by Jane Graves
“Yeah. When it was new, Car and Driver named it the safest car on the road. A train could hit it and the only thing damaged would be the train. For sheer safety, nothing beats this baby.” He gave it a hearty pat on the fender. “Which is why it was the only car I ever let my daughter drive.”
Kari looked horrified. “You inflicted this disgusting thing on her? What did the other kids say?”
“They laughed their asses off.”
“My God. Your poor daughter.”
“There’s no use giving a teenager a decent car. They’ll just back it into something and tear it up.” He paused. “Or swerve to miss a deer and wrap it around a tree.”
“Funny.”
“Angela bought a new used one when she went to college. I told her I’d match whatever she saved. She saved, I matched.”
“Thank God. If she’d had to drive this one to college, she’d have probably stayed home.”
“Going against the crowd builds character.”
“Why do you call it the Bomb? That makes me a little nervous.”
“Angela called it that. She swore it was such a mess it was going to explode.”
“So that’s possible? It might actually explode?”
“Nah,” Marc said. “It’s way more likely that the engine will overheat or the starter will go out.”
“What do I do if it does?”
“Call me. That way when you have to walk home, I won’t wonder where you are.”
“How sweet.” She looked back at the car. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Deadly.”
“You’re sure it runs?”
“Like a top. Too bad it doesn’t run like a car.”
With that, Marc tossed her the keys. She caught them midair.
“It has a full tank of gas,” Marc said. “That should hold you until you can afford to put gas in it yourself.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Come with me. I want you to meet the guys who work here. They need to know who you are so they don’t wonder why a strange woman is wandering around.”
He took her down a path to a big metal warehouse-like structure he referred to as “the barn.” Inside she saw barrel after barrel stacked almost to the ceiling, along with shiny stainless steel equipment with all kinds of hoses sticking out of it. Two men stopped what they were doing and walked over. One was a Mexican man who looked to be in his late fifties who Marc introduced as Ramon, and the other was a tall, gangly, thirty-something guy named Michael who wore a Rangers baseball cap and iPod earbuds.
“This is Kari,” Marc said. “She’s going to be staying in the cottage for a few weeks.”
Kari reached out to shake their hands, only to have them smile and hold up their dirty palms.
“Michael and Ramon are the only employees on site right now,” Marc said. “The three of us handle the work for part of the year, and then I have contract guys who come in for pruning and harvest and some of the spring prep. About all we’re doing now is staying ahead of insect infestation and getting the equipment ready for crush and fermentation.”
“Crush?”
“After the grapes are picked and destemmed, a machine splits the skins to let the juice escape.”
Kari smiled. “Like Lucy Ricardo stomping the grapes?”
“That’s how it used to be done. We have a machine for that now, thank God.”
“Darn. I was looking forward to hiking up my skirt and getting purple feet.”
Ramon smiled. “Ah. A traditional woman. I like that.”
“Anything for the cause,” Kari said, appreciating Ramon’s smile since Marc didn’t seem to have any of his own to offer.
Ramon and Michael went back to work, and Marc led Kari out of the building. “Feel free to walk around the vineyard,” he told her. “But don’t distract the guys. They have work to do. And keep the rag mop close. There are coyotes and bobcats out here.”
Okay, she’d never thought about the wildlife. Poor Boo wouldn’t stand a chance against a house cat, much less a bobcat.
Marc pulled his phone from his pocket, poked around on it for a moment, then put it away again. “I have work to do,” he told her. “Let me know if you have any problems at the cottage. Keep the place clean, and turn the lights off when you’re not there. No sense wasting electricity.”
With that, he turned and walked away. She’d hoped maybe he wasn’t going to act totally like a landlord, that he might even invite her to dinner at the Big House. Unfortunately, no invitation seemed to be forthcoming.
A little disappointed, Kari went back to the cottage. She tossed the keys to the Bomb on the dresser, then looked in the pantry. She saw five cans of pork and beans, three cans of corn, six boxes of macaroni and cheese, and a box of granola bars. That was what she had to eat between now and the time she could get a discounted lunch at Rosie’s or buy a few groceries for herself. She sighed. It beat nothing. Barely.
Next she opened her suitcases and put her clothes away. She had enough basic personal-care stuff with her to hold her for a while, and she had plenty of clothes and shoes since she always overpacked. Unfortunately, none of them were terribly practical for work, but they’d have to do until she could afford to buy more.
She looked at her phone. She had only a few weeks left before she’d be getting a bill for next month’s service. Since she couldn’t imagine being without her phone, she’d have to find a way to pay the bill even if she didn’t eat.
A short time later, she was settled in, feeling pretty good about things. But as it grew later, she got just a little bit scared.
Yeah, she’d managed to tell Greg she didn’t want to go back to Houston with him, but that was because she’d had a very large, very intimidating man backing her up. And she’d also succeeded at getting a job, but probably the only reason Rosie had hired her was because she said she was a friend of Marc’s. She had a place to live and food to eat, but again…Marc. And he’d told her point-blank he expected her to fail.
She scooped Boo up and cuddled him against her. She had to make this work. If she didn’t, she’d be back in Houston.
Without Marc.
Later, as evening fell over the cottage, she glanced out the window and saw Marc on his deck, holding a glass of wine, staring out over the vineyard. Something about the way he stood there, strong and tall, made her breath catch in her throat. Then he sat down in one of the Adirondack chairs on the deck. Brandy came and lay beside him. He pulled out his phone, poked around on it, looked up at the sky, poked a little more, then put it away. Then he picked up his wineglass again and watched as the sun slipped below the horizon.
When Kari finally closed the blinds, she realized her heart was racing. What was it about Marc that made her insides melt? She could watch him twenty-four hours a day and still it wouldn’t be enough.
Then her gaze wandered to a photograph on the top of the dresser. It was of Marc and a teenage girl who had to be his daughter. Marc was sitting down, and his daughter stood behind him, leaning over with her arms wrapped around his neck. She was smiling.
So was Marc.
So there it was. Proof positive he’d smiled at least once in the past, and it elevated his handsome face into another realm entirely. Just the sight of it touched something inside Kari, something she tried not to think about.
Since her own mother’s death when she was eight years old, she’d felt so alone. No hugs, no smiles, nothing. Her father had filled her life with nothing but rules and regimentation, and just about the only time he spoke to her was to tell her she was doing something wrong. Christmases came and went with opulent gifts, elaborate dinners prepared by staff, and then her father retiring to his study as soon as it was all over because work couldn’t wait, even on holidays. Any attention she received came from nannies, but bonding with any of them had been a lost cause. She remembered one in particular she’d loved, a twenty-something woman who’d worked for families who’d traveled overseas and had endless stories about museums in Paris and ski
ing in Switzerland and camera safaris in Africa. But she’d been a little too cheerful and flamboyant for her father’s taste, and he’d sent her packing, replacing her with a woman who smiled even less than her father and kept schedules like a train conductor.
Kari quickly learned not to show off any accomplishments, because they were never enough. Unfortunately, big accomplishments had never been her forte. After all, she hadn’t had the lead in the school play in the seventh grade, she hadn’t graduated valedictorian, and she hadn’t gotten into an Ivy League school.
Then Greg came along, a younger version of her father, another man in her life who didn’t love her as much as he tolerated her. And now Jill had turned on her, telling her how dumb she was not to marry Greg, when it should have been obvious to anyone close to her that it would only make her miserable. Sometimes Kari had the feeling that the only deep, abiding love she was destined to feel in this life had died the day her mother had.
She looked back at the photo, at Marc’s beautiful daughter and his warm, genuine smile, and she felt a shot of envy so powerful she had to close her eyes to block out the feeling. There was no doubt in Kari’s mind that this girl knew what it was like to be loved.
Kari set the photo back onto the dresser, clicked the lamp off, and lay down. She closed her eyes. Soon she was on the edge of sleep, and weird, dreamy, nonsensical images swirled through her mind. She saw a lost, barefoot damsel in distress, wandering through a vineyard wearing a poufy white dress, desperate for a glimpse of her hero. Then she heard hoof beats in the distance. After a moment her white knight appeared, big and strong and powerful. As he galloped toward her, she felt his all-encompassing, everlasting love wash over her with a certainty that left her breathless.
And as he swept her onto his trusty steed, he was smiling.
Chapter 7
Dragging out of bed at 6:00 a.m. the next morning was a killer, but Kari was determined to be on time for her first day of work. She showered, dressed, ate another granola bar, and begged Boo not to pee all over the cottage while she was gone.
Kari had underestimated exactly how bad driving the Bomb was going to be. The headliner had come loose over the driver’s seat. It sat on top of her head, getting little pieces of whatever a headliner was made of in her hair. The radio didn’t work. The car smelled like a hundred-year-old coffin that had been pried open. About once every quarter mile, the car gave a little lurch that made it seem as if the engine was going to die, but it never did.
She arrived at Rosie’s with three minutes to spare. Parking the Bomb was like docking the Queen Mary, but she wedged it into a space behind the café and went inside. Rosie greeted her with a W-9 form, an application to fill out, and a pink bib apron that read, “Pets Welcome, People Tolerated.”
After Kari filled out the paperwork, Rosie introduced her to one of the other waitresses. Gloria was a dark-haired woman who looked to be about Kari’s age, whose engaging smile and easy manner made Kari’s apprehension start to melt away.
“Ever wait tables before?” Gloria asked.
“No,” Kari said.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure you’ll pick things up fast.”
Then another woman came through the kitchen door into the restaurant wearing skintight jeans, an equally skintight baby tee, and a Rosie’s Café apron. She was tall and solid with a pouf of Texas big hair, and she wore so much mascara Kari was surprised she could keep her eyes open.
“Morning girls,” the woman said, circling around the counter to pour herself a Diet Coke. “How was your weekend? Wait—never mind. Let me tell you about mine. I went out with Hank Waddell. Only we didn’t go out. We stayed in. And whew! That man will wear a woman out.” She stopped short and looked at Kari, her face falling into a frown. “Who are you?”
“Kari Worthington,” she said with a smile and stuck her hand out. “This is my first day.”
The woman ignored Kari’s hand. “So have you ever waited tables before?”
“No,” Kari said, letting her hand fall self-consciously back to her side. “This is my first job as a waitress.”
“It’s harder than you think. You’re wearing sandals. What’s with that?”
“It’s all I have right now.”
“By the end of your shift, your feet are going to be killing you. You’ll have blisters on top of your blisters. But hey, it’s your funeral.”
As the woman sauntered off, all of Kari’s prior apprehension returned with even more heaped on top. She turned to Gloria. “Who was that?”
“Bobbie Arnette.” Gloria sighed and lowered her voice. “She can be kinda mean. But she’s a good waitress, so Rosie keeps her around. Flirts with every guy who walks into the place. Most people don’t know what she’s really like, so she makes more tips than the rest of us put together. You probably ought to just try to stay out of her way.”
“Okay, girls,” Rosie said. “Sheila called in sick. That means each of you is going to have to take a couple of extra tables. More work, but more money.” She turned to Kari. “I want you to follow Gloria around for the morning shift. If you’re picking things up, I want you to take a couple of your own tables at lunch.”
Kari felt a shot of apprehension. “Uh…okay. Yeah. I can do that.”
Gloria showed Kari the order pads, took her to meet the kitchen staff, and gave her the lowdown on as many procedures as she could. Gloria also introduced her to Marla, a gnarled little woman who was approximately 120 years old. She’d been the hostess at the café long before Rosie had bought it, and she’d probably die behind that faux walnut hostess stand. Gloria told Kari that when Marla finally passed, they’d probably put her ashes on a shelf behind the counter so she could spend eternity there, even though it seemed as if she already had.
Then came the customers.
As they streamed through the door, Gloria stopped her tutorial and said, “Follow me, and keep your eyes and ears open.”
Kari couldn’t believe what happened over the next two hours. Shadowing Gloria was like trying to follow a herding dog as he was rounding up a flock of sheep. She shot left and right, from one table to another, then to the cash register, then to the kitchen and back again. Dog biscuits here, high chairs there, more coffee, endless plates and baskets of food, and directions to the bathroom. Before long, Kari’s back hurt, her feet were on fire, and she was sweating right through her shirt. She wasn’t sure she could remember a single bit of the advice Gloria shared with her along the way.
“How long does it usually stay busy at breakfast?” Kari asked, shoving a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.
“Right on into lunch,” Gloria said.
Kari groaned inwardly. As the lunch rush geared up, Rosie told her to take one of the smaller stations in the restaurant with only three tables. But to Kari, it seemed like three hundred.
She waited on a family of four. She got three of their orders right. One of the kids ended up with a grilled chicken sandwich instead of chicken nuggets, and she had to put the order in again. She wanted to tell the parents that fried stuff wasn’t good for the kid anyway and she was doing him a favor by bringing something grilled, but she didn’t think that would go over too well.
Then one of her customers called her over. “How about that chicken fried steak? It’s been twenty minutes.”
Chicken fried steak? Oh, God. Had she even put that order in?
Soon everything was a blur. The orders, the plates of food, the cooks slinging hamburger patties and sandwich fixings and french fries, and the whole time she felt either Bobbie watching her, waiting for her to screw up, or Rosie watching her when she did screw up.
Later in the shift, Marla led two men to one of Kari’s tables. They were young, attractive, and wore no wedding rings. Bobbie instantly came to attention.
“Whoa, mama,” she said, eyeing the two men. “That table’s mine.”
Kari blinked with surprise. “I thought…isn’t that my station?”
“Hmm. I’m afraid you
’re mistaken about that. But you’re new, so that’s probably why you’re confused.”
As Bobbie sashayed off to sidle up next to the men, Kari and Gloria went into the kitchen.
“What’s she doing taking a table in your station?” Gloria asked.
“It’s okay. It would have overloaded me.”
“But it’s your table. She shouldn’t hijack you like that.”
A few moments later, Bobbie came into the kitchen.
“Bobbie,” Gloria said. “You just took one of Kari’s tables.”
“She was moving too slow. It would have been next week before they got their food.”
“She’s new. Those guys would have cut her some slack.”
“Nobody should have to cut anybody any slack around here.” She looked at Kari. “You got two choices. Get moving or get lost.”
She grabbed two burger baskets from under the warming lights and flounced out of the kitchen.
“I can’t believe she just said that,” Kari said. “She acts as if she owns the place.”
“I know. She’s awful.”
“If she’s so awful, why doesn’t Rosie do something about her?”
“Rosie likes her people to fight their own battles, as long as they don’t do it in front of customers. She says that’s the only way problems stay fixed for good.”
It sounded to Kari as if Rosie could use a good human resources director, but it wasn’t her place to say so.
Next, Kari waited on a man with glasses and dirty-blond hair who looked to be in his late thirties. A camera sat in the seat beside him. He said he was an amateur photographer, and he’d heard Rainbow Valley was very picturesque. Like every other tourist who came in there, he seemed particularly interested in the apron Kari wore. He asked to take her picture, which meant she had to fake a smile, and it just about broke her face. Unfortunately, he also wanted to talk. How long have you lived in Rainbow Valley? Where are you from originally? How long have you worked here? Do you like it? She couldn’t be rude, but every moment she spent making small talk was a moment she wasn’t getting her work done.
