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“It’s a standard point-of-sale system: touchscreen, cash drawer, receipt printer. We’ll go through how to work it in a little bit, but it’s fairly straightforward.”
Holy crap.Her hand was cramping, but she didn’t have time to shake it out. She was pretty sure Roxie hadn’t taken a breath since she’d arrived.
“One of the things you’ll do is make sure this baby”—Roxie patted the top of the refrigerated display case that stood next to the register—“is fully stocked.”
“But you don’t want it full at all times, do you?” she asked. Roxie looked at her in confusion, so she hurried on. “Say someone orders a slice of pie and there’s only two slices left. You don’t want me to put out a new pie, right? I mean, if we don’t, then the other customers will think, ‘Ooh, there’s only a couple slices left. I’d better get one before it’s all gone.’ Right?”
She gave Roxie a smile, but it was weak. They both knew it.
Good lord, what had she been thinking when she’d taken this job?
Roxie tilted her head to the side. With a brisk nod, she said, “That can work. But don’t overthink this, Alex. Seriously. Read the customers and do what you feel is right. Believe me, if I don’t like something you’re doing, I’ll be the first person to let you know.” She winced. “But for the love of god, if I do,pleasedon’t take it personally. It’s not. It’s just business.”
Nodding again, Roxie turned and gestured past the refrigerated display case. “Espresso machine. Some people love it; some people fear it. Do you know how to make coffee?”
Holy crap. Work Roxie was a whole lot more intense than Friend Roxie. And Friend Roxie was pretty damn intense.
“Yes,” she said. “I can do basic lattes, mochas, and Americanos.” Using her old machine at home. Not this gleaming silver beast that took up the entire side counter. “I’ll, um, need a refresher, though.”
“Not a problem. Nina can run you through it,” Roxie said, referring to the woman currently baking up a storm in the kitchen.
Nina Castillo was roughly Alex’s age, of Filipino heritage, and Roxie’s only full-time employee. Comfort Food had two part-time employees, June and Ella, a mother and daughter who were dead ringers for Goldie Hawn and Kate Hudson, respectively. Like Alex, June worked Wednesdays through Sundays. She was on the early shift—five to nine in the morning—while Alex worked from nine to two, eleven on Sundays. Ella, who was in her first year of online college classes, worked the same nine-to-close shift, but only Fridays through Sundays.
“Now,” Roxie continued, “when it’s quiet up here, I’ll need you in the back...”
The next couple of hours were a blur as Roxie led her through a thorough description of what her new job entailed. Which was way more than she’d anticipated. Not that she minded. She wanted to pull her weight. Needed to be useful. Not only for Roxie, but for herself as well.
Gnawing on her bottom lip, she listened to Roxie explain the minute-by-minute schedule of what went into which ovens when. She had thought she was simply going to be dishing out food and coffee, wiping down counters, smiling, and making change, but apparently, she was going to be cooking, too.
“Um, Roxie,” she interrupted. “I’m really not much of a cook, and I’m an appalling baker. No exaggerations.” The other woman’s brow arched, and she couldn’t tell if it was in question or annoyance. “Are you really sure you want me doing this? I mean, I’d hate to mess things up.” Or burn the place down.
A memory played in Alex’s mind.
She’d ruined dinner. Again. Not only had she overcooked the steak—Preston preferred his blue-in-the-middle rare, and she’d broiled it to medium—but she’d also burned the pie, which she’d attempted to make from scratch, crust and all. Preston had been furious. The “lesson” that night had been about following simple directions. He’d decided to beat her with what he had deemed an “appropriate apparatus.”
The rolling pin.
The welts on the backs of her thighs had been so painful she hadn’t been able to sit for nearly a week.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Roxie said, bringing her back to the present. “I’ve burned my fair share of food. Everyone does it. It’s a learning process. Besides, I have a small staff. With their staggered schedules, I need everyone cross-trained.”
Judging by Roxie’s tone, she knew it wasn’t open for discussion.
When Roxie dismissed her to lunch, her head was spinning, and her little notepad was crammed full of customer favorites, cooking times, and oven temperatures. Sitting at the corner table by the window, she inhaled the aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. The morning had been so overwhelming, but underneath her nerves, she tingled with excitement.
A job. Friends. Financial independence.
Freedom.
She was getting her life back. Even though she knew she still had a long way to go, she couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face.
Two women, both in their late sixties or early seventies, approached her table. She recognized them as Mrs. Yoshida and Mrs. Abbot, the Comfort Food regulars she had met last week.
“You’ll get the hang of it, honey,” said Mrs. Abbot.
“Make sure Roxie doesn’t work you too hard,” chimed in Mrs. Yoshida. “She’s a steamroller, that one. Make sure she doesn’t go and run you off like she did the last girl.” She turned to Mrs. Abbot. “That one made it what? Three days?”
“Hmm. I think it was only two. Didn’t stand a chance, poor thing.” Mrs. Abbot smiled at her. “But don’t mind a word we’re saying, honey. I’m sure you’ll do just fine. You have a smart and patient look about you.”
