At the River’s Edge

by Mariah Stewart

  Violet turned away from the window and went into the small office that Sophie had selected as her own. There were others upstairs, all unused at this point, but apparently there was something about this room that she liked. It had two nice windows that looked across Old St. Mary’s Church Road, so it did have a view, but that was about all. Violet made a mental note to check upstairs for a few paintings to bring down and hang in what she already thought of as Sophie’s room. Something told her that the young woman would appreciate a few of the older prints that had once hung in her grandfather’s office. She seemed like someone who’d appreciate her roots, even if she was just discovering them.

  A sigh escaped Violet’s lips. If in fact Sophie was going to do something that was going to upset her family, she should be permitted to do so on her own terms and in her own time, and it wasn’t Violet’s place to interfere. And she of all people knew Curtis, knew how he could be when he wanted someone to do something—the word manipulative sprang to mind—whether or not others were inclined to go along with him. Lord knew she hated to judge, but it wasn’t easy for Curtis to back off when he wanted something—and right now, what he wanted was for Sophie to be one of the Enrights in Enright & Enright. How badly he wanted that to happen, Violet couldn’t know for certain, but perhaps it would be best not to get into the middle of all that.

  Best to let things take their natural course.

  Besides, there was always the chance that Enid would decide not to sell the property after all, and everyone would have gotten into a snit for no reason at all.

  Satisfied that her chosen course was the correct one, Violet answered the ringing phone with a clear conscience and a cheery voice.

  Jason picked up his set of documents from the settlement table and tucked them under his arm. He’d already said his goodbyes to the representative from the mortgage company and Paul, who’d handled the sale on behalf of both parties. Once outside, though, the new property owner broke into a huge grin, and mentally, he was jumping into the air, clicking his heels. Everything had gone smoothly, and he was in and out in less than an hour. He hopped into his truck and headed straight for River Road.

  He stopped the pickup at the gate, and leaving the engine idling, he got out and unlocked the gate with the key he’d been given. He swung the gate wide open, then drove his truck through and across the cracked and broken macadam to the back of the lot where the tree line began. There he parked and got out again.

  The wind had picked up, enough that he had to zip up his leather jacket almost to the neck, but he barely noticed. This was his place now. His. He walked every inch of it, clear down to the river, which effectively acted as the back property line. Once at the water’s edge, he raised a hand to his forehead, using it as a visor to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun, and looked downriver as far as he could. About a half mile away were the old warehouses that Dallas MacGregor had renovated and were now housing her start-up film company. A mile or so farther down was the start of the residential area, where several of the biggest and grandest homes in town were built in the nineteenth century. Dallas’s great-aunt Berry lived in one of those. He’d been at a holiday party Dallas and her husband, Grant, had hosted there in December. It was the fanciest house he’d ever been in. If his property had come with a dock, he’d probably be able to see the back of Berry’s property from here. He thought about the feasibility of putting a dock in, then dismissed the thought. It would serve no purpose but to amuse him if he ever decided to take up kayaking.

  From here the river looked endless, but he knew that around a curve or two it met the Bay. He liked that his property had a connection to the Chesapeake, albeit a peripheral one. He’d been in town long enough to understand that here, on the Eastern Shore, the Chesapeake was everything. Waterfront property was highly desirable. That he’d been able to purchase an acre of it delighted him. The only thing that would have made this day better was if Eric had been here to share it.

  Of course, if Eric were still alive, Jason most likely would never have come to St. Dennis. The plan was to continue to build the business in Florida once Eric left the military. There’d never been any thought of moving Bowers for Landscape north. It never occurred to him to wonder if he’d have been better off in Florida. He’d done what he’d needed to do, and there’d been no point in questioning the wisdom of selling the one business and starting up the next—though he knew all along he’d be rebuilding, he hadn’t thought of staying in St. Dennis. But once he’d made the decision, he’d moved right ahead with it, buying his equipment one piece at a time and hustling for customers. Landing those two big jobs—the Inn at Sinclair’s Point and the Enright property—had pretty much set him up.

  And now here he stood, his hands on his hips, surveying the little bit of the Eastern Shore that he could call his.

  He’d need to have a sign made for the gate, he thought as he walked through the wooded section to his truck. Mentally he tagged some hardwoods that he might be able to sell, maybe make a few dollars there—with luck, enough to have the front of the lot repaved.

  The stone building next door was the last piece he needed to complete his vision.

  He went to the fence and leaned on it. The sign over the door may have said Walsh’s, but he could blink and see Bowers for Landscape in black script, just like on the side of his truck and on his business cards. Paul had assured him that he’d contacted the owner, who wasn’t interested in selling at this time. Jason told him to try again in six weeks, feel her out, see if maybe the right offer would get her attention. In the meantime, Jason had plans for the lot he now owned. Right there, next to the fence, was the perfect spot for the mulch he’d be having delivered in the spring. The ground there was flat and the area was tucked off to the side, so the piles of the various kinds of mulches and soils he’d ordered wouldn’t interfere with parking the equipment he’d bought. He could run truck-loads of the stuff right down to the tree line. Right now, his deliveries were being made to a vacant lot he was renting from Hal Garrity, but once the new blacktop had been put down and cured, there’d be no need to rent space from anyone else.

  A truck with a Bobcat on the bed pulled into the lot, and Jason stepped away from the fence to greet the driver. It gave him great satisfaction to see his equipment parked on his property, no doubt about it. He glanced over his shoulder for one last look at the old stone building and thought how great this was all going to be when his vision was complete.

  Chapter 11

  SOPHIE drove straight through to Ohio, but she was still up and out early on Saturday morning. Her first stop was the car dealership on Township Line Road. She’d never been particularly fussy about what she drove, as long as it served its purpose. Her pretty little sedan had been intended only to be pretty and comfortable and reasonably efficient when it came to mileage. The car she was looking for now only had to have decent mpg and cargo space, even if she had to forgo some of the comfort. She was going to need lots of room to transport her belongings to St. Dennis, since hiring a mover was out of the question.

  She hit two more dealers before finding what she wanted. She ended up having to give up some of the mileage—and some of the comfort—for more cargo space, but the SUV was new and the dealer was offering great incentives, so with the trade-in on her sedan, her monthly payments were lower than what she’d been paying. She took this as a sign that things were going to fall into place. She’d have to go back on Monday to pick it up, but that was okay. She had one more trip to make this weekend, and it didn’t matter to her which vehicle she drove to get there.

  It was late afternoon when Sophie pulled into the parking lot at Shelby’s Diner, where she’d spent many an early summer morning scrambling eggs and making pancakes, and just as many afternoons flipping burgers on the grill. She left her car around back in the employees’ lot just for old times’ sake and went in through the front door.

  The interior hadn’t changed in the eight years since she’d hung up her apron th
e day after she learned she’d passed the bar exam. The tiles on the floor were still black and white, and the faux leather on the counter stool seats and the benches in the booths were still red and frayed in spots. There was still a lot of chrome and glass, and the smell of cooking burgers still made her mouth water. She stood in front of the reception desk, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. It took her back to the first time she walked through that door to apply for the advertised job.

  When she opened her eyes, she found the hostess staring at her.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked warily from behind the desk. “Are you all right?”

  Shelby herself appeared before Sophie could respond to the hostess. “Sophie! It’s so good to see you!”

  Shelby touched a hand to Sophie’s shoulder-length hair. “I remember when your hair grew almost to your waist.” Shelby then reached up to her head, where gray stubble grew. “Mine too.”

  Surprised by the woman’s appearance, Sophie wordlessly hugged her old boss. For as long as she’d known her, Shelby’s hair had been long, dark auburn streaked with gray. Now, except for the stubble, she was completely bald.

  “Don’t bother telling me how good I look.” Shelby returned the hug. “They tell me it grows back, but it’s taking its damned sweet time.”

  “Shelby, what …?” Sophie sought words.

  “Yeah, I probably should have mentioned it when you called, but I didn’t want to scare you off.”

  “Why would I be scared off?”

  “Some folks have a problem being around sick people and they don’t know what to say. Yes, I have cancer, and yes, I’m having chemotherapy. The doctors all tell me I’m doing real good with the treatments and I’m not as sick as some people get with them, so it’s all good, right?” Shelby ushered Sophie into the last booth.

  “I’ll take good, Shelby,” Sophie replied. “As long as the doctor’s are optimistic, I’ll take it.”

  Shelby nodded. “It’s only been a few months, but like I said, it’s going well.” She signaled for a waitress. “What can we get you? Coffee? Iced tea? A soda?”

  “Water would be fine.”

  “That’s it? You drove all this way for a glass of water?”

  “I drove all this way to talk to you.”

  “Jean-Anne, bring my friend a glass of water. Throw some lemon in it.” Shelby instructed the waitress she’d called to the table. “You can bring me a cup of my tea.”

  Shelby turned to Sophie and wrinkled her nose. “Herb tea. That’s what I’ve been reduced to drinking. Herb tea.”

  “There are some very fine ones on the market,” Sophie told her.

  “I like my coffee. Strong and dark. But it makes me sick to my stomach these days. This herbal stuff …” She shrugged. “But whatcha gonna do?”

  “How much longer will you be getting treatments?” Sophie asked, not sure what questions would be too personal, what might make Shelby uncomfortable.

  “Till they tell me I can stop.” She shrugged again. “Look, I’m fifty-seven years old and I have had one hell of a good ride in this life. I’ll do what I have to do to keep it all going—I mean, I won’t give up without a damned good fight—but I got nothing to complain about. Like I said, I’ve had a good life. That’s more than a lot of folks can say.”

  Sophie nodded, grateful when the waitress served her water and Shelby’s tea because it gave her a moment to swallow the lump in her throat.

  “Now, what brings you back to Shelby’s? You said you wanted to pick my brain about something?”

  “I do.” Sophie took a sip of water, then put the glass on the chipped tabletop. “I need your advice.”

  “About …?”

  “About running a restaurant.”

  Shelby raised an eyebrow. “Who wants to run a restaurant?”

  “I do.”

  “You went to law school to be a lawyer, right?”

  Sophie nodded. “I did. And I like being a lawyer. But the best job I ever had was right here.”

  “You were a short-order cook.” Shelby was frowning. “You didn’t need to go to law school to do that.”

  “I went to law school because everyone expected me to. I became a lawyer because that’s what people in my family do.”

  “They don’t become short-order cooks.”

  “Not until now.”

  Shelby sighed. “So you want, what, to go back to cooking?”

  “In my own restaurant.”

  “No offense, hon, but what do you know about owning a restaurant?”

  “Very little. That’s why I’m here.” Sophie tucked her hair behind her ear. “The place I’m looking at is very small. Maybe a dozen tables. I’m thinking about a relatively limited and simple menu, breakfast and lunch only.”

  “How do you plan on making any money serving two meals a day?”

  “The restaurant is in a small town that gets a lot of tourist trade, it’s right next door to a bait shop that does a lot of business, and it’s a stone’s throw from Dallas MacGregor’s new film studio.”

  “Dallas MacGregor, the movie star?”

  When Sophie nodded, Shelby said, “She moved to some small town in Delaware or Jersey. I read about it in People.”

  “Maryland,” Sophie told her. “St. Dennis, Maryland. My brother lives there, and soon, I will, too.”

  “This a done deal?”

  “Not yet,” Sophie admitted. “Right now it’s still in the dream phase. But when the place comes up for sale, I want to be ready.”

  “So what is it that you think I can tell you?”

  “You’ve been in the business for a long time …”

  Shelby nodded. “Since I was twenty-two and my husband and I bought the place from his uncle. Scrapped together every penny we could get our hands on, but we did it.”

  “I figured you’ve learned a few things in all that time. Maybe you’d be willing to give me a few pointers.”

  Shelby played with her tea bag for a moment.

  “Okay, so you want a crash course in making a go at it? You want to know what I’ve learned over the past thirty-five years?” When Sophie nodded, Shelby said, “You start taking notes, because I’m not going to repeat myself.”

  Sophie looked in her bag for her iPad, then decided to go old school with a pad and pen. She wasn’t as fast a typist as Shelby was a talker.

  “Okay,” she told the older woman. “Shoot.”

  “First of all, you gotta know your place, every inch of it. First thing in the morning, you stand in the doorway and check it out. The floor and tables are clean and the flowers on every table are fresh. Did the kid who sat at the table near the window lick the glass and leave a smear? Make sure it’s been wiped off.” Shelby drummed a finger on the tabletop. “Most important thing: the customer is always right. Cliché, right? It’s always true, no matter what. No one, but no one in your place argues with a customer. Something isn’t making them happy? It’s the job of every employee in your place to make them happy. That is rule number one. You cannot be a success if anyone leaves your restaurant unhappy with the food or the service or anything else. Without your customers, you have no business. Never forget that. Especially,” she pointed at Sophie, “if your business is small. Your restaurant’s success will depend on your repeat customers. Treat them like royalty.”

  “Okay.” Sophie wrote furiously. “Got it.”

  “You might have real celebrities in your place from time to time, that close to the studio, but everyone who comes in wants to feel like a celebrity, like they are special. They want to be waited on and fussed over just a little. You know how good it feels to walk into an establishment—restaurant, bar, coffee shop, whatever—and people remember your name.” She pointed her spoon at the pad on which Sophie took notes. “Write that down. Get to know your customers’ names and call them by name.”

  Sophie nodded.

  “Now, the food. What are you planning on offering?”

  “Breakfast fare, the usual
…”

  “What’s usual?” Shelby stopped her.

  “Eggs, omelets, cereal …” Sophie realized Shelby was staring at her. “What?”

  “Small place, small menu. Unless you’re planning on hiring a staff the size of mine, you need to limit what you’re going to put on that menu.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I’d do just a few staple items—maybe eggs two or three ways, toast, potatoes, sausage, bacon. Forget the cold cereals and offer oatmeal. No guy going out on a boat at five in the morning wants to eat cold cereal, trust me, and most of them aren’t looking for fruit and yogurt at that hour of the day. But, since hopefully you’re also going to be bringing in the studio people, you have early-bird specials for the fishermen, then later in the morning, maybe around seven or eight or so, you start offering something lighter, like the fruit and yogurt, maybe a little homemade granola. But nothing fancy. You won’t have time for fancy,” Shelby warned. “You need to stick to the basics. But then, have a special on the menu—pancakes one day, waffles another, omelets, whatever. But make that the same day every week, follow?”

  “Ham Omelet Monday. Pancake Wednesday.”

  “Right. Day-of-the-week specials. Now, lunch is a different thing, but basics. Burgers, BLTs, grilled cheese. But again, a special every day. Chili in the winter, a nice quiche in the spring. Some sort of comfort food every day. I want to say it again: you won’t have time for fancy, so you have to make sure that everything you serve is worth coming back for. Everything has to be simple, but it has to be the best in its class, you follow? Burgers from the best beef you can get your hands on, applewood-smoked bacon, fresh salads. Everything homemade, Sophie. Find someone local who sells homegrown produce and you’ve got it made.” Shelby winked. “Those film types will love it if you serve an heirloom tomato salad.”

  Sophie immediately thought of Clay Madison. “A friend of my brother’s has an organic farm and I’m pretty sure he sells to restaurants in town.”