Jane ordered an omelet with a muffin. Liz scrambled eggs with a piece of whole wheat toast.
“How would you like that toast, miss? Light? Medium? Charred?” Tyler asked his face serious, but eyes twinkling.
Liz, a finger to her cheek, thinking. “Make that medium, please. I never had such a choice for a piece of toast.”
“Good choice. You, Detective Salinas?”
“This item here, written in pen … the meatball mini-tart.”
Tyler shot a glance at Star who winked at him.
“Another good choice. A new specialty found only at Charlie’s diner. Introduced in the cartoon up on the wall … the one Star pointed out.”
“Oh, a new specialty. Tyler, can you change my scrambled eggs to a meatball mini-tart?” Liz asked, holding out her palm to her husband. Manny dug out two quarters. Liz slid out around Tyler and headed to the Wurly.
“Me too. Switch my omelet, please.” Jane smiled sweetly at Tyler.
“Certainly, coming right up,” he said grinning at Star, who shook her head—she was fine with her coffee.
“My, my. Is he always so, so, animated?” Jane asked, a touch of whipped cream on her upper lip.
“Not quite. I think this is a special show for you.”
“Now, tell us what happened to your pastry chef job, dear?”
Star looked away, fidgeted with the handle on her coffee mug, sighed, and with pain written across her face, turned on the bench to face Jane. I have to be honest. This is so embarrassing, Jane of all people. The first person who believed in me … except for Gran. “I was fired for sexual harassment. Can you believe it? It was really the other way around … but sometimes well, you know … wrong place, wrong time.”
“What stuff and nonsense. Did you fight back?”
“No. The man, barely twenty I think, was the nephew of the head chef. The chef hardly tolerated me any way. Blamed me for everything that went wrong in the kitchen, thanks to his nephew.”
“What about your grandmother’s taffy? Have you given up?” Liz asked her face drooping, but her foot tapping to the beat of the music she selected, the neon lighting jumping with the music.
“No, just pushed it to the back burner. I grabbed the first job I saw. Summer is the worst time to be looking for a chef’s position. Actually, I started here as a waitress but when Charlie’s cook left, fired actually, I asked him to give me a chance. He and Wanda are wonderful. Hired me on the spot but I had to promise to stay through the summer. It gets busy, a little wild in fact, on the beach in the summer.”
Tyler set the orders of meatball mini-tarts on the table topped with thick tomato sauce, then stepped back waiting for their reaction.
“Hey, I like this. Very good.” Manny had devoured the first one and was digging into the second.
“Do you really like them? Ty, can you bring over a little dish of the cranberry glaze?”
“Right away, Miss Bloom.”
“I’m experimenting with cranberries. I’d appreciate your input.”
Before Manny had time to stab into the third meatball tart, Tyler was back with a plate of three more tarts without sauce, along with a ramekin of the spicy cranberry glaze. Star’s eyes switched back and forth watching her friends’ reactions as one by one, with ceremony, they tried the sauce.
“Wow!” Liz declared. The cranberry has a bite to it. What’s in it?”
“A little cinnamon, allspice, port wine, and a drop or two of hot sauce. Too much?” Star asked leaning forward.
“No, no—perfect. And I love the pastry … gives a nice crunch.” Liz said, nodding to Jane.
“Yes. I believe I like it just as it is. Manny, you?”
Manny gestured to his clean plate, and the empty plate Tyler had brought over for testing. Nodding in agreement. Enough said.
“What can I do to take them from good to better, even best ever?”
“Put them at the top of the menu, dear. Right under one of Tyler’s cartoons of you.”
Spooning on an extra helping of cranberries, Liz looked up at Star. “What are you going to do? I mean these meatballs are to die for, but your talents lie in pastries, candy, baking.”
“I don’t know. I’d like to capitalize on my training … thanks to you, Jane. My months at the hotel were beyond thrilling, that is until … you know. There’s a little shop about a mile from here. They sell souvenirs and are planning to pull out at the end of the summer season when their rental agreement is up. It would make a wonderful little bakery shop. My Gran said she’d put up some seed money for equipment—refrigerator, maybe a gas stove, to say nothing of the mixers, torches to put the finishing touch on crème brûlée ...”
Star stopped rattling on. “But to start a business as an unknown, I’d need more. As I said, my commitment here is until the end of summer. That was the deal with Wanda and Charlie. They’re great but, as you said, my dreams lay elsewhere and not as a short-order cook,” she whispered.
Manny elbowed Liz. “What about that TV show we saw last night?”
“Oh, that was a hoot. A reality TV bake-off. Star, there were four women, each had helpers from their bakeries. Anyway, it was a competition. The winner took home a cool seventy-five grand. You could do that. I bet you’d win.”
“I don’t know. You said they already had bakeries.”
Liz reached across the table grasping Star’s hand. “They all did. But the host talked about an upcoming series for amateur bakers. I can’t remember how much he said the prize money was. Can you, Manny?”
“Only that it was a lot and it was set up to run seven or eight episodes. Google it, Star. We will too. If we find it, we’ll email you the link.”
“Wow! Do you really think I’d have a chance?”
“I think!” Liz said, her red curls sparking.
Chapter 9
────
THE REST OF the afternoon sped by. A blur. Star snatched the orders clipped to the wire above the order window, robotically filling them, all the while her mind replaying the visit of her friends. It had been wonderful to see Jane again. Their conversation had stirred up the dreams she had tamped down.
Enter a bake-off?
She had won a few blue ribbons at the county fair in Hoboken. But a fair was not a bakery business. Maybe a short-order cook was to be her lot in life. No, no, I want more. The pastry chef at the hotel wasn’t a bakery either. Maybe they did her a favor by firing her. Wake her up, strive for more, shoot higher.
The tartlets had added a bit of humor to the diner’s menu, especially with Ty’s cartoons. Actually, he brought the menus to life more than she did. She added another item to the menu—mid-size filo-dough shells filled with salad. Mothers exclaimed that it was the first time their children would eat a salad. So salads became a hit, too.
Business was picking up.
It was almost closing time and Ash was waiting for her at the end of the counter. She finished cleaning the grill as Ty finished bussing the tables.
Joining Ash at the counter, leaning on his forearms, he drained his coffee mug. “Long day? You look tired.”
“Yes, but it was fun. Some old friends stopped by.”
Ty, hearing her mention her friends, sidled over, even though he didn’t want to join them only her. “What was that about … your finding something of Jane’s?” he asked.
Sighing, she looked wistfully at the two of them … thinking back. “Just over a year ago, a twister came through here. It tore up a street in a small community of manufactured homes. Jane’s was one of them. But she survived because Morty, her long departed husband, had insisted on a safe room—an iron room bolted to the carport’s cement slab. After the twister was gone, Jane emerged from the room to find everything gone—her house, everything in it. Everything including several little people she kept on a holiday tree in her living room, year round. The angel on the top of the tree landed in a bush outside of my studio, same place I live now.”
“That had to be several miles aw
ay,” Tyler said, bending over, his pointy elbows resting on the counter.
“That’s right. But this wasn’t just any angel. Before Jane’s husband died, they had collected precious stones which she pasted as pretty, sparkling decorations to the characters on her tree. When Morty died, Jane put his very large gold wedding band, circled with diamonds, on top of the angel … a halo. Because of a TV report, I learned Jane was the owner and I returned the angel to her. She was so thankful, she gave me enough money to take a year of culinary classes at Daytona Beach College—the college now connected with Florida State University.”
“No wonder the lady with pink hair thinks you are her angel, returning her husband’s wedding ring.” Tyler looked off, staring blankly at the wall… adding a few more frames to the comic strip triggered earlier.
“Pink-haired lady?” Ash asked.
“You had to be here. See you tomorrow, Star.” With a scowl, Ty tossed his apron in the hamper on his way out the back door.
• • •
STEPPING OUT Of the diner, Star paused, drawing in a deep breath of the cool salty air. Ash trotted down to the sidewalk, turned, smiling, held out his hand to her. “Taking in the evening air? Freedom from the hot grill?”
“Yes, you could say that.” Joining him they darted across Atlantic Avenue mindful of the traffic. With the ocean over the rise, they kept running re-invigorated by the night air.
“Come on, Ash. I hear drumbeats from the Bandshell. Let’s check out who’s playing.”
Hands up like a prize fighter, Ash kept pace jogging beside her.
In sight of the Bandshell, Star flopped on the beach to catch her breath. The beach was almost covered with blankets alongside the Bandshell to the surf—couples, families, loners listening to the music booming from large speakers out over the crowd, over the waves. A thousand or more—sitting or standing in front of the stage, arms raised—swayed to the music.
Star patted the sand, inviting Ash to sit beside her. “You never said … how long have you been in Daytona Beach?” she asked kicking off her sneakers, tying the laces together, slipping them around the strap of her tote. “Oh, the cool sand feels good on my burning tired feet. So, how long?”
“A few weeks. A month. First day was the day I saw you at the diner. Of course, I visited several times while I was in school, in Deland. How about you? How long have you been in Daytona Beach?”
“Well, I left school, second year at college. I told you my dad said I should major in accounting, join the family business when I graduated. Ugh! All I wanted to do was make taffy, my Gran’s recipe. So I conspired with her, and she gave me some money to come to Daytona Beach. I was one of those spring-breakers. After a few tries to convince one of the vendors on the boardwalk that I was the queen of taffy, he just laughed at me. Can you beat that? Laughed at the queen of taffy? Anyway, I decided I’d better get a job quickly before my meager funds ran out.”
“And?”
“And, of course I wanted to be in the food industry.”
“And?”
“And, by the end of the day I landed a job at the Manatee Bar and Grill—about eight miles south of here—Ponce Inlet. Traded bags of taffy for pitchers of frosty beer and cocktails with little umbrellas. Very festive. Ever have one of those little umbrella things?”
“Nah, I don’t drink.”
“Me either … oh, a glass of wine is nice now and then. So the queen of taffy remained a figment of my imagination, only a dream. That was three years ago.”
“I believe you’ll do it, Star.” Ash turned to her, touched a strand of her hair, gently sweeping it behind her ear. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek. His head began to bend ever so slightly to her. “You are so pretty.” He touched her arm, his finger tracing down to her wrist, then dropped his hands to his side. “It’s getting late and you’ve had a big day. Come on. I’ll walk the Queen of Taffy home.”
Her breathing erratic, Star got to her feet, slipped her shoes on, walked beside him. Why didn’t he kiss her … like before? Did she do something wrong? What changed?
Ash jammed his hands into his pockets as he walked beside her. At her door there was no repeat of the kiss. He said goodnight, watched until she was safely inside her apartment.
• • •
ASH REMAINED ROOTED to the sidewalk, the moon casting his shadow out to his side. What was he thinking? Touching her arm, her hair, the silky blond strand so soft as he carefully put it behind her ear. If only he could have kissed her again. He could tell by the soft look in her eyes, in the light of the moon, that she wanted him to embrace her, to hold her.
Impossible!
His future did not include a woman, not yet, and definitely not this woman. He knew he had to resist. He had made a pact with his grandmother, that if she saw him through college and a master’s degree, in return, he was to become her voice. See that her message was heard. She had pleaded with him to stay the course. It would be hard but she knew he could do it. She believed in him and he wasn’t going to let her down.
But what about his feelings, these feelings that stirred whenever he was with Star? Well, he had two more months as a reporter for the News Journal. He would spend as much time with Star as she would give him. Then he would leave.
Turning away from her front door, head bent, fists clenched in his pockets, he walked back to his room at the Crescent Moon motel. He had made a deal with the owner, a reduced rate if he stayed three months. His grandmother agreed that it sounded right plus it gave him a place to park his car, a used Volvo to drive wherever the newspaper sent him for a story.
Chapter 10
────
WITH THIRTY MINUTES to spare before she was scheduled behind the order window, Star hurried into the diner, waved at Charlie cracking an egg on the grill, and slid into an empty booth. Determination written over her face, she had no time for chitchat.
Opening her tote, she pulled out two sheets of paper she’d printed last night before her head hit the pillow—rules to enter the Amateur Bake-off Competition, the competition that Liz and Manny had suggested. The heading had rocked her to the core: Win Fifty Thousand Dollars.
How could that be? Maybe it was a typo. Reading no further, she had turned off the light, tossed and turned the night hours away, going over again and again what that amount of money would mean. Rent the space down the street for starters.
Willing her nerves to settle, her yellow magic marker poised to highlight the pertinent requirements to enter the competition, Star began the entry process. The introductory paragraph thanked her for her interest, asked if she thought she had what it takes to prepare food in a limited amount of time. There was more but she jumped down to the heading: To enter the competition you must submit the following:
There were four bullet items: A video, a completed application, a copy of a piece of photo ID, and a $200 entry fee. Her eyes locked onto the first item—a video.
Tyler set a mug of coffee beside the papers she was studying just as her fist banged down on the table.
“I can’t do this.” Her finger traced over the word video as if to magically erase it.
“Do what?” Tyler asked.
“Enter this bake-off competition.” Her head flopped back, hand drew over her forehead, eyes riveted on the neon above.
“Why not?” Ty asked, sliding into the booth.
“I don’t know how to do the first thing. Ty, the very first thing is to submit a video. No way I can do that. And, I don’t have the money to hire someone to shoot a video of me. And, I certainly don’t have a kitchen, and …”
Ty turned the paper around so he could read for himself exactly what they wanted.
“Holy cow. The prize money! Did you see that?”
“Yes. I could hardly miss the big bold print: WIN FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS. I thought it was a typo.”
“There’s big money to be made in television, Miss Bloom.”
“Ty, read the rules. Submit a video! Fifty grand? Not
.”
Ty pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose, his eyes darting over the pages.
The rules were explicit. They wanted a video of the entrant preparing an item in one of the categories listed at the bottom of the form, the baker’s choice, such as cakes, pies, etcetera. As the competition is a reality TV production for a television audience, the entrant is to explain to the viewer exactly what the baker is doing and then display the finished product.
Oh, yes, and include a brief introduction of yourself and what winning would mean to you. The baker was to be creative—all in ten minutes. A video over ten minutes, even by a second, would be disqualified.
The rules also stated that two original recipes were to be submitted along with the application. Again, this was the baker’s choice from any of the categories. All items were to be attached to an email, see address below. Entries received through the U.S. Postal service would be rejected.
Grinning, Tyler slid the pages back over the table to Star. “So, what’s the big deal?”
“A video? Duh?” Her shoulders collapsed. “How am I going to do that?” Her eyes were wide—how stupid can he be?
“I can.”
Chapter 11
────
ENTER THE AMATEUR baking competition? Star was skeptical but Ty’s enthusiasm was contagious. He seemed to think he could handle the whole thing from his parent’s garage.
A garage? Really?
He insisted he had the equipment in the space over the garage. He said his mom and dad had fixed it up. They did it as an act of encouragement, encouraging him to keep up with his dream of cartoon animation. For awhile anyway—to give it a good shot.
They made a pact with him.
He could live over the garage rent free, mooch off of them for his meals. His mom insisted he do his own laundry, but other than that, he should pursue his dream. They gave him two years once he graduated with a Master’s degree from Florida State University, in Tallahassee.
One Summer_...at Charlie's Diner Page 5
