in on us, today would be an excellent day to do it!
Chills ran up her spine and gathered at the back of her neck, telling her the guy was standing close behind her. Coolly, she asked how he’d managed to fix the wire rack without dumping the pans on his head.
“‘Twas why I needed the mop, aye? To hold it up while I secured it.” He put his fingers on her shoulders and urged her to turn and face him. When she did, he lowered his chin to give her a serious look. “Ye should know I was the one who broke it. The fix is but temporary.”
