I carefully walk up the steps to the back porch, balancing the desserts in my arms. Beth gave me a key the night before and I fumble with it as I try to unlock the door.
The kitchen comes to life before me and I feel my heart swell with excitement as I look around. It’s the kitchen of my dreams. I can bake multiple treats at once with the dual ovens and every utensil under the sun is at my disposal. I see all of the possibilities as I stare at the space, letting myself wonder what this could lead to, just for a moment. Lately, I’ve toyed with the idea of opening up my own bakery but it seems a bit…unambitious when my mom was a neurosurgeon.
I close the door behind me and then familiarize myself with the kitchen, learning what hides behind cabinet doors and what lives in the drawers. I find some display plates in a cabinet and place the cookies on one, leaving them on the counter so I remember to take it up front before we open. I put the pie in one of the refrigerators and then check out the back room. There’re a few tables and scattered chairs, a bulletin board with this week’s schedule, another refrigerator, and a counter with a small television and microwave. I see a tower of lockers on one side of the room and pick one without a lock, tossing my phone, keys, and wallet inside. I walk back into the kitchen and roll up my sleeves, grabbing a black apron from the hook by the door. I tie it around my waist and after a little trial and error, gather all of the ingredients needed for my recipe and get to work.
I can hear Beth in her office preparing the daily deposit as I crack an egg into a large metal bowl. She arrived not long after me and has been pecking at the monstrous accounting calculator on her desk ever since. She should really give up more control of the diner, but Iunderstand her reservations in doing so. I hum a song to drown her out and begin to whisk flour into the eggs in the bowl. I become lost in my own little world of sugar, butter, and flour when I hear the back door open again.
I glance over my shoulder and see Graham in the doorway, illuminated in the early morning rays of sunlight. It glistens off his sandy-colored hair, making him look like a Greek god.
He smiles as he walks toward me.
“Well, well, well,” he says, peering over my shoulder at what I’m making. “What do we have here?”
“The beginning of blueberry lemon scones, if all goes according to plan,” I say as I add more flour, “or recipe, I should say.”
He laughs. “I can’t wait to try one.”
I grin as I look over my shoulder.
Graham ducks into the backroom and I hear him toss his belongings into a locker.
“What are you doing here so early?” I ask when he returns to the kitchen.
He nods toward the cart of fresh silverware and clean napkins in the corner. “They aren’t going to roll themselves.”
“Isn’t that a bit below your pay grade?” I ask as I watch him roll the cart over to the counter in front of me. He drags a barstool across the floor and sits. I assumed a busboy would have done it last night, but now that I think about it, I haven’t noticed one around the diner. Of course, I’ve only met a handful of Beth’s employees.
He shrugs and starts rolling a set, making quick work of it. “I do whatever Beth asks of me,” he says simply.
I ponder what he’s said for a moment, until a specific memory pops into my head. “Including bringing a surfboard in here?”
He laughs and the sound of it wraps around me like honey — sticky, sweet, and golden. It’s a sound I could get used to hearing for the rest of my life.
Graham smiles at the memory. “Sometimes I just like to give her crap.” He finishes a utensil set and places it back on the cart.
It’s my turn to laugh now. I picture his mischievous grin and my heart does a somersault.
“Besides,” he says, gesturing at the mound of silver in front of him, “she’s been good to me.”
“How so?” I prompt. I hope it’s not too invasive. While I’ve known him nearly as long as I’ve been in Driftbay, I want to learn more about him and his relationship with Beth. Happy with the mixture in my bowl, I turn it over and dump the dough out onto the counter. I reach for more flour and sprinkle it around the dough.
Graham nods. “I’ve worked here since I was fifteen. She took a chance on me when I was just a kid.” He shakes his head at the memories. “She’s seen me through some of the worst times in my life.”
Ah. We have that in common.
I stay quiet, hoping he’ll continue.
“I started as a busboy and did some prep work on the weekends while I was still in high school. I worked as much as I could. Gotpromoted to waiter once I hit eighteen and graduated. I practically lived here that summer, trying to make as much money as I could for college. Then, I went to the university a couple of towns over and worked on the weekends doing whatever she needed.” He pauses before continuing, “I loaded up on credit hours my first couple of semesters so I could graduate a year early. I got my bachelor’s in computer science.”
“Yet you’re still here.” I stare at him with my head cocked to the side, letting my hands rest in the dough in front of me.
“Yeah,” he sighs, “my original plan was to move to a big city and get away from Driftbay once I got my degree, but life got in the way.” He keeps rolling silverware as I grab a baking sheet from across the kitchen for my scones.
“Life has a way of doing that,” I say, sighing as I think about how life got in my way. I set the baking sheet down beside my mound of dough and grab a knife to start cutting it into triangle-shaped pieces.
“My parents divorced during my senior year of college and then my mom got sick. So leaving…wasn’t exactly an option,” he explains.
I transfer a scone to the baking sheet. “I’m sorry,” I say, keeping my voice soft.
