Booker needed to come clean. But he’d been putting it off, putting out smaller fires instead, like saving the original Burger Shack from bankruptcy. And now he had no firebreak. The fire was upon him.
“Booker?” His mom rubbed his shoulder. “Are you reconsidering?”
“No,” he blurted. He needed the higher income the sandwich line brought if he was going to put Dante through college and pay his parents retirement dividends. But…His stomach did a slow churn. It wasn’t as if Kimmy didn’t need the money too.
“Booker,” his father said in that firm voice he used as a start to a lecture.
His trainees were looking like they didn’t want to witness their current and former bosses arguing.
“Guys, these sandwiches sell well.” Booker took each of his parents by the arm and walked them to the door. “They’ll help fund your golden years. Now, why don’t you go look at those travel brochures I gave you?”
His mom slipped a glance at his dad, a hopeful smile on her face. “I did like the river cruises.”
“Maybe next year when I don’t feel so useless.” His dad took the sunglasses from the top of his head and slid them on. “We ran this business for more than forty years. It’ll take me more than a month to stop worrying about it.”
“I appreciate you allowing me to take your vision and make it succeed another forty years.” Booker glanced back inside the restaurant. “Where’s Dante?”
“He’s at school.” His mom beamed, naive as to her youngest’s whereabouts. “He’s at track practice, and afterward he’s going to Theresa’s to study for their chemistry test.”
His dad had on his poker face, staring to the west and Saddle Horn Mountain, which was still blanketed in snow despite the spring sunshine. He likely knew what Dante was up to.
“Uh-huh.” Booker decided not to mention that skateboarding wasn’t a track event. “I wanted Dante to come to the Shack today.” He had a sneaking suspicion that Dante had a severe case of high school senioritis, not conducive to part-time employment. “He should be shadowing me, like I did with Dad. He’s going to help me manage the business one day.” A string of Burger Shacks.
“Don’t be hard on him,” his mom said in the nurturing voice she reserved for her youngest. “You know, we demanded too much of you, Booker. Let Dante be a kid awhile longer.”
Dante was almost eighteen, almost an adult. At eighteen, Booker had been writing payroll checks and prepping the Burger Shack ledger for their accountant.
“Our little Dante is special.” His mother laid a hand on Booker’s cheek. Her eyes filled with tears. “You never know what the future might hold.”
True that.
When Dante had been three, their mom had found a lump on his leg, just below the knee. It’d been cancerous. Booker was sixteen at the time and had to step up and run the Burger Shack while his parents shuttled Dante to and from treatments in Denver.
But Dante was tough. He’d beaten cancer and been clean ever since. And ever since, he’d been doted on by everyone in the family.
“Dante is special, Mom.” Booker squeezed her hand, squeezing back the wish that someday his parents might see him as special too. “That’s why I want to make sure he gets the best college education.”
Chapter Three
How’s my baby?” Kimmy walked up her parents’ driveway and knelt in front of a jacked-up food truck, still thinking about Booker’s successes.
In ten years, he’d hustled, started his own business, and bought out his parents. Envy banged around her head, making her temples pound. By comparison, Kimmy was a slacker. And so was her business plan, at least if you looked only on the outside.
Her food truck was rusted, dented, and dinged, but it was all hers. And someday soon—hopefully in six weeks—she was going to quit Emory’s Grocery and make her living catering and selling grilled sandwiches out of it.
Her dad rolled out from beneath the engine. He still wore his blue-stained coverall uniform from the tire shop but he didn’t look weary. He was as excited about Kimmy’s venture as she was. “The new muffler came in this afternoon. I was just making sure everything’s ready to put it in.”
“And the stove?” Kimmy opened the van’s door and stepped inside, conducting a slow inventory, wondering what Booker would say when he saw this.
He’d tell her Sunshine didn’t have a large enough population to support three sandwich options—Emory’s, the Shack, and hers. He’d point out she’d need to move from Sunshine to make a decent living. He’d remind her how close she was to her family, how important they were to her, the same way his family was priority one to him. He’d ask her whether she was willing to leave Sunshine to make it big.
Kimmy rubbed her temples. This time it wasn’t envy banging around her head. It was impending sadness.
Leave Sunshine?
She drew a deep breath. An industrial kitchen on wheels and all her own. Kimmy thought it was beautiful. She didn’t care if it never made her rich.
She’d bought the truck from someone in Denver who’d set the kitchen on fire and was getting out of the business. New paneling covered newly installed fire-resistant insulation. On the passenger side, the external features hadn’t been damaged. The metal awning over the customer-service window swung up, and there was a customer counter that folded down.
She set her purse on the floor and ran a hand over the stainless countertop. She’d installed red-checked linoleum on the floor. Elbow grease had scoured the sink, the fixtures, and the cabinets until they gleamed. All she needed now were appliances—a fridge, stove, chargrill, fryer, panini press, steam table, warmer, and microwave.
And a special-order transmission.
She’d committed to everything. She’d ordered everything. All she needed was a couple more paychecks, and she’d be debt-free.
“Hank said the stove might come in today.” Her dad joined her inside, wiping his hands on a rag. His dark-brown hair was gray at the temples but nothing about his knowledge of vehicles was aging. “Too bad it didn’t.”
Five months of work. Kimmy couldn’t have restored the food truck on her own. Her dad, her uncles, her cousins—everyone had chipped in.
“It’s okay, Dad. It’s so close to being finished.” She was so close to fulfilling her childhood dream of opening a specialty sandwich shop. “I can already imagine cooking in here.”
Her dad slung his arm over her shoulder and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “The Garlic Grill is almost ready for launch.”
“Hey.” Her mom joined them inside. She had a streak of dirt on her cheek, and her hands were red from using cleaning products all day. She ran a small maid service in town. “Are you free on Sunday, Kimmy? Haywood hired me to clean his bachelor pad. He’s having family and friends over Monday night.”
“Um…” Kimmy didn’t mind cleaning her friend’s home but Booker’s achievements proved Kimmy needed to take a step toward her dream every day to make it come true. “I was hoping to work on this but…”
“But we won’t have all her appliances in,” Kimmy’s dad finished for her. “Of course she can help you. That’s what family is for.”
“Of course,” Kimmy echoed, swallowing back guilt and excuses. She didn’t want to appear ungrateful, and there were lines of fatigue on her mother’s face.
“Thanks, honey.” Her mom’s expression eased. “Dinner in thirty minutes.” She left, heading toward the house.
Kimmy and her father took in the fruits of their labor in silence.
“If my stove had come in, I could have cooked in here,” Kimmy said wistfully.
“When this is done, my baby will be flying on her own wings.” Her dad squeezed her once more. “I couldn’t be prouder.”
“Oh, Daddy.” Kimmy tried not to cry.
“Hey.” Uncle Mateo bounded into the truck, taking the stairs as if he were a much younger man. He lived just a few houses down. “I have logo designs for you from Ian.” He smoothed wrinkles out of long sheets of
paper with colorful renderings of the Garlic Grill food truck on them. “My boss at the shop says I can paint this beauty just as soon as you get her running.”
They spent nearly thirty minutes admiring her cousin’s graphics. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering which design Booker would advise her to choose. Certainly not the one with pink. She wasn’t selling cupcakes.
But Kimmy gravitated toward it anyway. The design featured a bright, happy sun in the top left corner, radiating across the side. “The name is really easy to read.” In big pink letters.
“I’ll tell Ian.” Uncle Mateo placed that design on top. “He promised me he’d come by for dinner tonight and bring my grandkids.” He grinned. “I haven’t seen them in three days. And they live right around the corner. Crazy, huh?”
That was what Kimmy loved about her large, generous, close-knit family. They all pulled together. Helping to fix each other’s vehicles and homes. Celebrating life’s milestones. Supporting each other’s dreams. It helped that her family lived in a four-block radius on the south side of Sunshine.
Kimmy hugged Mateo. “Tell Ian I remembered my promise to make his family lunch every Saturday for the next month.” She was lucky her family let her barter for services.
“Lunch every Saturday for a month,” her dad said, chest puffed out in pride as he looked at Kimmy. “A kept promise is a true sign of character.”
“And love,” Kimmy murmured.
“I won’t have to remind Ian.” Uncle Mateo rubbed his stomach. “He knows how good your food is. We all do.”
The front screen door screeched open. “Dinner!” her mom shouted, letting the door bang closed behind her.
Kimmy grabbed her purse. “I haven’t even cleaned up.” She ran out of the truck and up the stairs outside the garage.
Skippy, her three-legged cat, met her at the door. The small apartment felt larger now that her sister, Rosalie, had moved out.
“We’re running late, Skippy.” She scooped up the gray tabby and gave her a cuddle as she crossed the small living room to the bedroom.
The only thing going slow in her life was the food truck renovation. Everything else was coming at her fast—Hay’s wedding, Booker’s return.
What could possibly happen next?
“Mims.” After sending his parents home, it had taken Booker three hours to find the Widows Club president. “Can we talk?”
Hair wrapped in big pink curlers, Mims sat under a hair dryer in the Sunshine Valley Retirement Home salon, sound asleep, arms crossed over her fishing vest.
“Shhh.” Lola Williams was fixing Harriet Bloom’s hair. “Her hair will be dry in five minutes. Then you can wake her.” Lola sprayed Harriet’s hair, teased it with a long comb, and then sprayed it once more for good measure until it looked like a gray helmet.
The salon was small and looked even smaller with one wall painted a dingy rose color. The liveliest thing in the room was a large black feathered headdress hanging from the wall. It looked like something a Vegas showgirl would wear.
“Lola, I wish you’d master the art of a comb-out, instead of wasting your time on shopping for frivolous clothes.” Harriet pointed to Lola’s legs. “Have you ever seen such unusual legs, Booker?”
“Uh…” Booker hedged.
“Hush. You’re embarrassing the man,” Lola said but it was the hairdresser who was blushing. She wore an elegant black dress and lug-soled black boots. But what had caught Harriet’s attention was her white stockings with edgy black tattoo patterns on them. “There’s a viewing for Brillo Bryson later.” Lola also worked as a hairstylist and makeup artist for the mortuary. “He was a biker. He’d appreciate my choice. And even if he wouldn’t, sometimes a girl has to make a statement.”
Kimmy had made a statement. She wasn’t interested in seeing Booker’s menu. He had to get her buy-in before he began officially selling sandwiches in Sunshine, because his sandwiches were her sandwiches. He wanted to make Kimmy an outright offer for her recipes. Cash money. But it wasn’t the kind of business transaction you just tossed at a person without discussion and the appearance of negotiation.
The appearance.
Inwardly, Booker cringed. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined his financial position would hinge on the work of someone else. He had to set things right without losing his friendship with Kimmy.
Mims snored. The loud kind that should’ve woken her up. It didn’t.
Booker checked the time on his phone. Three minutes to go before her hair would be dry.
“I hear you’re the best man at Haywood’s wedding.” Harriet caught Booker’s gaze in the mirror. “That’s a big responsibility. You’ve gotta make sure the groom doesn’t have second thoughts.”
“He won’t.” Hay had loved Ariana since they were in the sixth grade, probably since the time Kimmy had been crushing on Hay and Booker had been crushing on Kimmy.
“But he could,” Harriet continued, holding her sharp chin high while Lola swept hair from her neck with what looked like a large paintbrush. “Who’s your backup?”
“The other groomsmen?” Not that he needed them.
“No.” Harriet made a derisive noise that deteriorated into thick coughs. It took her a moment to catch her breath. “I mean your wedding date. You need a date to keep you sane when Haywood’s toes catch a chill.”
“I…” He glanced at Mims, hoping she’d wake up and save him from this conversation. “I thought I was there to carry the rings.”
“Nonsense.” Harriet scoffed, turning her head to and fro to check out Lola’s work. “You’re there to have an escape plan in place for Haywood, if needed.”
Lola laughed, heading toward a waiting walker. “Don’t let her throw you off your game, Booker.”
She already had.
“Have pity on me.” Harriet inched her chair around with the toes of her white orthopedic shoes. “I don’t get out much. Who’s your wedding date?”
“I don’t have one yet.” He’d been hoping to ask Kimmy. But even though they’d discussed her options, she hadn’t seen Booker as anything more than a man who appreciated her sandwiches.
She’ll never know how much I appreciate those sandwiches.
That wasn’t true. Booker planned to tell her. Of course, if he told her, it was a certainty that she wouldn’t be his wedding date. Which was why he had to talk to Mims. He had a feeling the secrets he had to tell would send Kimmy running. He needed her to sit still and listen.
Lola rolled the walker to Harriet and helped her out of the chair.
“You could take Lola,” Harriet said without any tact. “Her husband’s dead.”
“Only just.” Grief flickered over Lola’s features. “You’d try the patience of a saint, Harriet.”
“Foolish girl.” Harriet worked her way slowly toward the door. “Look at Booker. He’s prime real estate. You need to strike while the iron is hot.”
“Crotchety old woman,” Lola countered, albeit good-naturedly, as if their arguments were common. “You owe me a nickel for whining about my work.” She glanced at Booker and then gestured toward a shelf, where her whining jar was halfway full of nickels and pennies.
“I’ll bring a dime next week.” Harriet cackled. “Same day. Same time.”
Lola turned off the standing hair dryer, startling Mims awake.
“Booker. What are you doing here?” Mims opened her eyes wide. “No one is supposed to know I’m here. Barb over at Prestige Salon cuts my hair but she’s booked, and my grandchildren are coming to town. Not to mention there’s the bachelorette auction this weekend. I don’t want to look like an unkempt mountain woman.”
“Nobody’s going to tell Barbara.” But Lola made time to close the salon door behind Harriet.
“Mims, we need to talk,” Booker said firmly, prepared for an argument. “I can’t emcee the bachelorette auction.”
The old woman blinked at him. “Why not?”
“Does it matter?” He didn’t want to tell her the tru
th. “I promise to show up and bid.” If he won Kimmy, she’d be his for an hour. The bachelorette auction included an informal dinner at the bar immediately afterward.
“Ah, I see.” Mims gave him a forgiving smile. “Bring lots of cash. We don’t accept credit or checks. And I expect Kimmy to go for a high price.”
“Kimmy?” This was why Booker avoided Widows Club events. They could read minds and weren’t shy about butting in where they weren’t wanted. “Who said anything about Kimmy?”
“Who indeed?” Mims chuckled as Lola began unrolling the big pink curlers.
“Please don’t get any ideas.” His words had as much chance of being respected as a snowball in the Sahara. “Kimmy’s made it very clear on several occasions over the years that she just wants to be friends.” Which made his attraction to her inconvenient. He valued Kimmy’s friendship too much to attempt to date her. “But if I do buy her—for reasons that have nothing to do with romance—can you make sure she gets a wedding date?”
“My boy, I have the perfect man in mind for her.” Mims’s smile wasn’t reassuring. There were plans springing in that head of hers.
“Great.” Booker said his goodbyes and headed for the door. “As long as you’re not talking about me.”
Her laughter followed him out into the hallway.
Chapter Four
How do I look?” Kimmy smoothed her green lace sheath over her hips. “I was going for sexy and sophisticated but now that I’m here, I think I might look grandmotherly and dated.”
“You look fabulous.” Her friend Priscilla Taylor was quick to reassure her. “If my divorce was final, I’d put myself out there too.”
Kimmy was glad Priscilla wasn’t joining in the auction festivities. She’d always been the center of male attention, while Kimmy had always been the girl on the outskirts of the crowd, male or female.
And speaking of crowds, Shaw’s Bar & Grill was packed. The local hangout had a big stage and a dance floor on one end, and on the other were padded booths and large wooden tables surrounding a well-used pool table. The center of Shaw’s featured a long, narrow bar ringed with stools. There were license plates on the walls and saddles mounted on the rafters. And on Saturday nights, customers tossed shells from free peanuts onto the floor.
Sealed with a Kiss--A Sunshine Valley novella Page 3
