A few moments later, the Café Peregrine Follies had begun, Act I, scene I, Avery thought. She stood at the restaurant’s entrance, where a large reservation book stood on a high podium. Serena was going to have the first turn seating the customer, and Gena was going to wait on the table.
Avery went outside and walked in, going straight up to Serena, who discreetly removed a wad of gum from her mouth with a tissue. Avery decided to act as if she hadn’t seen that. Serena wouldn’t dare pull something like that once they opened, would she?
“Can I help you?” Serena said.
Avery nodded. “Yes, I have a reservation. Avery Bishop, at six o’clock.”
Serena pretended to look in the book. “Let’s see, where are you . . . Just give me a sec.”
Avery winced. “Just say, ‘Please give me a moment, and I’ll check.’”
“Um, okay. I hope I can remember all that.”
“I’ll write it out for you at the top of each page. All you have to do is read it,” Avery told her.
“Okay. Can we keep going? I have to be at my other job by three.” Serena had two jobs. She was a very hard-working girl, Avery had to grant her that.
“No problem. Keep going.”
Avery put on her customer face again, and Serena continued.
“Let me show you to a table. Right this way. Follow me . . .”
Avery followed her to a table in the middle of the café. The row of French doors stood open and a cool sea breeze whispered through the space, ruffling the edges of the tablecloth.
“Okay, here you go. Have a seat.” Serena abruptly pulled out Avery’s chair.
“Great . . .” Avery forced a smile and sat down. “But you can just say, ‘Here’s your table.’”
Serena nodded. “All right. Here’s your table,” the girl parroted. “Anything else?”
Avery could tell she was getting annoyed. But this was important. She would have a talk with her privately about her attitude.
“One more thing, you need to say, ‘I’ll get your waitress. She’ll be right over.’ Otherwise, people feel a little stranded, as if no one knows they’re there.”
Serena nodded. “Right. You mentioned that before. I forgot.”
“That’s okay,” Avery said. “It takes a while to remember everything. But do smile. You have a very pretty smile. That counts for a lot.”
Serena smiled at her compliment, displaying her deep dimples. She would do fine, Avery decided, if she would take it a little more seriously. Real customers—and real tips—would probably be more inspiring.
It was Gena’s turn next. She walked up to the table smoothly, menus under one arm. “Hello, how is everyone here tonight?” she said amiably. “Welcome to Café Peregrine. My name is Gena, and I’ll be serving you.” She handed Avery a menu. “May I get you something to drink while you’re deciding? We do have a few specials tonight that I can tell you about . . .”
Avery breathed a sigh of relief. If only she could clone Gena, she could happily stay in the kitchen all night.
While Avery waited for her fake drink order, Gena returned to the table with a serving of sweet potato chips and dipping sauce.
“A little something from the chef, to start off your meal,” Gena said cheerfully.
The chips smelled good and looked even better, Avery thought, sampling one.
Gena returned. “Have you made your choices, or would you like a little more time?”
Perfect. Avery beamed at her. “I have a question about the halibut,” she said. “The menu says it’s served with a soba noodle cake. What is that exactly?”
She had gone over the menu with Serena and Gena last week, and wondered if Gena would remember.
Gena was holding back a self-conscious laugh. “Wait . . . I’ve got this . . . Just give me a second . . .”
“Take your time,” Avery said. She bit her lower lip. Okay, one slipup. Gena was otherwise batting a thousand.
“Soba noodles are a traditional Japanese noodle, made from buckwheat flour. They’re served either cold with sauces or hot, in soups,” another voice answered.
Avery spun around. Mike Rossi stood just outside the French doors. When she met his glance, he smiled and walked into the café. As if she had invited him in. Which she definitely had not.
“I’ve never eaten a cake made from soba noodles,” Mike said in a relaxed tone. “But I’d love to try it. Sounds pretty tasty.”
Before Avery could answer, she heard Gena say, “Hi, Mike. Thanks for helping out. I was sort of stuck.”
“No problem. What is this? A dress rehearsal?”
“Sort of,” Avery admitted.
Except that no one was dressed as they should be. She looked particularly awful, she realized. Her baggy cargo shorts and an old black tank top were grounds for arrest by any roaming unit of the fashion police. Working in the hot, sweaty kitchen for the last few hours had not improved her appearance either.
“Cool. Can I watch?”
Avery couldn’t tell if he was serious. It was difficult enough to run her staff through this drill without an audience, especially a glib, teasing one. She decided to ignore the question. Luckily, the sweet potato chips distracted him.
“Those chips smell good. Are these little starters?”
He reached across the table to take a chip, and Avery stifled the impulse to slap his hand.
“Hmm. Interesting. Nice seasoning . . .” He chewed thoughtfully. “Did you put some cumin on there?”
“And a touch of garlic powder. A little sea salt, too,” Teresa quickly replied.
“It’s the amuse-bouche,” Avery told him, using the proper terminology.
Mike’s eyes widened. “The what?”
“The freebie you give out when they sit down. So they don’t get too restless waiting to order,” Teresa explained.
“Like a dish of coleslaw or pickle spears?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Gena answered cheerfully. “In French it means amuse the mouth . . . or tickle the palate. Right, Avery?”
Avery had explained the term when the staff went over the menu. “Exactly,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Cute. I’ll have to remember that.” He caught her eye and smiled again.
Could he be any more condescending? Avery thought of a few snappy comebacks but decided they were all beneath her. Amuse-bouche was a real term that people in the restaurant business used all the time. Why did Mike Rossi make her feel like some . . . some pompous prig?
Gena turned to the others. “This is my friend, Mike Rossi,” she said introducing him to the rest of the staff. “He owns the Lazy Tuna, down on the corner.”
Avery watched Mike greet her crew. Even around a second mouthful of chips, his natural charm shone through. Teresa blushed up to the edge of her bandana when he shook her hand, and Jack, who mostly moved like molasses in January, jumped out from behind the bar to meet him.
“You own the Tuna? Cool. I love that place. I could eat three meals a day there.”
Avery restrained herself from sighing out loud. Doubtlessly, a college boy like Jack Malloy would prefer Mike’s menu over hers any day. But did her own busboy have to be so unabashedly starstruck by the King of Fried Seafood?
Mike didn’t seem to notice her distress. He just stood there, soaking up the adoration.
“Hey, thanks, pal.” Mike slapped Jack’s shoulder. “Come down to the Tuna sometime and say hello.”
Avery stared at him, her arms crossed over her chest. He finally seemed to get the hint that he’d overstayed his welcome.
“Sorry to interrupt your rehearsal. I’m sure everything will go fine on your grand opening. Good luck, everybody!”
Her crew sang out a chorus of thanks-yous. Avery felt obliged to chime in. “Thanks,
Mike. See you around.”
He met her glance a second and waved, then slipped out through the French doors, into the sunshine.
Once Mike had left, she stared around, unable to remember what course they were up to. Had Gena even taken her order?
Gena stood by the table with her pad and pencil out. “Want to keep practicing?”
Gena was the last person who needed this dry run, Avery thought, and of course, the most willing to comply. The others stood waiting for her to answer.
“That’s all right. Let’s take a break.”
Serena had already taken off her apron and had her handbag slung over her arm. “Okay. But remember you said I could leave at three?”
“That’s all right, you can go,” Avery replied.
“Should I make more chips?” Teresa picked up the basket and peered inside where a few crumbs clung to the white parchment paper. “Boy, these went over big. Somebody liked ’em.”
They both knew that somebody was Mike. He had more than sampled the prop; he had made a meal of it when she wasn’t looking.
“I think Mike stuck a few in his pocket,” Avery joked. “I guess he doesn’t serve many dishes like this at the Lazy Tuna.”
Teresa glanced toward the Tuna with a dreamy smile. “I don’t know about his cooking, but he’s a very nice guy and kind of cute.”
“I didn’t notice,” Avery fibbed. “And you’re married.” With children and grandchildren, she could have reminded her. “You shouldn’t be noticing these things.”
Teresa laughed. “I’m married, honey, not blind. And neither are you.”
Avery sighed. She wasn’t going to win this debate. Why even try? She picked up the stray menus and busied herself stacking them.
Okay, he’s attractive. She would grant him that. But what difference did it make to her? None at all.
She had a fairly low opinion of all men right now. Not to mention being totally focused on getting her business off the ground. She had zero interest in dating at the present and had promised herself that if she ever did start to date again, she would not even consider a guy in the restaurant business.
Which included Mike Rossi. Especially Mike Rossi. So why was she even wasting one millisecond thinking about it? It was definitely time to get back to work.
If only those dark, laughing eyes were not so firmly stuck in her mind. Avery shook her head, trying to dislodge the image. She definitely did not need Mike Rossi in her life. But she knew that if she was honest, she had to admit there was a part of her that wouldn’t mind seeing him again.
Chapter Four
CLAIRE met Jamie’s train on Friday morning at nine. He had been in Boston since Tuesday, packing his things and doing whatever a young man his age had to do before leaving town for the summer.
He waved when he hopped off the train and walked over to meet her, carrying a large duffel bag and a knapsack over his shoulder.
“Hey, Claire. I made it.”
Claire was so happy to see him. She wanted to give him a hug but restrained herself. “Yes, you did. Right on time.”
She had honestly been afraid he might oversleep and miss the train, which had left the station in Boston before seven. She was relieved to see he was responsible enough to keep his appointments.
They walked to her Jeep, which was parked in front of the old-fashioned station house. Jamie had on the same pair of jeans and black sneakers she had seen on Monday, but he wore a plaid cotton shirt with short sleeves and a stand-up collar that must have been brand-new. The fabric was still stiff and creases in the front showed where it had been folded in its package.
He had also gotten a haircut. A chunk of dark brown hair still flopped across his eyes, but was not nearly so long. He was trying to make a good impression. That was a good sign.
“I need to make a quick stop at the store, then we have to hurry back. Several guests are checking in this afternoon. The rooms are ready,” Claire explained as she started the Jeep and headed toward the village. “But there’s still plenty to do.”
Jamie nodded. “Okay. Whatever you need me to do, I’ve got it covered.”
She smiled at him briefly. It was so good to see him again, sitting beside her in the car. Once or twice this week, she had wondered if she’d imagined the entire thing—Jamie coming so far to find her and Liza giving him a job at the inn.
But here he was, back on the island, and would remain for the rest of the summer. Enough time for her to make amends for abandoning him so long ago. Enough time to win his trust and be a positive influence in his life.
The drive to the inn passed quickly. Claire pointed out a few local sights on the way.
“Where are those cliffs you used to tell me about?”
“The cliffs are on the other side of the island,” she explained. “I’ll take you there sometime—maybe next week when the inn empties out again.”
They drove up to the inn and found a large shiny SUV parked on the curve of the drive that circled in front of the entrance.
A group of guests had arrived, though it was barely ten. Check-in time was twelve noon, but Liza never had the heart to remind anyone of that. Liza had come out to greet their new guests—two middle-aged couples who were traveling together.
Claire parked on the side of the inn and grabbed the shopping bags as she got out of the car. Jamie reached in back for his duffel and knapsack.
“You’d better leave those for now. Go help the guests with their luggage and see if Liza has anything else to send up to the rooms.” There were often requests as soon as guests walked in the door—extra towels and pillows, tea or coffee, hair dryers and ironing boards.
“Oh, right.” Jamie dropped his own bags in the backseat again and loped toward the SUV.
One of the men tugged at a large suitcase stuck in the trunk. The bag was large enough for a month’s vacation, Claire thought, with a smile.
“Hey, mister, hold up. I’ll help you with that.” Jamie trotted across the gravel to the car.
Claire winced a bit. “Hey, mister” was not the most cordial address. But the guest looked pleased to have a helping hand. Jamie pulled the suitcase out with ease and grabbed a canvas tote. He soon got all the bags into the inn, and Claire watched the man follow, sifting through the front pocket of his khaki pants for a tip. She had nearly forgotten. There would be some tips with this post as well. Claire never accepted tips, though they were often offered. But she was sure Jamie would and she saw no harm in that. It was definitely a perk to the job.
Claire headed for the kitchen with her grocery bags, but Liza stopped her to introduce the guests.
The Rapps had been at the inn the summer before. They had first come early last summer and liked it so much they returned again in August. This time they had brought their good friends, the Foxes. Both couples appeared to be in their early sixties and very fit. Claire remembered that Mrs. Rapp was a dedicated bird watcher; her binoculars were already strung around her neck.
Mr. Rapp liked Claire’s cooking. He was a tall, lanky man whose slim waistline belied his large appetite. He rubbed his hands together, anticipating the meals to come. “What’s on the menu for lunch today, Claire? I told the others we couldn’t stop and spoil our appetites.”
“A few things you might enjoy: Rhode Island chowder and a seafood pasta. And some johnnycake. I recall you like that.”
His eyebrows rose into his hat brim. He quickly turned to his friends. “Claire makes the best johnnycake you ever tasted. She makes the best . . . everything.”
Claire blushed at the compliment. “Let’s not go overboard. I wouldn’t want your friends to be disappointed.”
“No chance of that,” Mrs. Rapp assured her.
Jamie had made another trip to the car and brought up all the Foxes’ luggage as well. He came down the sta
irs looking a bit breathless, his new shirt already wrinkled. But he was smiling, looking pleased to have completed this first official act.
“Thank you, Jamie. I have to save my back for golf,” Mr. Fox said. “I can’t let that old guy beat me every weekend.”
The two couples went upstairs, laughing at their repartee. Liza and Jamie followed Claire into the kitchen.
Liza picked up a pad from the kitchen table. “Good to see you again, Jamie. And I was glad to see you jump right in there.”
Jamie shrugged. “No problem. That’s what I’m here for.”
“One of your jobs, for sure,” Liza said. “There will be a lot more bags to carry before the weekend is over. I made a list of chores you can work on today. I put a check mark next to the most important. If you can’t get them all done, don’t worry. We get interrupted here a lot.”
Liza glanced at Claire. “Claire will show you what to do, but you should get settled in now. Your room is on the third floor.”
“I put a navy blue spread on the bed,” Claire added. “It’s at the end of the hall.”
“Do you have any bags?” Liza asked him.
Jamie nodded. “Out in Claire’s Jeep.”
“This is a good time to bring them in. There’s a dresser and closet in the room. I think you should find everything you need. Just come down to the kitchen when you’ve unpacked.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right back,” he promised.
After he left, Liza turned to Claire, who had started to rinse off the clams she was going to use for the chowder.
“Well, so far, so good,” Liza said. “He’ll be thrown in the deep end this weekend. I had another call this morning, and that fills the second floor.”
“Good thing you told me. Sounds like I’ll need to stretch this chowder.” Claire always bought a little extra and knew she had enough ingredients. Besides, it wasn’t the amount of clams necessarily but the quality of the broth that made good soup.
“Oh, you’re a magician in here. I’m not worried about that.” Liza patted her arm. “Look over that list and let me know if you think it’s too daunting for his first day.”
The Way Home Page 6
