1
I’mtryingtoshowJessica—for the third time—how to slice tomatoes correctly, and it’s rapidly becoming one of those moments when I regret ninety percent of my life choices.
“You like sharp things, Jessica,” I said. “How can you possibly be so incompetent at using a knife?”
“I like using sharp things onpeople. How can you blame me if tomatoes don’t hold my interest?” She tried again. Half the slice you could see through. Half the slice was as thick as a Zagat guidebook.
“Just give it to me.” I grabbed the tomato and did it myself, wondering whatever possessed me to accept Jessica’s oath of loyalty, and why I ever thought training her at the restaurant would be a good way of instilling discipline that wasn’t bloodsucking-related. “Go roll silverware.”
“Yes, Zelda.” Her little curtsy was perfectly correct and also made me want to smack her face.
“James!” I called out.
My other vampire kitchen assistant—the competent one—looked up from monitoring the hot breakfast sandwiches.
“Are we ready?”
“Ready, boss.”
“Let’s go.” We swung into action: wrapping, bagging, passing everything off to Lily, who sorted out the orders and the money before the morning customers scooped up their prizes and hustled out the door. Every time the door opened, cold air swirled in, a reminder that summer was behind us.
James, Lily, and I danced through the rest of the rush. Jessica found a niche in rolling silverware and occasionally taking to the floor with a broom with an industriousness that surprised me. When the open fire hydrant of customers finally weakened to a trickle, we were in good shape, with time enough to get ready for the next rush. Lily disappeared to the back to check supplies, and James went to work on cleaning up the kitchen.
I checked the morning’s receipts and allowed myself a satisfied nod. Not bad. Not bad at all. I wouldn’t be a millionaire anytime soon, but West Side Sandwiches was making it. Grandma would be proud. The occupational license with her embellishment,West Side ’Wichesinstead ofWest Side Sandwiches, had some smudges on it, so I scrubbed it down with a clean towel. “There,” I said, nudging the frame so it would hang exactly straight. “That’s better.”
I’d added framed pictures around it: me and Poppy at Central Park; Lily holding Jester; and a very old photo of the one time my mom came with me to New York, when I was a kid, to see Grandma. That one was so old the colors were washed out.
No photos of Berron or Daniel, yet. But I used Daniel’s knife every day, and every time I wiped down the wooden bar or the tabletops, I was reminded of Berron. Beautiful and useful things were always my weakness.
Jessica appeared behind me with the stealth of a ghost. “Why didn’t you putDanielto work? He’s your Initiate, too.”
“Because Daniel has a job, and you don’t. You’ve been out of the workplace since the nineties. Consider this your retraining program.”
Jessica sniffed. “I was an art major.”
“Very practical of you.” I didn’t have anything against pursuing dreams—hell, Lily was a fashion major, and I’d opened the type of business rated most likely to fail in the first year—but I wasn’t going to let her sniff at me. “Floor needs mopping.”
She flounced off.
I could have used a second cup of coffee. Instead, the bells jangled, and someone came through the door with another blast of cold autumn air, a relief from the heat of the grill. I was momentarily blinded by the flash of sunlight. While I was still blinking, the door swung closed, and I heard a familiar Southern voice.
“Zelda, girl!”
I rubbed my eyes. Surely I wasn’t seeing right. Short, fluffy hair. Wide smile. Sparkling, expressive eyes. Posture so straight you could almost be fooled into thinking she wasn’t actually petite.
And she was carrying a suitcase.
“Mom?”
My mother laughed, lightly, but with an edge of nervousness. “I thought I’d come try this new restaurant I heard about.”
Seeing my mom standing in West Side Sandwiches was like ordering a hot dog from a street cart and having them hand you a live marmoset instead. “You flew up from Florida? Why didn’t youcallme?”
Mom moved hesitantly through the tables and chairs, her free hand tracing the seatbacks as she went. “I thought I’d surprise you! Isn’t that fun?”
What do you evendowith a live marmoset? I mean, I suppose itwasfun, in a way, but maybe not ideal, for various reasons.
Also confusing. My mom didn’t do surprises, and was in fact one of the least surprising people I’d ever known. Mom hadpredictabledown to an art. “Yeah!” I said. “That’s—um—fantastic.” I sounded like an idiot and I knew it. “Did you eat yet?” I said, falling back on creaky old Southern manners out of sheer panic.
