by Helm, Nicole
And then there was her job—or lack of one. Would the school board let her return to work when this media thundercloud blew away? She loved teaching and missed her students. But this last round of budget cuts had been hard on the noncore classes, and she’d felt vulnerable even before her temporary dismissal.
She bounded to her feet then, and with leaden steps resumed her route toward Trumbo Road. If she didn’t get moving, she’d start bawling. She’d been exiled from her home and job, cut off from her friends—although she wasn’t sure who the real ones were anymore—and even her church family. She’d attempted to find a church to attend down here, but folks in this surprisingly tight-knit community were too inquisitive of newcomers. After visiting three she’d quit looking and settled into her own Sunday morning routine of sorts. The weeks ahead loomed like an eternity. But she’d get through them. Somehow.
Maybe when she got back to the house she’d paint the Key deer. Again. Or the hibiscus. Again. The coconut palms? A dark swoop crossed her peripheral vision, then a bird splashed down. No. Her miserable mood would be better illustrated by painting the cormorants. A quartet of the prehistoric-looking black birds frequently parked on the end of her dock and spread their drying wings like gargoyles waiting to swoop in and carry her off. And their screeching calls to each other... She shivered despite the sun’s warmth on her skin. The avian squatters creeped her out. She avoided the dock whenever they were present.
She reached the tall white fence marking the end of her route. The restaurant on the other side was quiet now. When she made her rounds again at dusk, the Fisherman’s Widow’s inside and outside tables would be packed. People would be laughing, silverware clinking, and the kitchen would be emitting heavenly scents. She hadn’t risked eating in a restaurant thus far, but she was tired of her own cooking. Maybe she’d order takeout tonight.
And then she connected the dots between her brother’s words and her financial status. She was supposed to be operating on a cash-only basis. Adding another six weeks to her stay put her in a dicey situation. She hadn’t budgeted for three months. She’d replenished her art supplies a couple of times, and in the Keys they had cost double what they did at home. That meant she’d have to be very, very frugal if she wanted to have enough money to cover the rest of her stay. Even then, she’d probably run short. And without access to her accounts, she definitely wouldn’t have money to buy Christmas and birthday gifts.
The irony of being a lottery winner and having her future secured with quarterly checks for practically the rest of her life but being short on actual cash right now didn’t escape her. Her brother had cautioned her not to use a cash machine or credit cards or she might alert someone to her location. She could ask him to send more prepaid debit cards, but he couldn’t access her accounts, either. In his rush to get her out of town, he’d failed to arrange that. He or her parents would have to use their own money to buy the prepaid debit cards until she could pay them back. Not an option she’d take until she was desperate.
So...she admitted with a sigh, no takeout. No matter how tempting. And no more art supplies.
She turned to head back for her car. A muffled cry stopped her. Was it a hurt animal? She listened until she heard it again. The whimper sounded human. She immediately recalled stories of babies discarded in Dumpsters—the restaurant’s was on the other side of that fence. But it hadn’t sounded like a baby. Had it? Undecided, she rocked from her heels to her toes.
She’d worry all day if she didn’t check.
Tamping down her brother’s dire warnings of kidnapping schemes, she clutched the can of pepper spray in her pocket, rounded the wall and approached the garbage container, then cautiously leaned forward to peer inside the open doors. She saw nothing but the dirty metal bottom. Relieved, she exhaled then recalled the trash trucks had been pulling out of the street when she’d arrived. She heard the noise again. It hadn’t come from the smelly green box beside the building after all but from behind the restaurant. Had one of the delivery people fallen? She bit her lip.
Should she check it out or mind her own business? She knew what Brandon would say. Not your problem. Go home. But she couldn’t walk away from someone in need.
As quietly as she could, she inched down the sidewalk past the closed kitchen door to the rear of the building. A woman sat at one of the patio tables with her hands to her face and her chin to her chest. Her short curly hair was a pale shade between blond and silver. Another sob escaped followed by hiccuped breaths.
Compassion compelled Jessamine forward even though caution urged her to retreat. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
The woman gasped and startled, twisting to face Jessamine. She swiped her eyes, revealing a face with enough wrinkles to make it interesting. She was petite and looked to be in her fifties or sixties. “I’m alive. So I guess I’m still in the game. Who are you?”
“Jess—” Had her story reached the Florida Keys? Would she be recognized and hounded here? “Jessie,” she amended, giving the nickname her college roommate had used.
“Hello, Jess—Jessie. I’m Miri. Short for Miriam. You’re new around here, aren’t you?”
Keep it simple. Then leave. “Yes. I heard you crying and wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you hurt?”
“Not physically. But I’ve seen better days. Would you like to join me or are you in a hurry to get to work?”
She should lie and leave. But the thought of going back to the empty house, as nice as it might be, didn’t appeal. “Um...not really.”
“Then pull up a chair. I’ll get you some coffee. My private stash. Good stuff. I don’t share it with just anyone.”
Jessamine searched for the words to politely refuse.
“Please, Jessie. Today’s the anniversary of my husband’s death. I’m feeling sorry for myself. I need better company than my own right now.”
That made two of them sick of their own company. Empathy twined through Jessamine like the flowering vine she’d been named after. She studied Miri’s blotchy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. How could she say no to a grieving widow? A couple of minutes wouldn’t hurt, would it? “Maybe a quick cup.”
Miri sprang to her feet and rushed into the building, leaving Jessamine open to an ambush of second thoughts. Brandon would needle her for being a people pleaser again.
The woman quickly returned, shouldering her way through the door carrying a coffeepot and an extra mug. “Sit. Please.”
Hoping she wouldn’t regret her decision, Jessamine perched on the edge of the chair.
Miri took her seat then poured the dark brew. “I’m sorry you caught me with my pants down, so to speak. You’d think I’d be used to waking up alone by now.”
Jessamine clutched the mug rather than offer the hug she suspected the woman needed. The rich aroma teased her senses. She took a sip and let the dark brew roll down her throat. She hadn’t bothered making coffee since coming to Florida. It seemed a waste to make a whole pot for one cup. But she immediately decided that would change—starting tomorrow.
“I’m sorry, Miri. How long has he been gone?”
“Three years. I miss that old fart.”
The acidic comment startled a smile from Jessamine.
“You ever been in love, Jess—Jessie?”
Jessamine’s smile fell. She averted her gaze. Her thumb found her bare ring finger. Yet another thing the lottery win had cost her. She would never know if a man loved her or her annuity. “I thought I was once.”
“Then maybe you know how it is. You love ’em. You curse ’em. But Jack was mine. And now he’s not. We fought. And we loved. But we fit. Know what I mean?”
She and Aaron had never disagreed on anything until he’d asked her to choose between him and her family. Not something she wanted to contemplate right now. She gulped coffee and scalded her tongue. “How long were you together?”
<
br /> “Thirty-five years. Sounds like forever, and yet it passed in the blink of an eye. We met when I came down for spring break during college. The weather was horrible, and the boats were stuck in port. He bought me a drink and asked me to dance. Lord, that man could not dance, but he’d been watching me and knew I loved to. So he tried. It wasn’t pretty,” she added with a sad smile. “By the end of that week I was in love. I didn’t want to go back to finish my senior year, but he insisted. Said if I didn’t come to my senses and still wanted to marry a fisherman after I graduated, he’d be waiting. I came back and he was.”
Why couldn’t she find a love like that? One who put her best interests first? Dark hair blew across her face. Her heart leaped and her breath caught. She spun around to see who’d sneaked up on her, but no one was there. Then she remembered the dye job. Cursing her brother’s horror stories, she exhaled, tucked the strand behind her ear and caught Miri watching her. Jessamine wanted to squirm but reached for her coffee instead.
“The weather brought Jack to me. And it took him away. He was struck by lightning during a freak sudden storm over the Gulf Stream. He fished, captained a charter boat service. I cooked his catch to help pay the bills when business was slow. That’s how I ended up with this place. I started with a food cart on the wharf, then moved up to this board-and-brick location twenty years ago.”
Miri’s resourcefulness reminded Jessamine of her mother, who baked and sold pies and canned peaches and preserves to supplement the orchard’s income. “Do you have children?”
“We were never blessed with our own, but when my sister passed I took over raising her boy. Logan grew up and moved away. But now he’s back.”
Something ominous in the last phrase piqued Jessamine’s curiosity, but she let it go. It was none of her business. As much as she wanted to linger, she could hear her brother scolding, Making friends isn’t a good idea. She set down the mug and rose. “Thank you for the coffee, Miri. I’m sorry for your loss. It sounds like you had a great marriage.”
“Oh, we did. But it’s not just missin’ Jack that has me upset. It’s the torrent of other pressures... Oh, never mind. I’ve enjoyed your company, Jessie. I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to an old lady’s problems.”
She didn’t. Glancing at the sun and acknowledging she wouldn’t be back in her compound before it fully rose, she sank back onto the chair. “You’re not old. You’re what my mama calls ‘experienced.’ So what else is wrong?”
“Truthfully, my nephew is driving me nuts. Logan moved back here after Jack died, and Lord, that boy hovers. He watches every move I make and tries to tell me how to run my business. I didn’t mind at first because...well, he needed to feel useful, but now...” She put a hand to her forehead and rolled her eyes. “I’ve had enough. Then yesterday, my best waitress called in to tell me her obstetrician has put her on complete bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. I was already one server short with our busy season just around the corner. If Logan gets wind that Carla’s gone—he never liked her because she’s...well...different—I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Don’t say anything. But Jessamine’s mouth opened anyway. “I waited tables all through college. I’m sure it wouldn’t be that difficult to train someone. You could probably have two new servers in no time.”
Miri’s hazel eyes sharpened. “Carla did all the training. Has for years. Do you have a job, Jessie?”
Jessamine’s toes curled in her sneakers. “Um...not at the moment.”
“Want one?”
Say no. “I won’t be here much longer.”
“Are you on vacation?”
“I’m kind of on a...sabbatical.” The word her father had used popped out.
“You could help me train the new hires.”
No. No. No. “Miri, I appreciate the offer, but you don’t even know me. I could be a criminal.”
“Are you?”
“No.” Jessamine sighed. Why couldn’t she lie?
“Then I know what I need to. You’re kind, compassionate and an experienced waitress. Please, Jessie. I’m desperate.”
She shouldn’t risk the exposure. “I really don’t need a job.”
“Just a week. Two at the most. Keep my customers happy and my nephew off my back while you train your replacements.”
Jessamine searched for an excuse and came up empty. You don’t owe this near stranger an explanation. Just. Say. No.
“We serve lunch and dinner Friday through Sunday but only dinner the rest of the week. I pay well. C’mon, Jessie. I need you. It would be a load off my mind if I didn’t have to close my doors because I don’t have enough staff to open tonight.”
Jessamine could practically hear the vacuum sound as she got sucked in. Filling out forms with her name and address wouldn’t be smart.
“Please?” Hazel eyes pleaded. “You’d be working with two other waitresses. One’s very experienced. The other’s not bad.”
Jessie was sick of her own company. Her vacation felt like solitary confinement. And tips were often cash. If she helped Miri, she could solve her own problem this time instead of relying on her family to send her money—money they couldn’t spare. She caved like soggy papier-mâché.
“I can help. But only if you’ll let me work for tips alone. No paycheck. No paper trail.”
Miri’s pale eyebrows shot up. Her gaze turned speculative. “Okay. You’re hired. I’ll get you a copy of Carla’s schedule. Be right back.”
Miri disappeared into the building. Again, Jessamine heard Brandon’s voice. Not smart, Li’l Bit. You should have said no. Run while you can.
But her body hadn’t obeyed the order by the time Miri returned and slid a paper and pen across the table. “I’ll need your phone number and clothing sizes.”
“I, um...”
Her cellular and home phone numbers had been hacked within hours of the lottery win announcement, and the begging calls had come around the clock from strangers, “friends” and relatives so distant no one could remember them. Their sob stories of children with cancer or single moms living in cars had been so convincing and heart wrenching that Jessamine had wanted to help them all. Her father’s intervention was the only thing that had stopped her from blowing that first check on strangers. He’d warned her she’d soon be broke if she didn’t toughen up.
Then her brother had confiscated her old phone and disconnected her house phone. He’d taken her to buy a box of disposable units from different stores, then he’d given her strict instructions to use a phone for two weeks then discard it and open a new one. She no longer kept a phone long enough to learn the number.
Miri waited. “I, um...don’t know my number.”
“None of us do anymore. It’s a push-button world these days. I’ll need it if I need to call you to change your schedule. No one will have it except me. I’ll wait while you look it up.”
Suspecting she might be making a mistake she’d live to regret, Jessamine reluctantly pulled out her phone, turned it on and wrote down the number that appeared on the screen. She added her clothing sizes and handed the paper back to Miri. The woman folded it and tucked it into her bra.
“I’ll keep it right here. No one will get it.” Miri reached across the table and covered Jessamine’s hand. “Do you need a safe place to stay, Jessie?”
The question threw her. “I have one. Thanks.”
“Are you sure? Because I have a guest room over my garage. You can stay as long as you want. And Jack left me a .30-30. Kicks like hell but gets the job done.”
Miri was offering protection and even willing to use a rifle to provide it. She must think Jessamine was running from someone—an abusive ex or something. The thoughtfulness of a stranger made her eyes sting. She squeezed Miri’s hand. “I’m good. But thank you.”
“Then I’ll
see you today at three. I’ll have a uniform for you and we’ll go over my system. Jessie, I can’t thank you enough for helping me through this rough patch.”
Jessamine rose and beat a hasty retreat, kicking herself the whole way back to her vehicle. She debated not returning tonight. Miri only had her phone number. No last name. No address. Jessamine would simply have to toss this phone to avoid any calls.
But she’d promised. Miri needed her help training waitresses and running interference with the bossy nephew. Jessam—Jessie could do that. And then she’d go home with a clear conscience.
But she had to learn to say no. Starting now.
* * *
THE PRETTY BRUNETTE caught Logan’s eye even before he took his customary seat at the oyster bar. She was lean but in shape, and she had great legs. Sleek muscles flexed beneath the smooth, tanned skin revealed by the Fisherman’s Widow’s uniform of a tank top and denim skort. A thick, loose braid hung to the middle of her back with escaped strands of hair draping her cheeks.
She’d waited tables before, though not here. It showed in the easy way she carried five loaded plates on one arm, refilled glasses with a flick of her wrist and kept the hush puppy baskets full. She had an engaging smile for the customers, but tension lingered behind it.
That stiffness, combined with the way her hypervigilant gaze snapped toward the entrance each time the front door of his aunt’s restaurant opened, kept him ensnared. It was as if she feared who might walk in. He’d entered through the kitchen, so she’d missed his arrival.
His aunt came through the swinging doors and set a plate on the bar in front of him. “See what you think of this. I’m experimenting with the mahi.”
