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I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. It’s nearly closing, and I wanted to check in at home.
Tatum:The child equivalent of a cyborg passed out with the lint ball around nine. I’m crawling into this luxurious bed of yours. Try not to wake me when you come in with those elephant feet of yours.
Me:My feet are small and delicate. Closing up now. I should be home by midnight.
The screen blares at me with a brightness that causes lights to dance in my vision when it goes dark. Shoving the phone back in my purse, I slam the locker door shut once more just to give all my aggression some release.
“Toots,” Sal calls from the other side of the restaurant, his voice muted by tables and walls.
Chucking my apron on the lone bench, I work my hair out of the tight ponytail it’s been in all night. Pain explodes across my scalp for a mere moment as my long hair falls in chestnut waves to my waist. Itching my scalp, I walk down the hall toward the dining room, where a few people linger over cold cups of coffee.
“Sal?” I peer into the kitchen through the window, finding the small man smiling at me on the other side. “You yelled?”
“I’m closing up the kitchen,” he begins, and I cut him off.
“Closing chores. I got you.” Though I’ve only closed once or twice, figuring out what to do isn’t hard. Also, Sal has a closing list and an end of shift list. “Want me to bring you the drawer?”
“If you want, you can close out. I have a few things to take care of back here.” He jerks his head at the lingering men in the dining room. “Kick them out.”
“On it.” I turn around, mentally cataloging everything that I need to do before I can go home to my cozy bed and finally sleep. Milo needs to get up for school by seven, giving me a few precious hours to rest.
Weaving around the long bar top counter for single diners, I approach the two men. They are older, maybe mid-forties, and handsome in a dangerous way, reminding me of Desmond. Their suit jackets hang over the back of their chairs, and they rolled their button-down sleeves to their forearms. Neither wear ties, and a small sliver of their chest peeks out.
“Gentlemen.” I approach their table with a smile that I hope doesn’t show my exhaustion. “Is there anything else I can get for you tonight?”
They both look at each other, and then at me before the one on my right answers. “Closing time?”
The other man glances at the watch on his wrist. It’s gold with pieces that look steampunk. I’m not a watch connoisseur, but it looks expensive and original—a timepiece that is more heirloom than something he would pick up off a shelf. “Look at that. I better get going.” When he stands, I catch a glimpse of muscle as it flexes under his shirt. Pulling out a wallet, he tosses a hundred on the table before nodding at me. “Get going. It’s dark out there,” he advises me.
“That’s the plan, sir.” I give him what I hope is a soft smile as the other man follows suit and stands up. “Thank you.” My words are polite and not at all exhausted.
“Listen to him, Charlotte,” the other man advises. “Get out of here.”
I wait for them to walk off before I gather their remaining pie plates and cups, then I follow them to the door just as it slams shut. Putting the tray on the bar top, I grab the keys and peer out the door.
“It’s insanely dark tonight,” I mutter to myself as the two suits disappear from view. For the most part, Autumn was right—the evening went by quietly. It wasn’t too busy after the families left, leaving me with the suits that dominated the dining room. They stayed longer than most, all except table six, who gave me an Irish goodbye.
I’m not mad about it because I didn’t have to address him, and he also left me a hundred on the table. That is the weirdest part about my night.
Each suit left a single hundred.
It’s probably nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing. Besides, my trio left me the same tip yesterday.
Just a weird coincidence.
It doesn’t mean I don’t flip the deadbolt as fast as possible and then use the key to lock the door. I love The Tulip during the day, with the open spaces and old Victorian windows that go from floor to ceiling. However, it’s eerie right now, just past eleven in the evening.
I turn around to take in the dining room. Small round tables fill the open floor plan. Once upon a time, I’m sure the dining room and living room were closed off, but Sal turned it into something special. Long planks in a honey finish have withstood the test of time, and the beams above stretch across the ceiling.
It’s tight in here, but not so tight that I can’t weave through the tables.
I only wish there were blinds on the windows. They line two walls, one that overlooks Main Street and the other that overlooks a small street. Feeling brave, I shut the lights off, leaving only the soft glow of the night-lights Sal set up around the room.
Blowing out a breath, I gather my rag and wipe down the last table. A slower night like this allowed me to keep up with cleaning duties as people left. The only thing I really need to do is close out the drawer and drop the tray off in the kitchen.
Grabbing the last of the money and then the drawer after ringing up the previous tables, I weave my way back to the office and flip on the light switch. I’ve wondered many times over the years what this room used to be. Our locker room used to be a mudroom, but this one? I swear it holds the faint scent of cigars, as though the wood is forever cursed to smell like cherry vanilla.
I like to pretend it was a smoking room from the early Victorian era, with chairs with tall backs and cushions in jeweled tones. Now it’s just a memory.
