by Cecelia Earl
When Ash
Rains Down
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When Ash
Rains Down
-Cecelia Earl-
When Ash Rains Down
Copyright © 2016 Cecelia Earl
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written permission for the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
For more information please visit www.ceceliaearl.wordpress.com
Cover Design by Christy Hintz with special thanks to Bradd Hintz
Cover image credit: iStock.com/inarik
Also available in paperback:
ISBN:1539553892
ISBN-13:978-1539553892
-For my earthly angels-
Grant, Bryce, and Sawyer
Contents by Chapter
Title Page
-Dedication-
Epigraph
-1-
-2-
-3-
-4-
-5-
-6-
-7-
-8-
-9-
-10-
-11-
-12-
-13-
-14-
-15-
-16-
-17-
-18-
-19-
-20-
-21-
-22-
-23-
-24-
-25-
-26-
-27-
-28-
-29-
-30-
-31-
-32-
-33-
-34-
-35-
-36-
-37-
-38-
-39-
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Thy kingdom come,
thy will be done,
on earth
as it is in Heaven.
Matthew 6:10
-1-
This is what Mom gets for hiring the first applicant who applied for the before- and after-school shifts in our diner.
Her recent hire, a sophomore from my high school, is sweeping up the shards of a coffee mug, and wiping up its contents, which is now a puddle spreading across the dated linoleum floor.
"So sorry, Julia. It slipped." The clumsy culprit glances at me, red-faced. I think we should begin to deduct the expenses from his paycheck. He's been here only a few weeks, and this daily occurrence is getting ridiculous.
"No biggie, Trevor." I sigh, resigned to the broken dishes every morning and afternoon, which really isn’t helping with our financial situation at all. "Thanks for cleaning it up."
"Sure. But, it's Travis. My name is Travis."
His voice trails off as I head back to check on Mom, who's cooking up the orders. I grab a dry piece of toast that's just popped up from a toaster and take a bite off the corner.
"How's it going? Need help?" I ask.
She glances at me, at my snack, and then smiles. "No, go ahead and eat. For the bazillionth time this morning."
"Hey. Growing girl here."
"So I've noticed."
I look down at my biceps. My T-shirt sleeves have gotten tighter in recent weeks. I shrug. "So I work out."
She raises her eyebrows. "That much?"
"Well, yeah." And, actually, my most recent workouts went from tough to easy in a matter of days. I had to triple them to even break a sweat. "Anyway…." After swallowing the last bite, I pull out a full bag of trash from its bin, tie a knot in the top, and reload with a fresh bag.
Mom wipes her hands on her black apron with Melissa's, her name and the name of her diner, written across it in silver letters. She steps closer and leans against the metal-topped island.
"So…." She swats my hands away from the trash. "Leave it. I'll take it out in a bit." She tilts her smile up. "Today's the big day, huh?"
"Don't," I pretend to gag, "remind me."
"Just have fun," she says, and returns to her pans on the stove.
"Fun shmun." I'm not at all looking forward to a homecoming week from Hell.
"Morning," says my brother, Noah, as he makes his way down the stairs from our apartment above the diner, interrupting the chance that Mom might go into a speech about fun and enjoying high school while I'm young and still can. Fun and high school are not my thing. Uninterested.
Mom's diner is a dingy, three-room place I can't stand. The room out front has windows lining the wall that runs along Main Street and is filled with four-person tables and one long counter with barstools. The kitchen where we stand—with outdated appliances and walls with peeling paint—also has a small storage room accessible by a door under the stairs my brother is hopping down from. There's a screen door to the right of the stairs that leads to a small patch of gravel known as our one-car parking space out back. Luxurious. Not.
"About time you join us," Mom says to Noah with a smile, at the same time I say, "Well if it isn't our little Muffin."
"Not so little," Mom says. "He's growing almost as quickly as you, Jules."
"Ha-ha." I roll my eyes. "Well if it isn't our big Muffin."
"Noah. Let's go with Noah. My name."
"But, little bro, you've been Muffin since you were three."
"Well, now I'm a fourth grader. Times change. Things change. Change is good," he says, opening cupboards, looking for a snack to swipe.
"No," I tell him, "change is bad. Unless it's the kind that jingles in my pocket. Or better yet, grows into crisp, green dollar bills in our bank account."
"Really, Julia. Always the money," Mom scolds.
"Or," I say, "unless it's changing this dingy diner into an upscale restaurant."
"Not necessary," she says, shaking her head while scooping the omelets onto plates.
"Or buying an actual house with a bedroom for you and a yard for Noah."
"Is this a bad time to ask for breakfast?" Noah says, yawning and stretching. "I'll be out front. Starving. Go ahead and have your daily argument. While I waste away."
"Help yourself to a muffin!" I call, as he pushes through the swinging door. "Renovations are so necessary, Mom. Look at this cracked cement floor and the peeling white walls. Not to mention the space issue."
"Stop."
"Face it, Mom. You're a hit and need more room for your customers. Think of them."
"That would all be very nice, but the money, Julia. You know."
"I know that when Dad left, he left us in the hole. Then we moved into this hole. And—"
"And now it's time for you to bring these out to Mr. And Mrs. Grall."
I'm about to argue, but she stops me with a pointed look. "Go. I don't want to serve cold food. Customers first, right?"
I suck my lips into a straight line and then smack them. "Absolutely."
But, of course, she needs to have the last word, so about twenty minutes later, she corners me, once again in front of the scratched, metal-topped island. She puts her hands on my shoulders. "School and grades and money are not everything, Julia."
"Maybe not for you. I mean, look at this dump. Sorry, but I wa
nt more for you. You deserve more, and you'd have had more if Dad hadn't left us."
"Not this again."
"Hey, you started this conversation. Who knows what we'd have or where we'd be if he only—"
"That doesn't matter. And it's not your job to worry about me. Julia, you don't need to be an adult yet. Be young. You don't need to help me anymore than you already do. Have fun. Make friends."
"I don't need friends, Mom. Or fun. I want to help. Maybe I'm ready to be an adult. Maybe that's exactly what I want." To leave childhood behind.
"I'll say it again. People, Julia. People are important. Talk to them. Listen to them. Enjoy them."
"People can't buy us what we need. My own dad didn't take care of us. You're doing everything you can. I know that. You gave up your dream of being a head chef to take care of us. Now it's my turn to help. Nobody else can do that. I want to get us a new place, a place where Noah can play outside with his friends. I want you to have a real restaurant, one worthy of your food, your cuisine."
She sighs, a disagreeing but conceding sigh. "Fine, well. Whether or not you like to make friends or talk to others of the human race, we need customers, and it's a reality that they actually are paying our bills, so go. Help. Small talk. Take orders. Learn their names."
She moves through the swinging door, but sticks her head back through to add, "And your brother's while you're at it."
Whatever. Once she's gone, I pull open a drawer to grab forks for the plates I'm going to serve. The drawer handle
falls off in my hand. Naturally.
Just super.
I set it on a step to fix later, adding it to my list of repairs for this sorry excuse of a locale.
-2-
Out front, the place is packed with customers I recognize from serving them daily coffee. Most everyone who eats in Mom's diner works at the local paper mill, or in one of the many shops here on Main Street, like Scuba’s Sports Bar, or Gayle's Furniture Store, or the florist next door. Mom calls out names and chats with everyone like they're family, but I'm here to fill mugs, clear empty plates, and keep her from paying someone else money that we need in the bank.
I'm brewing another pot of Medium Roast Morning Blend when a man I've never seen anywhere in Shady Creek before enters. I may not have names down, but faces I remember. And from the looks of his fanciness, he doesn't belong in our diner. His black suit is in stark contrast to our stained aprons and the diners' grimy mill clothes, worn jeans, and untucked T-shirts. He's got impeccably styled hair and dark eyes that glint with superiority, authority, and ego. He's probably never really worked a day in his life, most likely pays for all his fancy clothes, expensive watch, ritzy cufflinks, and shiny shoes with the sweat of everyone who works for him, while he sits pointing a finger and signing his name from his desk chair in his air-conditioned office.
I put my fist on my hip, and watch him approach the counter and sit in one of two empty chairs, which are vintage, swivel, and red. Outdated like the rest of this hole-in-the-wall.
He's seated next to Noah, who says good morning through a mouthful of muffin. I hand the man a menu and an empty mug. Then I take my time getting Noah a banana and glass of juice.
"Coffee?" I ask the suit.
"Please."
I move down the counter to grab the cream and sugar, but he stops me with a voice as dark as his eyes. "Black."
I pour his bold, black coffee and prepare to move down the counter for other refills, but something about the man holds me back, gluing me in my spot. He looks up at me with bottomless eyes, and speaks, "This your diner?"
"My mom's." I narrow my eyes. "I'm in high school."
"You say that like it hurts."
"I don't have time for school."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's frivolous. A waste of time."
I'm looking at him now, at his expensive suit, his cufflinks, his watch. As much as I despise him for what I imagine his cushy, not-lifting-a-finger of a job to be, I want what he has. I want what he has for all of us. Mom's worked so hard for what we have, but it is still less than she deserves. She’s scuttling around, chatting, checking that everyone's food is to their liking. Sure, she's smiling and at ease, but her shirt is years old, faded. She has no bed, no dresses, no jewelry.
I don't know how long it will take me to get there, but I want to have his money, and that's exactly what I'm going to go for. For my family. To give them back what they deserve, what Dad took from us when he abandoned us, never to show his face again.
My sights are set.
Another stranger blows through the diner door almost as if carried in by a breeze, and takes the seat next to the man in black. They are equally mysterious, yet so different. The new guy is wearing a white button-up shirt, unbuttoned, with a royal purple shirt beneath. He's got frayed jeans on and the greenest eyes I've ever seen. For the briefest of moments, it's like everything stops, a hushed silence filling the space. There's peace for one still moment when his eyes meet mine in greeting before I hand him a menu. I don't know if everyone can feel it, or if it's only me.
The man in the black suit raises his perfectly shaped eyebrows at me. When he smiles, it's anything but friendly. "Interesting," he says, sipping his coffee, looking between me and the stranger beside him.
I continue to explain my philosophy on the meaninglessness of high school. "I'm eighteen. I work two jobs. I make straight A’s. I study through lunch. I'm there to learn. That's it."
Noah pipes up. "Mom says Julia's a workaholic. She was voted homecoming queen, even though she doesn't have any friends. And, she's not happy about it."
The man smiles at Noah, a dazzling, distorted smile. "I'm sorry," he says to me, "that you have no friends."
I look at Noah. "I have a friend. I have Mitch." Considering I'm not a talker, I don't know why this conversation is dragging on. Yet to the man, I say, "Don't be. I'm too busy for friends."
"Well, then." He sets the mug on the counter without making a sound, leaning in toward me. "Why not end the frivolousness of it all? You a senior?"
I nod, pouring a mug of coffee for the windblown man. Though seated by each other, I notice the two men don't make eye contact with one another. It's like they know each other, but there's some sort of invisible barrier between them.
The man in the suit breaks through my thoughts, saying, "Graduate early. Sounds like you probably have enough credits. Look into it. I may have an opportunity for you at my business starting in January. Consider it an internship. A paid internship. Make money for college and then some. If you're ready to grow up, why wait?"
I stare at him. I know what I want. Why not start working toward it soon? Now. Graduate early. Get a job, start real school, work toward a degree that will get me a job that pays like his. Yes. Yes, this is a good plan.
"You sound like a focused individual. I could use someone like you."
"Well, Julia would be perfect then," Noah says. "Nothing can distract her."
From across the diner, Mom gives me eyes that say, Mingle. So I move on from the men, but not before taking the suit's business card and stuffing it in the back pocket of my old worn-out jeans.
-3-
I'm back in the kitchen and notice the trash bag still sitting propped against the island, so I decide to help Mom with it whether she wants me to or not. That's when I hear clattering from the back storage room. The door is ajar, and I know for a fact I am supposed to be the only person back here. Noah's upstairs brushing his teeth and grabbing his school stuff. Mom and Trevor are still up front in the diner.
"Hello?" I call out, slipping the nearest utensil behind my back. Because defending myself with a metal spatula makes total sense.
I don't call out again, and instead move closer, soundlessly. There's definitely movement inside. Aside from storing dry ingredients and all Mom's bowls, plates, et cetera, the storage room houses the diner's safe with the deposits from the till. Mom doesn't go to the bank every day, so there's definit
ely money inside from the days before.
I pick up a pot cover—to use as a shield, I guess—should the thief be armed. I can laugh afterward if it's nothing but a rodent having slipped in for warmth and crumbs. I can laugh afterward if a pot cover saves me from a gun-bearing robber.
A peek inside proves it's no rodent.
The thief wears jeans and boots with a cap pulled low over his eyes. He hears me as soon as I lunge to hit him over the head with the spatula. I have nothing, really, but my focus and my desire to keep my family and our belongings safe.
His hands were on the safe door, and it was open and empty. Our deposit bag is in his left hand. With his right, he pulls a knife and holds it out toward me, laughing.
I hold the pot cover in front of me as a tiny, tiny barrier, and stick the spatula out to duel if necessary. I don't take my eyes from him, focused and ready to defend myself. To defend what is ours.
Lashing out at him, I surprise him, and he stops laughing. He didn't expect me to be on the offensive. Sneering, he circles me, trying to get out the door.
Not with our money, he won't.
I turn the spatula so the handle is facing him, not sharp, but at least a little more knife-like. I bend my knees, getting leverage under me, strength. If it weren't for the knife, I'd probably be able to handle him. I feel power in my fists. I know my strength. I bounce on the balls of my feet, testing my spring. Bouncing twice, my eyes leave his face for half a second as I twirl and use a back kick to hit his wrist with my heel and disarm him. I land on my feet, facing him, squat to trade the spatula for the knife, and kick the spatula behind me so he doesn't get any bright ideas.
