The Way Home

by Katherine Spencer

  “That all sounds very . . . glamorous,” she replied. “Like an aftershave commercial. But I think it might get awfully boring after a while.”

  “Why would it get boring? I don’t think so.” Jamie popped a French fry in his mouth and grinned.

  “Maybe not, maybe not,” she compromised. “I guess what I’m really asking is if there is anything you would really like to do, as a trade or a profession. Just until you’re a millionaire,” she teased him. “I’m sure you can find another job, after the inn. But you don’t have to jump from job to job your whole life, Jamie. You could learn some useful trade—become a carpenter or an electrician. A professional cook, maybe?”

  He had not shown much interest in anything like that at the inn, Claire knew. But she hoped her suggestions would spur some response in him.

  Jamie just shrugged and examined a packet of sweetener.

  “I believe that God gives everyone some talent,” Claire went on, not about to give up. “Some special spark they can develop and use to express themselves, and do some good in the world. It might be some rare ability, like being a rocket scientist. Or as simple as being a good cook, like me. There are no better or worse gifts in the eyes of God. Everyone is important in the role they play in the world. The main thing is to put your heart in something, to take pride in what you do. ‘Whatsoever you do, do it with all your heart,’” she said, recalling a favorite psalm. “I believe that you have some talent, too,” she added. “I’m sure of it.”

  Jamie looked up at her. “Me? Sure. I’ve got a talent, for getting in trouble.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Claire said, biting back a smile. “I’m sure you have a real talent. You just haven’t found it yet. You seem pretty handy with computers,” she added. “I’ve seen you fix Liza’s computer a few times now.”

  Jamie pushed a shock of dark hair out of his eyes. “That was no big deal. Everybody knows how to do stuff like that.”

  “What was that thing you set up for Liza—a wire system? Is that what you call it? Well, everybody doesn’t know how to do that. Liza said if you hadn’t done it, she would have had to hire a technician.”

  Claire had no clue as to what Jamie had actually done. All she knew was that Liza was so pleased, she had given him a bonus in his paycheck.

  He shrugged again, but at least he smiled this time. “All I did was set up wireless Internet access for the guests. It was pretty simple . . . and you call it Wi-Fi.”

  “Wi-Fi, right.” Claire nodded, feeling they were getting somewhere. “I think you have a knack for it. If you like that sort of work, I’m sure there are classes you can take to learn more. Maybe in a trade school or at a junior college.” She shook her head, feeling out of her depth. “Listen to me,” she said ruefully. “I don’t know the first thing about computers, and here I am, trying to tell you how to start a career with them. But all I mean to say is, wasn’t it fun to do work you liked and found easy—and get paid for it?”

  Jamie nodded. “Sure it was. But I didn’t really think of it as work.”

  “That’s just my point. When you find something you have talent for and enjoy doing, it doesn’t seem like work. Not all the time,” she added honestly. “That’s how I feel about cooking.”

  Jamie sighed and stared at her. “I guess I could see myself fixing computers. It would be pretty cool if I could. And I bet the pay is good, better than what I earn. But how would I get jobs like that? Who would hire me?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you could get a job in that field. I think there must be plenty. It seems everything involves computers nowadays. But first you have to look at the big picture. And have some patience. Getting your GED would be the first step. Then you need to take some courses. We could look into it together. I’ll help you figure it out,” she added. “I’ll help you with the tuition, too.”

  “You would? I don’t know . . . I don’t think I could let you do that.”

  “I want to. It would make me happy to see you headed on a good career track. It would make me very happy,” she assured him.

  Jamie let out a long sigh. “I’ll pay you back. I have to.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “Claire, I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not a very good student. I just get too bored sitting still too long and trying to memorize stuff.”

  “I know studying is not your cup of tea,” she admitted. “But you are very intelligent. Everyone says so. You just haven’t found that special thing to apply your smarts to. If you have a real goal, a real destination in sight, you’ll be a much better student that you used to be. It won’t be like sitting in class and memorizing how many angles in an octagon or when the pyramids were built.”

  Jamie laughed. “Do you remember how you used to help me study for those tests?”

  “I do,” she replied. “I knew it didn’t make much sense to you. You used to always ask me, ‘Why do I need to learn this stuff?’ and I couldn’t always give you a good answer. But now it’s all your choice. You can learn things that do make sense to you, that add up to something in your real life. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  Jamie rubbed his jaw a moment. “What about the GED? I heard it was hard.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad. I asked a friend of mine about it. She used to teach history in the high school. She said there are books we can buy, and there’s all kinds of help on the Internet, too. Vera, my friend, tutors students who are preparing for the test. I’m sure she could help you,” Claire added.

  Jamie looked a bit overwhelmed by the suggestion.

  Claire didn’t want to scare him. “You just think about it. You don’t have to figure it all out right now. I have to return some books to the library. I’m sure we can find some material there about the GED, and about places where you can learn to work with computers.”

  “All right, we can look around at the library. I guess I’m sort of curious now.”

  Claire breathed a silent sigh of relief. She had him interested in the idea of education—that was the first step. “Would you like some dessert?” she asked.

  “Nah. I was thinking of ordering some blueberry pie, but I know it won’t be half as good as what I’m used to at the inn. You spoil me, Claire.”

  Claire laughed and asked for the check. She had never enjoyed a meal at the Clam Box more and doubted she ever would again.

  * * *

  AVERY wasn’t really superstitious, but Friday the thirteenth still made her wary. She hoped the café would have a lot of customers this weekend. The big wave of business over the holiday had helped her bottom line some. But a week or so later, the flow of customers had dwindled again. Some of the special theme nights filled the café, and others didn’t work quite as well. Avery felt the business was just bumping along and still worried every day if she would make it to the end of the summer.

  She had hired a new waitress, Teresa’s granddaughter, Brittany, who was a hardworking young woman, attending college in Rhode Island and home for the summer. Teresa had taken charge of training and supervising her and was far tougher at that than Avery ever would have been.

  Though Jack was still licking his wounds from his breakup, Brittany’s arrival had added a spark to his day. He definitely seemed more cheerful and energetic lately, and Avery thought it was cute to see this little romance start to blossom.

  Heaven knows, I have no social life anymore.

  Even if she had a spare moment from the café, she was either exhausted or doing some extra job to save a little on overhead. Like washing and ironing the linens herself, instead of sending them out to a laundry.

  Sometimes Gena came in and helped her. Avery was standing at the ironing board around noon, working on a pile of tablecloths while Gena folded, when she noticed a peculiar sight—an army of seniors were marching up the boardwalk.

  Dressed in bright summer clothes, sun ha
ts, and sunglasses that wrapped around their heads like welder’s goggles, they were led by a tour guide who carried a little yellow flag with a smiley face on a plastic pole.

  “Did you see that?” Gena asked. “Looks like we’re being invaded by the silver-haired set. I bet they’re going down to the Tuna.” Gena stepped to the open doors and looked outside.

  “He’s bringing in tour groups now?” Avery sighed. “What next?”

  “It’s a good idea. Why didn’t we think of it?” Gena said as she set to work again on the linens.

  “Why, indeed,” Avery muttered. “I’m going to look into it. Unless he has it all locked up.”

  Which was possible, knowing Mike. His laid-back manner belied his sharp business sense.

  They worked a few minutes more in silence. Avery heard the phone and eagerly picked it up, hoping it was a reservation.

  “Café Peregrine, may I help you?”

  “I hope you can,” a familiar voice replied. “Want some easy business? I have a big group of hungry tourists here and not enough table space. They all have to go back on the three o’clock ferry, otherwise I’d do two seatings,” Mike explained.

  The senior invasion. He wanted to send the overflow her way.

  “But I don’t do lunch,” Avery reminded him.

  There was a short but distinct silence. “Are you kidding me? You keep telling me you need more business. I’m sending you a boatload of customers. What is the problem, Avery? You’re not open? Get open,” he advised.

  Avery was taken aback a bit by his tone. But she could hear the noise in the background. He was under pressure, and he had helped her when she was in a crisis, with all that emergency food. She did owe him one.

  “All right. Send them over. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I knew you’d come to your senses sooner or later. You don’t have much time to get ready. They move quicker than you’d think.”

  Avery hung up and turned to Gena. “You know that parade that just passed by? They were going to the Tuna . . . and we’re getting the overflow.”

  “The overflow? You mean we’re opening for lunch?”

  “That’s what I mean.” Avery hastily gathered up the linens and cleared up the dining area. Then she ran back to the kitchen. “Call around and see if anyone can get over here to help. I’m thinking a short, blackboard menu. We have lots of pizza dough left over from Monday. I’ll add the two specials I was planning for tonight and get more food for dinner later.”

  There would be an hour or two to get more supplies for dinner entrees. It would be close, but she did need the business.

  An unexpected shopping trip should be the least of my problems, she reminded herself.

  The tour group soon marched up to the Peregrine and filed in. Avery invited everyone to find their own tables.

  “What a pretty little place,” she heard a lady say as she passed by.

  “It looks a lot nicer than that fish shack,” another lady agreed. “That one’s a little too funky for my taste.”

  Funky, huh? She would have to tell Mike about that review. Then again . . . maybe not, she decided.

  Avery ran back to the kitchen, leaving Gena in charge of getting everyone settled. Brittany and Jack walked through the back door. Luckily, they had been nearby, just down at the beach when Gena called. Avery quickly explained the situation, and everyone got to work.

  The pizzas were a popular choice and easy to turn out quickly. Teresa showed up just as Avery was getting the first wave of orders in the oven. Her seasoned helper didn’t ask too many questions and jumped right into the work.

  “They keep telling me they need to make the three o’clock ferry,” Gena said each time she came into the kitchen. “I hope we make it.”

  “Tell them to eat faster,” Teresa groused. “We can always pack a few things to go.”

  Avery didn’t want that to happen. They would never come back again. She cooked like a demon, consoled by the knowledge that there was a time limit to this madness.

  She happened to be in the dining room, helping serve dessert, when an attractive woman, about her own age, appeared at one of the open French doors. Avery recognized her, the tour guide who had been holding the little flag.

  “How’s everyone doing here? Having a good time?” she asked the group cheerfully.

  Avery was relieved to hear a chorus of positive replies.

  “The food was very good,” one woman shouted out.

  “And I loved my dessert,” her husband chimed in.

  Would you please post those reviews on the Internet? Avery nearly asked. But she didn’t want to beg for good comments, and she wondered if the couple even used a computer. Though many seniors did, she reminded herself.

  “Well, this was a nice surprise. Sorry we didn’t have a reservation,” the tour guide said to Avery. “I’m Cindy, by the way. I’m with Pilgrim Tours.” She offered her hand and Avery shook it.

  Cindy was an attractive blonde, about Avery’s age, with long bangs and layer-cut hair that swooped to her shoulders. Her outfit, a French blue blouse and short white skirt, complemented her summery looks perfectly. She looked very calm and collected, even in the midst of her demanding customers, the total opposite of how Avery felt. Even Cindy’s hair seemed calm, totally defying the humidity, Avery noticed. Unlike her own, which curled so wildly today, she looked as if she had stuck her finger in a light socket.

  “I was pretty worried for a minute there that half the group wasn’t going to get lunch. Now that would have caused a small riot. These lovely folks can turn on you quickly,” she confided.

  Avery laughed, though she suspected it wasn’t entirely a joke. “I’m glad we were able to accommodate you.”

  “I am, too. Let me give you my card. I bring tours here all the time. Maybe I can bring another group here for lunch one day?”

  “Please do.” Avery had to get a hold of herself to keep from hugging the woman out of sheer gratitude. “I mean, I’d be happy to work something out with you.”

  Cindy reached into her handbag and handed Avery a business card. Avery handed her one of the café’s cards, too. “That’s me, Avery Bishop,” she noted, pointing to her name on the bottom. “Give me a call or e-mail anytime.”

  “Will do,” Cindy nodded, and stuck the card in her wallet.

  “Mike said you would be a good sport.” Her tone of voice and the way she smiled gave Avery the impression that she knew Mike well. “He’s such a character, isn’t he?” Cindy asked with another indulgent smile.

  Avery smiled back, her teeth gritting together. “He sure is,” she agreed. A charming, attractive character who must flirt with a lot of women—and maybe even impulsively kiss a few, too? She couldn’t help but wonder.

  Cindy had turned away from Avery and missed her flustered expression. She took out her yellow flag from somewhere, then clapped her hands. “Listen up, everybody. Time to settle your checks and head down the boardwalk. We don’t want to miss the ferry.”

  The announcement inspired a flurry of activity. Bills were paid, leftovers wrapped, and the group marched out as quickly as they had come in.

  Avery and her crew soon collapsed into empty chairs.

  “They came, they ate, they talked about cholesterol,” Gena observed dryly.

  Avery had to laugh. “How true. I’m not sure if we did lunch, or it did us. But the important thing is, we survived.”

  “Every table was filled, and they didn’t bat an eye at those overpriced gourmet pizza pies,” Teresa observed. “This lunchtime crowd could be a good thing.”

  “I’ve thought about it, but I didn’t think we’d be able to handle another meal,” Avery confessed. The truth was, they had barely mastered serving dinner. “But today went very well and with no advance notice. Would you all be willing to do
a lunch shift—maybe two or three days a week?”

  Gena, Jack, Teresa, and Brittany answered with an affirmative chorus. Gena reached into her apron pockets and began sorting out her tips. “I wouldn’t mind doubling my pay. I did better just now than I do on some weeknights.”

  It was soon decided by a majority vote that Café Peregrine would open for lunch Thursday through Saturday. On Sunday they already served brunch. Avery thought it was reasonable to start with a few days and take it from there.

  Am I going out on a limb now to get the fruit? Avery wondered, remembering Mike’s advice. She wasn’t sure. But she did know that if today was any measure, the extra profits might save the café.

  She had one person to thank for this stroke of insight—and for forcing this lunch group down her throat. Mike Rossi. Who else? She wanted to laugh when she recalled what she had said to him over the phone. “But we don’t serve lunch.”

  Well . . . duh . . . it’s a good time to start.

  As her staff cleared up the dining room and began to set up for dinner, Avery wondered what Mike was doing right now at the Tuna. She half expected him to pop in the back door any minute and ask how they had survived the tsunami of seniors.

  But he didn’t come. He must still be busy, she thought. I could go see him . . . or I could call. Maybe that would be better.

  Considering that I look like a total wreck.

  She glanced in the mirror, despairing over her hair, a mass of dirty brown curls, piled on her head and haphazardly secured with a handful of hairpins. It was her hair versus the humidity every day down here and so far, the humidity was clearly winning. She would get one hunk of hair in place with a pin and moments later, another wave would spring out from some other spot. And she was tired and sticky from cooking as well.

  No, it’s not the time to surprise Mike, she decided. Then she had to catch herself, worrying so much about her appearance. Hadn’t he seen her at her very worst, at her very lowest moment on the Fourth of July weekend? What was the difference now?

  Avery wasn’t ready to examine that question too closely. It’s just . . . different, she snapped at the little voice in her head. I don’t have to look like someone used me to wipe down the kitchen floor every time I see him, do I?