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But because these diners liked Chef, I was accepted as his little helper, greeted warmly, and complimented for my addition of smoked paprika to the macaroni and cheese. After we’d fed everyone, some of them twice, Chef made me sit at the counter and eat a huge helping of everything. I wasn’t gaining weight back fast enough, in his opinion. Overall, it was a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
I guessed Chef didn’t have more Kitchen Yoda wisdom to impart, because he joined the Uno games—leaving me with the dishes, thank you very much. I was up to my elbows in bubbles when a trilling feminine voice behind me cried, “Hi there!”
Jumping and nearly dropping a sixty-four-ounce glass measuring cup on my foot, I turned to see a pretty, slender woman with a brown bob and mischievous hazel eyes. The shape of her mouth reminded me of someone.
“Aren’t you Tess?” she asked, smiling broadly.
“Um, ye—gah!” I yelped when the woman threw her arms around me and squished me to her bosom.
“Oh, honey!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad my Jane has a friend who goes to church!”
Well, I was standing in a church building, so I guess she was technically right.
“I’m Sherry Jameson, Jane’s mama.” She sighed, giving me one last squeeze. “But you can call me Sherry. All her little friends do. Jane told me you’d be here today, and I just couldn’t wait to meet you! Now, don’t get me wrong, I love Andrea and Jolene, but it’s just so good to know that my daughter spends time with a nice girl. I mean, just look at you, cooking up a storm in the Lord’s kitchen.”
Now was so not the time to whip out my phone and show her the pictures of Jane and me running tequila boat races. So I settled for a bland smile while Mrs. Jameson pressed a heavy Saran Wrapped package in my damp hands.
“I made you my special peach cobbler. Jane mentioned you’re a cook, so I knew you’d appreciate a little something sweet. Don’t you worry about sugar or calories, all right, honey? You need a little meat on your bones,” she said. “I used to make this for my Jane all the time, but you know, she doesn’t eat anymore.”
“Thank you,” I managed to say before Sherry crushed me into another hug, my arms flailing against her back.
I glanced down at the package in my hands. Mrs. Jameson had cooked for me. I didn’t even know if it was any good. But it was thrilling to have someone else cook something for me, not because she was trying to impress me or drill me for information but for no other reason than that I was a friend of her daughter’s and she thought I needed it.
Hungover or not, I was going to go home and eat every bite.
Somewhere in the back of my pickled brain, a switch labeled “Sherry Jameson” flipped into place. Now I knew why Sherry’s name sounded so familiar.
I smiled brightly, though it sort of hurt my cheeks. “Aren’t you the Realtor selling Howlin’ Hank’s?”
—
Two hours later, I was in love with the Howlin’ Hank’s building.
Miss Sherry was honest with me. Hometown Realtors had assigned her this building to test her newly official salesman skills. The agency had been trying to offload the place for years and hadn’t had so much as a nibble. The idea that she could be the one finally to sell it had thrown Sherry into warp speed, as Jane put it.
Chef Gamling accompanied us as my “anti-life-ruining-decision lifeguard.” Before she let me in the front door, Sherry went in to turn on all of the old beer signs and the jukebox. The current selection was a Hank Williams Jr. song made overtly off-key by the warped 45. That’s right. The jukebox was so old it played actual records. Still, the electric display gave me a better idea of what the place had looked like in its heyday.
Chef Gamling didn’t comment on the dilapidated condition of the building or the sheer amount of beer and/or NASCAR memorabilia on the walls. He simply wandered around the kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back, while he chewed on his lip. The kitchen was in surprisingly good shape, albeit seriously outdated. I would need to replace all of the appliances, but the traffic flow of the room was pitch-perfect for maximum efficiency from the stove to the pass to the dishwashing area.
The dining room’s open floor plan, the old oak bar worn satiny smooth by countless hands, the wide, spacious booths—it was the perfect setup for a small, informal restaurant. Before I’d even put down my purse, I’d started making plans in my head. I’d keep some of the more retro beer signs, but I would paint the walls a soft denim blue. I would have to replace the tables. But I might be able to preserve the carved tabletops and use them as wall panels.
I would keep the view to the kitchen open, so the customers would get the feeling that they were just hanging out at a friend’s place, waiting for their meals to be finished. I would replace the battered dartboards with photos of the original Hank’s and maybe a few of the remodel—something to show that I appreciated the history of this place and wanted to be part of it.
Oh, how I wanted to be part of it.
I rubbed at my sternum, praying for the acidic roll in my stomach to die down. Could I really do this? Could I stay in the Hollow and open up my own restaurant? Chef Gamling was here. My friends were here. What did I have waiting for me in Chicago?
I had acquaintances and colleagues in the city but nobody who would take me out for drinks and mechanical-bull rides. I had Phillip, who was waiting for his marriage-license paperwork, not for me. I had my reputation, but that wasn’t exactly keeping me warm at night. It couldn’t even give me the warm sense of fulfillment that it used to.
I sat down at one of the booths, leaning over to put my head between my knees. Across the table, I could hear the sound of old leatherette crackling. I looked up to squint at Chef, grimacing. “Am I completely insane?”
“Why would this be insane?”
“Because I’ve only cooked. I’ve never managed a restaurant. Because of the risks involved. Because these are disastrous economic times to strike out on my own.”
“This is all true,” he conceded. “But do you want this?”
I chewed on my lip, nodding. It scared me how much I wanted this. I didn’t think I’d ever wanted something so badly in my life. Sure, I’d wanted to leave my hometown. I’d wanted to graduate. I’d wanted the job at Coda. But this was a different level of desire. I had to have this place. I could feel the desperation down in my bones, crushing my stomach with the anxiety that I might not be able to make it happen.
