One Summer_...at Charlie's Diner

by Mary Jane Forbes

  One Summer

  …at Charlie’s Diner

  BAKER GIRL SERIES, BOOK ONE

  MARY JANE FORBES

  Todd Book Publications

  One Summer … at Charlie’s Diner

  Star Bloom is devastated—fired on a phony sexual harassment charge from her pastry chef job at a five-star restaurant. Seeing a help wanted sign in a window, she applies for the job as a waitress at the little diner near the Daytona Beach boardwalk.

  Tyler Jackman, a wannabe cartoonist, works at the diner as a waiter. He falls for the pretty blonde, coming to her rescue time and time again. But Star doesn’t see him as anything more than a new friend.

  Star is drawn to Ash, a handsome mystery man who frequents the diner. He begins to meet her after work, walks her home, and they share coffee on the beach. A summer romance?

  The three lives intertwine as they strive to make their dreams come true. Will love, jealousy, friendship help or hinder their struggles?

  What do an aspiring pastry chef, a wannabe cartoonist,

  and a mysterious reporter have in common—Charlie’s Diner!

  Dedication

  To: The Diner Sleuths

  Marcia Campbell

  Peggy Keeney

  Jeanne O’Brien

  A springtime visit turned into a challenge:

  Come up with a storyline for my new novel.

  Over coffee the ideas flew about.

  Over lunch the story came to life.

  Then, in a diner,

  over a decadent piece of chocolate fudge cake

  with whipped cream and a cherry on top, emerged…

  One Summer

  … at Charlie’s Diner

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  Holiday Short Story

  Will a magical kiss change Bessie’s life forever?

  The Christmas holidays arrive on Bessie’s magical mountain. Magical because her village awakes on December first and goes back to sleep at the stroke of midnight Christmas Eve.

  Little did twenty-one year old Bessie know that today, when the ten-o’clock train rolls to a stop at the summit of the snow-covered mountain, Matthew, a handsome stranger, will climb down from the coach car and enter her world. Bessie’s father warns her she can only be Matthew’s friend. Time is short on the mountain, and he must leave on the midnight train.

  He cannot miss it!

  ***

  If you like the Cinderella and Snow White stories, you’ll love Once Upon a Christmas Eve. This short story combines the scent of Christmas cookies baking, twinkling tree lights, and the struggles of young love.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1…

  Request Review

  Acknowledgements

  Author Notes

  YOUR COMPLIMENTARY BOOK

  NOVELS BY MARY JANE FORBES

  Excerpt, Promises

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  ────

  FIRED!

  Star’s spanky-new white sneakers slapped the sidewalk, her arms tight around a dinged-up black duffle bag.

  “Hey, Blondie, want a ride?” The red love-wagon slowed alongside her, three young punks hanging out the windows. Another man-boy called out the driver’s window, “Come on-Blondie. Wherever you’re going, we’re going.”

  Without a glance, Star flipped a bird at the jerks and was immediately horrified at her slutty salvo. Gran, would die if she saw what I just did. Get a grip, Star.

  Ten minutes ago, she had held her head high, marched out of the hotel kitchen, marched through the dining room, marched out the marbled lobby into the bright sunshine.

  Fired!

  She’d show them some day.

  She’d serve a fancy French pastry to a queen, well, maybe not a queen but definitely someone rich and famous.

  Sexual harassment!

  Fired for harassing pimply-faced Howard Boggs. Over the past month he had ratted on her numerous times for changing the ingredients—a pinch of this or that, adding bits of flavor. He had the imagination of a toad. Howie—all he wanted was to get her between the sheets. He didn’t get what the word NO meant. Kept pinching her butt. And the nerve—pushing her into the racks of flour and sugar, trying to feel her up, trying to kiss her. But she showed him. Oh yeah, he felt that knee in his crotch.

  Sexual harassment?

  She should have ratted on him, then he would have been the one to get fired. Or, maybe not. The pimple-faced toad was the nephew of the head chef.

  Now, I’m out of a job. Not a job. My dream job. Out on the street making ugly gestures.

  The grind of car engines, the smell of exhaust, signaled traffic building on Atlantic Avenue. The street crowded with bikini-clad girls laughing, strolling in groups down the alleys to the beach. Following very close behind the bikinis were Tarzan-like boys, joking, making sly remarks carrying surfboards under their arms or over their heads. Spring break would end soon followed by young graduates celebrating their freedom, their escape from ivy-covered buildings.

  Arriving next, families carting kids, lots of kids. After all, Disney World was only an hour away.

  Tourists flocking to the east coast of Florida, flocking to the land of sunshine.

  Paradise!

  The streets, sidewalks, sand, and surf beckoning, welcoming the visitors.

  What am I going to do? What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

  Last day of April. Restaurants were staffed for tourist season, managers training young servers proper etiquette—etiquette guaranteed to keep the customer ordering more, etiquette so the customer rewarded the server with an extra tip, a tip that still had to be divided between the kitchen staff. Spring-breakers arrived every week for fun in the sun, strolling to the Daytona Beach boardwalk, buying trinkets, riding the Ferris wheel, swaying to concerts at the Bandshell. Merchants were ready to rake in the dough from the breakers, from the tourists with kids, all with money in their pockets, eager to spend.

  Money. Star had exactly three dollars and forty-five cents in her duffel coin pouch, maybe a hundred-twenty-six in her checking account. Her savings account was almost depleted with the purchase of a top-of-the-line mixer she just had to have in her studio’s tiny kitchen corner, had to have to experiment baking pastries, breads, cakes, cookies with special flavorings.

  Fighting back tears, fighting the panic gripping her chest, Star tried unsuccessfully to breathe deep. Gulps of air only increased the nausea growing in her belly. One thing was for sure, she was not going back to Hoboken to face him. “I told you not to go to Florida. Be a pastry chef? You need a real job,” her father had grumbled for the umpteenth time. Her mother didn’t care one way or the other. Only her Gran understood her desire to be a baker, a baker like she had always dreamed of being when she was Star’s age.

  “Oh, God, what am I going to do?” Star muttered.

  “Hey, Sugar, want a ride?” With no reply from Sugar, the yellow Chevy accelerated, leaving the blonde, her hair pulled back with a black bow, her white shirt sticking to her back with sweat, head down, walking mindlessly in the opposite direction.

  Rent was due today. The empty refrigerator was waiting to be fed.

  Shop windows passed in and out of view with their displays of brightly colored T-shirts—Daytona Beach printed in a rainbow of colors curving over a bright yellow sun—ready to lure in and snare the breakers’ loose cash.

  Star passed a small sign scribbled in the corner of a souvenir shop window: Help wanted.

  H
er arms tightened again around the duffle bag. “No. No. No shop girl. I’m a pastry chef for heaven’s sake!”

  Her feet carried her forward. Crossed the street, passed a blow-up clown triggering his electronic voice, “Hi, come on in.”

  Crossed another street.

  Past a silver diner.

  Stopping abruptly, Star turned, stared at the sign in the diner’s window: Wanted, Waitress.

  Why not? She had a stellar record at the Manatee Bar and Grill a couple miles south. She had been their top cocktail waitress. They would give her a good recommendation. She didn’t have to mention the hotel restaurant … unless they asked. A quick waitress job would pay the rent, buy frozen pizzas for the fridge. Her little rental was only three blocks away.

  Why not?

  A man in a wheelchair, the wheels at cross purposes to the diner’s door, was struggling to reach the handle. His biceps straining against the plaid short-sleeved shirt attested to his workouts pushing the wheel of his chair. Marching up the handicap-accessible cement ramp, Star grasped the chair’s worn leather handlebars at the same time someone inside opened the door to leave. Catching the door with her hip, Star pushed the man through onto the black and white squares of tile.

  “Hi, Benny. The usual?” A lanky waiter called over his shoulder scooting by with two plates of sandwiches, French fries on the side.

  “You bet.” Benny grinned up at his helper. His thick salt and pepper hair grazed his shoulders touching tufts of gray hair on his chin.

  “And where do you usually sit for your usual?” Star asked returning the grin, her blue eyes crinkling.

  “That little table, miss. End of the counter. It’s my spot, but I can—”

  Stepping across the black and white tiles, chin lifted, Star pushed the man to his spot, and then sat on the vinyl cow-hide patterned stool at the end of the counter. Shoving her duffle down on the floor between her feet, she glanced around. Two o’clock, the place was practically deserted—after lunch, before dinner she surmised.

  “Thanks, miss,” Benny said, leaning toward the counter. I usually don’t have a problem. Dang chair just wouldn’t follow my orders today.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” She smiled glancing at his suspenders pulling his plaid shirt across his chest accentuating the muscles she saw when he was struggling with his chair. His muscular arms a sharp contrast to the skinny legs that dropped to the foot supports. No matter the wheelchair, Benny had a sweet smile that included a twinkle in his pale gray eyes.

  The lanky young waiter, bony elbows sticking out from his white short-sleeved shirt, a black bow tie a bit askew, served Benny a mug of coffee then hustled behind the counter to his blond customer. Tyler was printed in black on his white name tag clipped to the pocket of his shirt. “What can I get for you, miss?” he asked with a broad smile peering at her through thick horn-rimmed glasses. A shock of dark-brown hair tickled his right eyebrow.

  “Coffee, please. I noticed the sign … about a waitress. Is the manager in?”

  “Sure is. I’ll tell him and get you that coffee. Would that be with cream and sugar? Sugar packets right here and those little creamers are fresh. I personally refreshed the dish a few minutes ago. Unless, you’d like a flavored creamer—”

  “Black is good. Thanks.” Star smiled inside. The waiter looked to be around her age—mid to late twenties—trying very hard to make a good impression, perhaps worried he was going to be let go, what with the wanted sign in the window for a waitress.

  Tyler hustled to the coffee station at the other end of the counter, stopping only long enough to pass the young woman’s request to a man scrubbing down the grill behind the order window. “Charlie, girl at the counter wants to be a waitress.”

  Star rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to be a waitress, she needed to be a waitress, at least for a week or two while she looked for a new pastry chef position.

  Charlie looked over at Star, squinted, threw down the scouring pad and wiped his hands on the towel hooked under the belt of his white bib apron. Eggs were definitely on the menu earlier along with hot dogs and mustard. The man called Charlie sauntered over to her. “Hi. Looking for a job?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m back in town and my regular job at the Manatee was filled.”

  “Ah, experienced. When are you looking to start, because I need someone right—”

  “Right away, sir. You can call the Manatee for a reference. Do you know the manager, Mr.—”

  “Sure do. Hold on a sec while I get Wanda. She hires the staff, except for the cooks. I interview all the short-order guys. What’s your name, miss?”

  “Star Bloom.”

  Charlie smiled. He thought he’d heard all the fancy names but this was a new one. He shuffled away disappearing behind the grill window.

  Star opened a little creamer cup. Why not—just this once? On her feet all day hustling in the restaurant’s kitchen she didn’t have to watch her weight. She was mindful, but seemed able to maintain a slim figure without a problem. Adding the cream to her coffee, her eyes roved over the red, blue, and purple neon tubing around the tin ceiling, at the red vinyl booths, several little white Formica bistro tables with red vinyl chairs tucked neatly in place. The diner was clean, inviting, charming really.

  She and Benny exchanged glances. He gave her a nod of encouragement.

  A woman, shuffling along same as Charlie, emerged from the back wiping her hands on a red and white stripped dish towel. Star guessed her to be the same age as Charlie, late forties … hard to tell. Both appeared tired, circles under their eyes.

  “Hi, Star Bloom is it?”

  “Yes. I saw the sign in the window and—”

  “Honey, my name’s Wanda, and I already called the Manatee. The bartender couldn’t say enough nice things about you. If you have a minute, let’s sit over at that first booth. Ty, can you bring me a cup of coffee, please? Thanks.”

  Star warmed immediately to the woman. She was respectful to Tyler, saying please, respect she sorely wanted, given the day she’d had. Plus Wanda was quick to act when she saw a potential waitress, already calling for a reference.

  “We run with a pretty small crew—Charlie and I step in if we’re shorthanded. We have a part-time cook, Harry. He’s a retired school teacher, likes a few hours now and then. He takes a shift on weekends, fills in some. Charlie generally cooks the second shift on those days … when Harry’s on the grill. We have three waitresses—Kim, Brenda, and Claire … not quite full time. When it’s slow, they have fewer hours, or vice versa. If we’re busy, they get more.”

  “Wanda, I’m looking for full time, in fact I’m looking for as many hours as I can get.”

  “Honey, that’s music to my ears.”

  “I can fill in on short notice, come in early, stay late—whatever it takes. I need the money.”

  “In a pinch, we have a few high school seniors we can call, that is they’ll be seniors when they go back to school. But, it would be nice to have someone, once you learn the ropes, to help keep the operation running without too many hiccups. If you know what I mean?”

  “Oh, I know, I know. It was murder at the Manatee when a waitress didn’t show up, especially at the bar.”

  • • •

  EVERYTHING HAPPENED FAST. Wanda said two of their waitresses had left without notice. In spite of the spring-breakers, business had slowed, and she knew the tips would not be what Star was used to receiving at the bar. Downright meager in comparison were her words. Tyler couldn’t work twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. She and Charlie, a husband and wife team, needed immediate help.

  With an experienced waitress sitting across from her, and armed with praise from another establishment, Wanda was eager to hire the girl before someone else snatched her up. “Nothing fancy here. None of those colorful umbrella concoctions you served at the Manatee. As a trial, could you do a dinner shift from five to nine tonight? Get your feet wet? With pay, of course. If I like what I see, and if you like what you see, we�
��ll talk tomorrow. But, I have one stipulation.”

  “Sounds fine so far. Yes, I can work tonight. What is the stipulation?”

  “You have to agree to stay four months, through the height of tourist season. We have enough to worry about without a revolving door, hiring, training, leaving. I’m sure you can understand.”

  Star’s eyes slid up to the ceiling, at the red, to blue, to purple neon pulsating through the glass tubes. Small, white ceiling fans gently swirled the air picking up a mixture of scents from the grill—bacon, French fries, and an occasional slice of meatloaf. It certainly wasn’t a five-star hotel restaurant, and she was sure another pastry-chef position was not going to come calling this close to the height of the season. Meager tips Wanda said. But, it would give her a chance to find something better in the fall when the big turnover of restaurant staff occurred. And, who knows, maybe she’d decide to return to Hoboken, go back to her family. Not!

  “Star, what do you say? Interested? Ty could show you around.”

  “Yes, Wanda. I’ll be back at five. And, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Good. I’ll tell Tyler. He’ll top off that coffee—on the house.” As Wanda shuffled away she stopped briefly, whispered something to her husband flipping a burger on the grill, and then disappeared down a short hall.

  Star caught Benny grinning at her again and joined him at the little retro bistro table.

  “Sounds to me like a celebration is in order, Star Bloom. Here, put this quarter in the juke box, the old Wurlitzer by the front door. Punch B39.” Fishing the coin out of his pants pocket, Benny placed the twenty-five cent piece in Star’s open palm.

  Johnny Cash drawled out, “A Boy Named Sue” as the two chatted and giggled. Star rose, gave Benny a kiss on the cheek, grabbed her duffle, waved at Charlie and left, overhearing Benny say something like he’d never wash that cheek again.