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“Good. You should hear it. You know it’s true,” Misty said, unrepentant.
“Perra,” he muttered, his knife making a quick tattoo with the rapid-fire motion.
Jessica said, “You know, I make it a policy not to insult anyone with a weapon in his hands.”
“Meh.” Unconcerned, Misty lifted a shoulder.
“Idiota!” Flashing Misty a condemning look, Armando turned so that his back was to her, effectively shunning her as he concentrated on his work and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
Undaunted by the cook’s disregard for her, Misty continued with her litany of complaints. “Marlon. He’s the busboy? Always late. Considers himself some kind of Romeo and is out tomcatting, so he can never get here on time. A real pain in the ass, let me tell you.” To emphasize the fact, she rattled the silverware tray, then started wrapping table knives, forks, and spoons into paper napkins, creating individual settings and stacking them neatly near the glassware. “Besides all that, the tips are lousy and this”—she pointed to the dishware she’d carefully prepared—“is not my job.” With a glance over her shoulder to the back door, where a boy who looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed was striding through, she pasted on a false smile and said, “Good morning, Casanova.”
“What’s good about it?” he countered.
“Well, now that I think about it, nothing. But you owe me half an hour’s wages!” She quit stacking the silverware to glare at him, one hand on a hip.
“So I owe you. Sue me.” The kid, like Armando, seemed inured to Misty’s barbs and went about rummaging in the linen closet near the back door, where he found a clean apron and began cinching it over his black jeans and once-white shirt. His hair, a bristly brown, had been gelled into unruly stiff peaks, his face clean shaven, his build that of a middleweight wrestler, not an ounce of fat on him.
“Yeah, you owe me all right,” Misty agreed. “The way I figure it, you’re up to about a year’s salary, but I won’t hold my breath. You can finish with the silverware and you’d better hop to. We’re opening the doors in fifteen and you know the regulars, they don’t like to wait.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He dismissed her, but had taken over the duties of organizing the flatware and dishes.
Satisfied, Misty whispered to Jessica, “He’s hopeless,” then pushed through the swinging doors to the dining area where tables were scattered between a long L-shaped counter and the windows. Behind the counter was a walkway with a scarred floor covered with rubber mats. Along one wall was a narrow ledge that housed the coffee and milkshake machines, the soda dispenser, tubs for dishes, and rows of condiments like soldiers beside them.
Misty’s waitressing lessons began then. “Okay, so let’s start with the coffee since the customers that are already driving here will expect it to be ready. Fresh every day. Every hour. You think you can handle that?” She was teasing. Sort of, but she thought she was the only person capable of running the diner. “We need two pots of regular brewed and ready to go by the time we open the doors, oops, in less than twelve minutes.” She eyed the big schoolhouse clock positioned near the door. “I always have a pot of decaf ready, too, for the wimps who want to start their day with ‘unleaded,’ for whatever reason. Then I check the pots every fifteen minutes during t
he rush. Marlon is supposed to be on top of it, but I don’t trust him. He’s too busy flirting with the customers or checking his cell phone for his next hot date. If Nell gets here and finds the coffeepots empty, there will be hell to pay, but Marlon doesn’t care. ’Cause he’s Nell’s nephew. Doesn’t think he’ll ever be fired. Punk kid. Once the crush is over, like I said, every hour.”
Jessica watched Misty measure coffee into the pots.
“Gotta be careful here. Don’t put too much in, y’know. We’re famous for our weak coffee, but if I make it any stronger, Nell’s all over me. Cuts into profits, y’know.”
“I think I can handle this.” Jessica started filling the basket for the decaf. “But if it’s so miserable, why do you stay?”
“Good question.” Misty took an empty glass pot and carried it to a nearby sink for a refill. As she shut off the water, she pretended to think for a second. “Must be because I’m a masochist.”
As she carried her tray into the dining area, Jessica couldn’t help but think about Dan Grayson and the fact that he’d died. She’d been prepared to talk to him, to confess, and when she’d discovered that he was hospitalized, she’d decided that she’d have to deal with Cade instead because she couldn’t spill her guts to just anyone. It was more imperative than ever that she ask Cade for direction. A once-upon-a-time lover, Cade Grayson was one of the few people in the world she could trust. Well, at least she hoped so. Truth to tell, she and he hadn’t parted on the best of terms.
Cade would be deep into mourning and, if she bared her soul to him, she would take a chance that he wouldn’t believe her, wouldn’t trust her, or give her the benefit of the doubt.
But who else?
At least Cade was a person who could understand deception, even twisting the law a bit.
He was her last chance.
That is, if she decided to stay in Grizzly Falls.
But what else could she do?
Run, she supposed as she pinned a smile on her face and started distributing the coffee and tea to her customers seated at table five. “Your orders should be up in a minute,” she told them.
“Oh, could I please get a little honey for my tea?” the round-faced woman at the table asked.
“Sure. No problem.” Jessica turned back to the counter where the packets of condiments were kept and vowed to herself that she was done running, that she was through looking over her shoulder and always having one foot out the door.
Finding the honey packets, she grabbed several and as she carried them back to the table, prayed she could keep that promise to herself.
“What happened?” Jeremy, who had been staring into the refrigerator, swung the door closed as Pescoli walked into her house and Cisco, her dog, went into his usual frenetic routine. The little terrier mix was dancing circles at her feet as she unzipped her jacket and left her boots on the patch of linoleum by the back door. From the living room, the television was tuned to a reality show.
