Bree laughed at that. "Because someone who hasn't introduced herself is grilling me? I figure you'll tell me who you are and why we're having this conversation in your own time."
She took the drained pasta and divided it between three bowls. Then she ladled the artichoke crème gently over the pasta in the dishes, spooned the steamed zucchini curls along the side, and sighed. It should have an accent, something red or orange to pop against all the green. Oh, well. It would do.
"I need to serve this now, before it gets cold," she said. She took two bowls in and set them on the dining table. "Lunch time!" she said brightly.
The two women got up and came over to the table.
"You sure you don't want any?" she asked, looking at the man still seated on the sofa. He shook his head.
"Okay."
She went back into the kitchen and picked up the third bowl. "Do you mind if I eat while you talk about… whatever?"
The woman shook her head. "Not at all. So. You are Bree Taylor. You worked for Henry Lassiter, that sweet man. You came to the village for his funeral, and are staying with Helena."
Bree nodded, her mouth full of pasta. The sauce could use a dash of fresh lemon to set off the artichoke's richness. She swallowed, set the bowl down, then pulled out a blank card and wrote a note on it.
"What are you writing?" the woman asked.
"A dash of lemon juice will brighten the sauce next time," she said. "Would it be too much to ask who you are?"
The woman smiled. "You can call me Ms. Zelda. I am the president of the senior center in town, among other things."
"Ah. Got it. You're checking to see if I'm mistreating Helena."
"Of course not," she said, looking offended. "I wouldn't be standing here watching you cook if I thought for one minute you were a dishonest person. I've come to offer you a job."
"Oh. Of course," Bree said. She grabbed a towel and wiped down the kitchen counter where a bit of the pasta liquid had spilled. Then she went to the fridge and took out two little glasses of the dessert. She gave Ms. Zelda a quick glance. "I suppose you're too full for a taste of raspberry mousse."
"Not necessarily," she responded.
So Bree got out two more of the glasses, glad she'd made plenty, and handed one to the woman, along with a spoon. The others she took in the dining room, setting two beside Helena and Sophie's plates (they were scraping the last of the sauce off the empty plates, she was glad to see). Then she took the other mousse and handed it to the man on the couch. Again, he smiled and nodded, but said nothing.
She went back to the kitchen.
"So, you talked to Kyle and Hallie Madrigal, and you want me to be the cook for the senior center."
"Yes, exactly that. This is an excellent mousse, by the way."
"Of course it is. It's Henry's recipe."
"Actually, it's Henry's mother's recipe. I remember it well, though she usually made it with wild blackberries."
"I see. Well, as I said to them earlier, I am not looking for a job."
"You already have one."
"Yes."
"That pays minimum wage."
"Plus tips."
"Which amount to?"
"I don't know. A few bucks, I imagine. I work my first shift tonight."
"I know."
"Apparently you know a lot, Ms. Zelda. So you know that I want to be a chef."
"Right," she said. "You want to work your way up from frying fish to someday own a restaurant like Lassiter's." She finished the mousse and came over to set the glass and spoon in the sink. "And you think the senior center's lunches, how do you kids put it? They suck."
"Big time."
"So how did you fix up her lunch yesterday?"
"Well, Henry had a nice molé in the freezer, made without garlic because Helena doesn't like that, so I took the sauce, added the corn and shredded chicken for the lunch, and served it with some tortilla chips I had with me. Nothing much."
"But you took the generic lunch and turned it into something Helena enjoyed."
Bree nodded. "But it's not like I am going to do that for a hundred seniors every day."
"Because it would be too expensive?"
"Expensive? No. It just takes a little time."
"And knowing what Helena's preferences are."
Bree nodded. "But that's not hard."
Ms. Potter smiled. "You must understand the delivered meals would be impossible to customize. They have to come up with a once-size-fits-all solution."
"I suppose. But…." She trailed off.
"What?"
"Well, I worked at Lassiter's."
"So?"
"Henry got to know what customers' preferences were, and then he'd adjust their meals to fit what they particularly liked."
"But that's impossible if, say, you were cooking meals for 47 seniors every day."
Bree shook her head. "We served over 200 people nightly."
"But it would be expensive to make customized meals."
"No. It depends more on your chef's time and energy than the cost. Of course someone who's cooking at that scale—"
"—and on a budget,"
"Yes."
"And it's not her regular job," the woman said.
"Kyle Madrigal mentioned that."
"Yes. The person cooking our senior meals right now is the school chef who is filling in since we lost our regular chef some months back."
"Why did your regular senior center chef leave?"
"He had a heart attack very suddenly."
Bree leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms. "Oh."
"And we have not been able to find someone new, since we can only pay minimum wage."
"Like I'm earning gutting fish at Mel's."
"Exactly." Ms. Zelda smiled at her. "So you see where we're at. The senior meals may not be perfect, but they fill a gap. Some people don't have family. Some are just stubborn old cusses like me and they don't want to give up their independence. They all have reasons they need a helping hand."
"I get that. But I want to open my own restaurant someday."
"Like Lassiter's, or The French Laundry in Yountville. Gourmet but not pretentious."
"That's exactly the kind of place I'm thinking of. How do you know that?"
"Pajaro Bay, dear. I know everything."
"So you see why this isn't for me."
"Of course. But I see also that you are working at Mel's Fish Shack for minimum wage. And I see that you've been asking around for a low-cost rental where you can keep the dog. And I see that if we had a proper chef for a few months, it would give us time to do a proper job search and maybe, just maybe, qualify for a grant or some other way to turn this into a going concern. Maybe even have the more affluent families pay fees that subsidize the free meals for others. Something like that."
Bree started to open her mouth to speak, but Ms. Zelda wasn't' done.
"I may be a 93-year-old has-been, but I do still have a few friends, here and there. Friends who might be able to set you on track for your gourmet chef goal." She smiled slyly at Bree. "Or do you doubt me?"
Bree smiled. "You're very persuasive, but you don't need to bribe me. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I need the money, and the Mel's job is only part-time. And," she added, "to be honest, I don't have any other options right now."
"Good. That's good for us. And," she said with a pause that echoed Bree's own, "we don't have any other options right now either."
They shook hands, Bree noticing that Ms. Zelda's grip was surprisingly firm for a 93-year-old. When she commented on it, Ms. Zelda winked and said, "free weights. Five pounds each. Twice a day." She straightened her hat. "So we'll pay you minimum wage, half-time, no benefits," she said.
Bree could almost hear Henry's voice in her head: If you become a chef to get rich, you're a fool. "I didn't become a chef to get rich," she said aloud.
"I figured as much. So perhaps doing something that helped people, that mad
e them happy, and that might lead to a more lucrative job in the future if we can find a grant…."
"Would be pretty close to perfect," Bree admitted.
"So we're in agreement?"
Bree nodded. "Yes. But," she paused. "I have just one question."
"What's that?"
"When did the previous chef have his heart attack?"
THAT NIGHT, her shift at Mel's went pretty well. She had quickly gotten into the rhythm of things, with the crush of customers during dinnertime, and then lulls in between the waves of people, where she could work on cleaning fish or chopping cabbage for the endless piles of coleslaw.
Finally, close to the nine p.m. closing time, things got really quiet. She was wiping down the counters and Mel was cleaning tables when he said, "Take a break, you!"
She put the cleaning rags into the laundry bin, washed her hands, and came out of the kitchen.
Mel was sitting at one of the inside tables, looking out the shoreside windows that faced the amusement park. It was still lit up.
"Closed, though," he said shortly, when she commented on it. "They keep the lights on late, but rides are all shut down."
He motioned for her to sit at the table with him, and she did.
He nodded toward the park. "Your doctor friend can take you over there when you have some time off. They have a tunnel of love." He laughed uproariously, but suddenly stopped when he saw her expression. "What happened?"
She shrugged. "No tunnel of love for me."
"What did the jerk do?"
"Just dumped me," she said shortly. "Guess I wasn't his type." She said it lightly, as if it didn't hurt, and Mel went with it.
"Well, you won't have time for any of that stuff once the tourist season starts." He looked out toward the amusement park. "They'll be open to midnight starting in a couple of weeks, and then there'll be none of this lazing around you've been doing. You'd better be ready to work once the crowds show up."
"I've never had a problem with hard work," she said.
"I believe that," he said, a smile playing on his lips. Then with a big grin he added, "But I can work you harder than you've ever worked, so watch out!"
Something in his grin struck her as familiar. Very familiar. She got up from the table and went in the back, returning with her big purse.
She sat back down at the table and opened the purse, pulling out the picture of the children she'd been carrying around to show to Nico.
"What you got there?"
She handed it to him. "That's you, isn't it?" she said, pointing to the skinny beanpole of a boy with a pair of fishing poles who was mugging for the camera just like the man in front of her. "I recognize your smile."
"Yeah," he said softly. "That's me." Mel flipped it over to the back, which was blank. "Where'd you get this?"
"It was in Henry's things."
"Oh."
Mel's reaction wasn't what she expected. There were no sarcastic remarks or cynical comments. He just looked at the picture for a long time, a wistful expression on his face.
"You know who they are?" she finally asked.
"Of course I know."
"So who else is in the picture? I recognize Henry and Helena and Sophie."
"You know Sophie?"
"I met her last night."
"You did? How is she?"
There was something there, a longing that seemed out of character for the brash guy.
"She was okay. You know she's not well."
He barked out: "Not well! Yeah, that's one way to put it. She's gone senile."
"Like Helena."
"Yeah. Like Helena."
"Isn't it odd? For them both to be that way? I mean, maybe there's something in the water, or soil, or something that's making them sick."
He shrugged. "I'm not a doctor. But Sophie has been going downhill for a while. I tried—" He stopped there, like he had meant to say more, but changed his mind.
"You tried?"
He shook his head. "Water under the bridge."
She nodded toward the picture. "So tell me about them. Who are the other people?"
He pointed at them, one by one. "Emma Robles." He pointed at the slight girl wearing glasses. "She was the oldest Robles kid. Smartest of the bunch. Ended up becoming a doctor. But single-minded. Even back then, she and Jonathan had eyes for no one else. It was like everyone else was invisible. They were a pair from the start."
"Jonathan?"
"Jonathan Madrigal." he pointed at the tall Madrigal boy with his arm around her. "They were the pair, everyone knew it, even back then."
"So where are they now?"
He frowned. "You met Kyle Madrigal yet?"
She nodded. "Yeah. Today at the farmer's market."
"Emma and Jonathan were his parents. Him and his siblings. You know about the Madrigals?"
"Kyle's the mayor, and they have a big marble crypt in the cemetery. A big family in town."
"A big family." He laughed. "Yeah. You could say that. All this—" He waved out the window, encompassing the bayfront, the cliff, and up the hill above. "All of this was originally Madrigal land. They had the Spanish land grant in this area. Pajaro Bay was built on their land. They owned everything at the beginning, from the wharf we're standing on to the cattle ranch in the mountains to the east."
"And now?"
"Now they have the rancho up on the mountain. And they own that." He nodded out the window to the amusement park.
"They own the amusement park?"
"Yeah. You asked what happened to Emma and Jonathan? That's where it happened. There was a fire, maybe twelve, fifteen years ago, something like that. They both died in it. And Emma's brother Tom witnessed it. He took it real bad. He's been an alcoholic since. Hear he's cleaned up recently, but he's never been a happy man."
He pointed to the dark boy in the picture who looked like Emma and Sophie. "That's Tom. Back in better days. Though with that crazy father of theirs, they weren't ever really better days."
She looked at the photo again. The pair that even she had been able to tell were in love, now dead. Kyle Madrigal's parents. She looked at each of the Robles kids, and could see, now that she knew, how the tough times weighed on the three of them. She'd noticed the serious expressions that made them look so similar right away, but now recognized in their look the worry of dealing with a difficult parent. That worry was too familiar to her, and she felt her heart ache for them, knowing what they must have gone through.
"Poor Sophie," she said.
"Yeah," he said. "She was the only one left after the fire took her sister. Tom was a mess, and their father was a bear of a man. I don't remember him being any great prize when we were kids, but toward the end, it was worse. He was pretty senile, and angry all the time. Sophie took the brunt of it."
"I understand."
Mel looked closely at her. "I'll bet you do."
She smiled. "How'd you figure that?"
"The way you stand up for yourself. But there's sadness back there behind all the bluster."
"Takes one to know one."
"Yeah."
"So, grumpy dude, what's your problem?"
"Me? I've got no problems. Life is good."
"Sure."
He looked out the window at the lights. "I loved her."
"Sophie?"
"Yeah. I thought she was real special. But that was a long time ago. And she never felt the same about me."
"Maybe now?"
"Yeah. Maybe. Now that her father's gone, I had hoped she'd give me a chance." He shook his head. "But now I'm not even sure she remembers me."
Bree looked down at the photo. The shining young faces, the uncomplicated joy. The world had been rough on them all.
"Okay, so that's the Robles. Who are the others?"
"The one who looks like Jonathan was his younger brother, Bill."
"Bill Madrigal. He was Helena's husband. So he was there from the start as well."
She put her finger on each of the ki
ds in the photo: "Bill and Jonathan Madrigal; Helena and Henry Lassiter; Emma, Sophie, and Tom Robles. You. So out of them all, just Helena, Sophie, Tom, and you are still alive. And who's this?" she asked, pointing to the blonde boy who was pretending to catch Sophie's fish.
"That's Nathan Falcon."
"Great name. Where's he now?"
"He was the cook at the senior center."
Bree sat back in her chair. "He died of a heart attack," she whispered.
"Yeah. Seems like there've been a few of them recently. I should maybe cut back on the fried food before it gets me."
"Yeah," she said. "It seems to be happening a lot." She considered telling him about her suspicions about the heart attacks, but decided until she had some scrap of evidence, it was pointless to get people riled up about it.
Mel was still looking at the picture. She noticed he was staring at the center of the photo, at the serious little girl holding the big fish.
"Tell me about Sophie," she said.
"She was a spitfire. Real quiet, but had a lot going on inside."
"And you loved her even back then."
"She didn't notice me. She had eyes for other boys, but not me. I was the clown."
"You've always played the clown."
"Maybe," he said.
"Maybe you don't get hurt that way."
"Maybe," he said again, looking out at the amusement park.
"Maybe you're not so bad after all, Mel."
He looked back at her. "Of course I am!" he said, acting offended. "I'm a nasty guy, and if you don't get off your behind and work harder, I'm gonna fire ya!"
"Sure," she said. "I'm scared."
He smiled. "You're all right, punk."
"You're not so bad yourself, nasty guy."
Then he looked past her to the door leading to the deck. "We're closed!" he shouted angrily.
She turned and saw Nico standing there holding the door open.
"Close that door! You're letting all the cold air in," Mel said.
Nico started to come inside, but Mel shouted, "Close it with you on the outside!"
"Stop that, Mel," she said.
"Can I talk to you?" Nico said, looking only at her and not Mel.
"What are you doing coming 'round here, harassing my staff?" Mel said, getting up from the table. "I shoulda locked the door to keep out the riffraff."
Little Fox Cottage Page 10
