A Steadfast Surrender

by Nancy Moser

  Then why didn’t I try to please her?

  “Where is she? We sure could use her.”

  “She had to go away for a while. But she’ll be back, I know she will.”

  Sanchez stopped his work and Sim saw the pity in his eyes. And kindness. It was the same look Cook used to give her when her parents did something hurtful.

  Maybe a heart for cooking and a heart for compassion went together.

  Sim was tired. She’d spent two hours helping Bailey clean the dining room even though it looked clean enough. Working at the library was one thing, but this scrubbing, vacuuming, and dusting was another. No fun at all.

  Bailey’s attitude didn’t help. Sim had been kidding about being his slave, yet Bailey barked commands like a vindictive overseer. An obsessive vindictive overseer. He had made Sim rewipe all the salt and pepper shakers because she missed a speck of food on one. Ridiculous.

  Once the Sunday lunch crowd started, she bussed tables.

  When she noticed Bailey alone in the waiting area, she took her tub of dishes with her and dropped it on a chair with a clatter.

  “Hey! Be careful.”

  Sim leaned back in a chair and crossed her arms. “Can slaves resign?”

  Bailey straightened the menus. “Don’t exaggerate. I haven’t worked you that hard.”

  “Without looking at your watch, what time is it?”

  Bailey put a hand over his watch as if the mere order not to look at it would prove too tempting. “I don’t know…one-thirty?”

  “Almost three.”

  Bailey removed his hand and stared at his watch. “No, it couldn’t—”

  “It is.” Sim gathered the cleaning supplies. “I said I’d help bus tables tonight, but if I’m going to do that, I’d really like some time off in-between. I want to go to the library and see if Claire’s come back.”

  “Sure, sure.” Bailey rubbed his head. “I had no idea…the time…hey, sorry, Sim. You’ve been a big help, and I know I haven’t been easy to work for today. I’m just nervous about this reviewer coming. A lot rides on these things.”

  Sim put a hand on Bailey’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine. The place is glowing and Sanchez’s dessert…you tasted it at lunch. It’s great.”

  Bailey glanced at her. “You’re a good girl, Sim. Jered could learn from you.”

  Speaking of… “I thought Jered worked for you.”

  Bailey’s laugh was bitter. “Jered and work go together like jalapeños and chocolate.”

  “Maybe the restaurant business isn’t his thing.”

  “If it’s his thing he’s after, he’d have to find a job drinking beer and sleeping late.”

  “Why don’t you want him to be a musician?”

  “He told you about that?”

  “If it’s his dream, why don’t you let him go for it?”

  Bailey straightened the already-straightened menus. “So now you’re a parenting expert?”

  “No, but—”

  “If my son ever showed me he could stick to something for more than two days, I’d consider it. Going after your dream is hard work.” Bailey put a fist to his heart. “You’ve got to live it in your soul. You’ve got to have to do it or die.”

  Sim had never seen someone with so much passion. She couldn’t imagine feeling that way about a restaurant, but Bailey’s fire cast him in a better light. “I wish I felt that driven about something.”

  Bailey let his fist relax and looked at it as if he hadn’t realized he made the gesture. He took a breath. “Go on now. If you’re back at six, that’s soon enough.”

  Sim stopped at the door. “Everything will be fine tonight, Bailey. I know it will.”

  Since Merry was gone, and Blanche and Ivan were filling in, Sim didn’t want to go in the front door of the library and risk running into anyone who’d been present when the library ghost fiasco came down. Not yet. Plus she didn’t want to answer any questions about how things were going with Bailey. All she wanted to do was check the attic for signs of Claire.

  She slipped in the back door and took the stairs. Even before she opened the attic door, she sensed Claire wasn’t there. She slumped onto Claire’s bed.

  Where are you?

  Sim opened her eyes. She looked at her watch. Five o’clock. She hadn’t planned to spend her free time sleeping. She stretched and looked out the attic window. Kids rollerbladed through the square by City Hall and two more rode their bikes as if nothing was wrong in the world. A surge of envy hit her. Would she ever be a normal kid again? Had she ever been a normal kid?

  She slipped down the stairs and out, heading back to Bon Vivant. She heard a vehicle driving slowly behind her. Her arms prickled.

  “Hey, little orphan Simmy.”

  Jered. Maybe if I don’t turn around…

  “Talk to me, ghost.” It was Moog. “Or do you think you’re too good for us, making a fool of the town by doing that library ghost junk?”

  Sim took a strengthening breath and turned. “I didn’t make a fool of anybody. I was only trying to—”

  “Trying to butt in where you had no business butting.”

  “Yeah.” Darrell sat in the middle of the other two. “You tricked us.”

  “I didn’t trick anybody.”

  Moog pointed a finger across Darrell. “We took you in as a friend. And this is how you repay us? By lying to us?”

  “And taking over my father?”

  They all looked at Jered.

  “Well, she did.”

  Sim’s gut wrenched. “Your dad’s just being nice, letting me stay with you guys while Merry is—”

  “You’re staying with him, not me.” Jered glanced at Moog and Darrell, making sure he had their attention. “Did you have fun playing Monopoly with Daddy, Simmy?” His voice hardened. “How old are you, anyway? Ten?”

  Sim felt herself redden. “I like Monopoly. I will always like Monopoly.”

  “Oooh, such a woman. Taking a stand for Boardwalk. What are you going to do tonight? Play Candy Land?”

  “Actually, I’m going to work my tail off at your dad’s restaurant. He’s expecting a restaurant reviewer this evening, and I spent most of the day helping him get everything perfect.”

  Moog squealed and offered a limp wrist. “That bernuz sauce is simply too-too mahvelous fer words.”

  “Béarnaise sauce.” Sim looked at Jered. “Why aren’t you helping him?”

  “I don’t have to work in my father’s busin—”

  Moog laughed. “Unless he makes you.”

  Jered leveled him with a look. “It’s his business. Not mine.”

  “And your business is?”

  Darrell laughed. “Getting into trouble.”

  “Want to go for a ride with some real men?” Jered revved the truck’s motor.

  Sim rolled her eyes. Bailey was right. Jered would never achieve his dream. Not when all he cared about was messing around. “No thanks. I have a really important game of Chutes and Ladders to get back to.” She walked away. The sounds of the boys’ laughter faded with the roar of the engine.

  Morons.

  Jered headed out of town.

  “I thought we were going to rent some movies and have pizza at my house,” Darrell said.

  “Yeah,” Moog said. “I want to see that new slasher movie. We should have gotten Sim to watch it with us because she’d get all scared and want to cuddle, and I could—”

  “Twenty-two people get killed in that movie.” Darrell grinned. “I think it’s so cool when the victims walk through their house in the dark and then this knife comes out and…”

  Jered tuned them out. He liked horror flicks as much as the next guy but at the moment they seemed inconsequential—like discussing which shoes to wear to Judgment Day Ever since seeing Sim, his insides had begun a frenzied dance, wanting to leap through his skin. It was like he had something to do but he didn’t know what it was.

  “Enough cruising. Jered, turn back to town. We don’t want—”
/>   Jered swerved the truck onto the shoulder and jerked to a stop, sending his friends forward into the dash.

  “Hey!”

  “Out!” Jered ordered.

  They stared at him. “What?”

  “Get out. I’ve got something to do.”

  “Like what?”

  Not knowing the answer to that question only fueled his anger. Jered shoved the truck in park and opened his door, not quite believing what he was about to do. “Do I have to drag you guys out or—?

  Moog opened the passenger door and got out. “You’d better watch it.” He pointed a finger. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I don’t like it.”

  “You can’t just leave us here.” Darrell was almost whining.

  “Sure I can.” Jered shut his own door, then reached across the seat and pulled theirs shut. He forced his eyes to focus on his friends standing on the edge of the highway. What am I doing? He called to them through the window, forcing his voice to be friendly. “Got things to do. Sorry about this. I’ll make it up to you.”

  As he drove away, Moog’s yell followed him: “You’d better believe it!”

  Jered’s head hurt. He gripped the steering wheel so as not to veer off the road with the pain.

  First Sim takes my job at the library, then she stays with Merry, then she gets my dad to take her in. Then she works for him in my place.

  He continued away from Steadfast, the urge to drive straight and fast accelerating with his anger.

  As soon as he surrendered to the impulse, his headache lessened. And with the absence of pain, he began to enjoy himself. He noticed the speedometer inching upward into the eighties. He was invincible. No one could stop him.

  He spotted an oncoming car on the horizon and fixed on it. As it got closer, he leaned over the steering wheel, the car an objective.

  He found the thought odd but didn’t have time to analyze it. He flexed his fingers and positioned them on the wheel, ready for action. When the car was seconds away from passing alongside him, Jered jerked the wheel toward the center line.

  The other driver reacted, turning away from danger. Too much. His right tires found the soft shoulder.

  Jered looked back and saw brake lights. Another glance let him see the car fishtail as it tried to get back on the road. And yet another let him witness the car’s descent into the ditch.

  He looked in his rearview mirror in time to see the dust settle around the accident. His stomach lurched.

  What have I done?

  He pulled to the side of the road, flung open the door, and hurled himself onto the shoulder. Then he threw up.

  Sim watched Bailey wipe his palms on his pants. The man was oozing politeness, pasting on his best host-smile. “Good evening…lovely weather…you look beautiful this evening…”

  A lone man entered the restaurant. When Bailey did a double take and straightened his shoulders, Sim realized he’d deemed this man the reviewer. Watch out, buddy. You’re in for some heavy schmoozing.

  Bailey stood his full height and straightened his tie. He cleared his throat and smiled. “Good evening, sir, may I help you?”

  “Morrison. Table for one. Nonsmoking.”

  “Right this way, Mr. Morrison.” Bailey led the man to one of Stanley’s tables. He told him the specials. As he passed Stanley, he crooked a finger at him—and Sim—leading them back into the kitchen.

  “The man dining alone. Mr. Morrison. That’s the reviewer.”

  Stanley peeked out the window in the door.

  “Don’t look at him!” Bailey yanked him back. “We aren’t supposed to know it’s him.”

  “Then how do we know it’s him?”

  “We just know.” Bailey glanced through the window himself. “You’d better get out there. Make me proud, everyone.”

  “So it’s show time?” Sanchez asked from the stove.

  Bailey held up two sets of crossed fingers.

  It was pitiful. The man was obsessed.

  Sim was glad Mr. Morrison ordered Chocolat Bordeaux for dessert. From a discreet distance, she watched as he took a bite. As the food hit his palate, his chewing slowed, as though he was savoring the taste. His head cocked and he nodded.

  He likes it! Sanchez would be so happy.

  But just as she was going to go give the chef the news, Bailey approached the table.

  “How is your dessert, Mr. Morrison?”

  The man brushed his napkin against his lips. “Truly delectable. Such an unusual combination of tastes.”

  “It’s an exclusive creation of Bon Vivant.”

  Mr. Morrison nodded. “I’m a bit of a rookie chef myself. I’m always curious how such recipes come about.”

  Sim’s stomach engaged. Bailey hadn’t listened to Sanchez’s story. What would he do? What could he do?

  In a flash, she knew.

  He’d lie.

  Even as she heard Bailey’s words, Sim had trouble believing what she was hearing.

  “Actually, my grandmother came up with the idea of the basic cake,” Bailey said. “I merely added the sauce.”

  “Then I compliment the chef—your grandmother.”

  Bailey glanced in Sim’s direction. His eyes widened. He looked back at Mr. Morrison.

  Sim couldn’t stand the sight of him. She retreated into the kitchen.

  Sanchez looked up from his stirring. “What’s wrong, Sim?”

  Her thoughts played darts, none of them hitting the bull’s-eye. “Nothing.”

  Plenty.

  Sim couldn’t stand it any longer. She sought Bailey out in the waiting area. “Why’d you do it?”

  He looked up from the reservation book, giving Sim an employer-to-employee look. “Excuse me?”

  “Why’d you take credit for Sanchez’s dessert? It’s his creation, not yours.”

  Bailey glanced toward the dining room and pasted on an amiable face in case any diners looked his way. “Don’t lecture me, kid.”

  “It was wrong.”

  “It was necessary. I didn’t know the real story, and the reviewer wanted an explanation as to how the dessert came about. What was I supposed to do? Say ‘I don’t know’?”

  “ ‘I don’t know’ is better than a lie.”

  Bailey stacked the menus. “I won’t take this from you.”

  “You could have gotten Sanchez, brought him out, and introduced him. Couldn’t you have done that?”

  Bailey’s silence was proof that he’d never thought of it.

  “My dad used to pull stuff like this. I’d hear him on the phone, arguing with someone after he’d taken credit for their ideas.”

  “I’m not your dad.”

  Sim raised her chin and looked Bailey straight in the eye. “No, you’re not.” She turned toward the dining room. “I’ve got work to do. Honest work.”

  As she returned to the kitchen, Sim thought about the words she’d just said to Bailey: honest work. The reality of what she’d witnessed was the epitome of dishonesty, and it was a blow to the concept of rewards coming to those who did the work. Sanchez had worked hard to create that recipe. He deserved the appreciation that went with it.

  Like he deserved to know what had just gone on.

  Sim went over to the stove. Sanchez was pouring a sauce over a cut of veal. He gave her a glance. “What’s up, little lady? And don’t say nothing.”

  Sim checked the location of the waiters and other kitchen help. They were all scrambling with their orders, not paying attention to her, though she could tell by the occasional glance that their curiosity had been piqued.

  “Can I talk to you a minute? Alone?”

  Sanchez chuckled. “There’s no such thing as alone in the kitchen of a restaurant, Sim. Not during eating hours.”

  “Oh.”

  Sanchez studied her face for a moment, then scanned the kitchen. The curiosity of the others had turned to a deeper interest.

  “Don’t you people have anything to do? Shoo!”

  The bustle resumed fu
ll force. He turned to Sim. “How ‘bout you whisper it in my ear while I cook up this salmon?”

  It would have to do. Sanchez leaned down, and Sim leaned close. She put her lips to his ear. “Bailey took credit for your dessert with the restaurant critic. He said it was his creation.”

  Sanchez jerked back. “He what?”

  Sim nodded, not wanting to say it again.

  Sanchez shook his head. “So if the man likes it and gives it a good review, Bailey will get the credit.”

  Sim shrugged.

  Sanchez noticed the salmon smoking and turned it over. “Well, that’s that, then.”

  “That’s what?”

  “I quit.”

  “You—?”

  He turned the knobs on the stove to Off with a flourish. “I’m gone. I can’t stay in a place where the owner steals my dream out from under me.”

  Stanley appeared with a tray. “What’s wrong?”

  Sanchez told him. And then he told the others. The kitchen activity halted as all listened to his story and his harsh words.

  Sim slunk away. What have I done?

  I have to get out of here. Now!

  Sim went into the dining room, nearly bumping into Bailey as he headed into the kitchen. She took his arm, stopping him.

  “What?” He lowered his voice. “Not now. I’m busy and I intend to find out why I’m the only one who is. Where is everybody?”

  She held on to his sleeve. “I don’t feel very good, Bailey. Can I go home early?”

  Home. What a joke. She had no intention of going back to his house. Another bridge burned. Another haven deserted.

  “No, you cannot. I need you here. Can’t you hold on another hour?”

  “I—”

  Loud voices came from the kitchen. “What is going on in there?” With a backward glance to the customers, he took Sim’s arm and pulled her into the kitchen with him.

  As he entered, the staff slid out of the line of fire. Sanchez was packing his personal utensils in a tomato paste box.

  Sim felt Bailey’s fingers tighten around her arm.