Chapter 3
Joelle
“Joelle! Phone!”
Dad’s bellowing has no doubt deafened whatever poor soul had the misfortune to call my house instead of my cell phone. I don’t remember putting the house number down on any of the applications I’d sent out lately. But then, there’d been a lot of applications the last few months.
“Be right there,” I shout. I take a deep breath and click ‘Save’ before powering down my battered old laptop. One of these days, I’ll finish a blog post in one sitting. One of these days.
Right.
Dad is posted up in his favorite easy chair in the living room, holding the cordless receiver. We’re the only people I know who still have a landline, but considering Dad’s injury I figure it’s necessary.
“Somebody named Elliot,” he says, handing over the phone. “You got a boyfriend now?”
My face heats as I shake my head furiously. I walk into the kitchen for at least the illusion of privacy before I speak.
“This is Joelle Munroe speaking.”
“Hello, Ms. Munroe,” says a male voice. A deep, smooth male voice. “My name is Elliot James. I own a restaurant called Duckbill downtown. Maybe you’ve seen it?”
He keeps talking and I’ve already lost the thread wondering if he does voice acting, or maybe even phone sex work. If he doesn’t, he should.
And there’s a clue I don’t get out enough. Jesus.
“Anyway, if you’re interested, I could really use your input. I understand your time is valuable. We’re happy to offer you compensation,” he’s saying and names a figure that sends my eyebrows climbing. “Will that work for you?”
I rack my recent memory for what the hell he must be talking about. Something about needing ideas for a new, healthier menu.
Hell yes.
Totally my wheelhouse. Not to brag, but it’s kind of what I do.
“That’s fine,” I say, too excited by the prospect of an imminent paycheck to dicker on the price. “When do you want me?” I swallow hard. “There, I mean. When do you want me there?”
Mr. Sex Voice sounds like he’s smiling. “I’m free any time before 4pm the next couple of days.”
“Tomorrow morning works for me,” I say. This might be a bad idea. There’s no way any man could live up to promise of Sex Voice. But I need a job—fast. “10am?”
“Perfect,” says the Sex Voice. “I look forward to meeting you.”
I say something, no idea what, and hang up the phone. I stare at it for a long minute.
“You off the phone, Jo? Who was it?”
I head back to the living room, handing the phone back to my father. I check the time and make sure he’s got his evening pills lined up right. He rarely misses one, but I always double-check.
I mean, that’s my job.
“That was Elliot James, the owner of Duckbill, a restaurant downtown.”
“Never heard of it,” says Dad.
“It’s only been open a little while,” I say, downplaying so he doesn’t feel bad. Dad hasn’t left the house much the last few years, except for doctors’ appointments. Even therapy sessions happen here at the house. He hates looking weak in front of anybody and that goes double for being in public, so he avoids the public altogether.
That leaves me as his primary companion. These days, I’m not his favorite either.
“They got your application, did they? That’s good, gives you somewhere to start.”
I applied for a waitstaff position at Duckbill two months ago. Safe to say this interview or meeting or whatever it is, it’s definitely not about hiring me to wait tables.
“I think it’s actually for a different position,” I say vaguely. “I’ll find out more at the interview.”
“Well hot damn,” says Dad. His smile is so bright, so free of the resentment and bitterness I tell myself I’m used to, it brings tears to my eyes. “Good for you, Jo.”
I flash a smile without meeting his eyes and start tidying up the coffee table so he can’t see my face.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll likely only be gone a couple of hours tomorrow,” I say. When he coughs, I look up.
“Wait, tomorrow? But those rat bastards will be here all morning,” he says, looking cross.
“I’m supposed to be there at ten,” I say, summoning patience. “And I’m getting paid for it. You can handle Jim and Jessica without me for a couple of hours.”
I can tell he wants to bar me from leaving him here alone with his physical therapy team tomorrow but Dad knows we need the money.
“I guess,” he says.
“We’ve talked about this, Dad,” I say, organizing the bookshelf. Better to stay busy. “Restaurant work means longer shifts.”
“Yeah, but you ain’t started yet,” he said. “Plus, you said you were going to work nights.”
“I’m going to work when they need me to work,” I tell him gently. “We’re a bit past the point of being choosy.”
He doesn’t like the reminder that his payout from the lawsuit is running out but we’re beyond that point, too, and he knows it. Money’s getting tighter by the minute and he’s going to need his physical therapy for at least another year, maybe longer. Physical therapists don’t work for free.
That means I need every extra penny I can get. The blog gets enough traffic to keep food on the table but if I want to get into a real kitchen, I need culinary school. And if I want to get into the only culinary school within two hundred miles, I need to show I have work experience in a kitchen that isn’t my own.
“What if I need something while you’re gone?”
“Then you can text me, or call and leave a voicemail,” I say, straightening the coverlet on the back of our old sofa. I make a mental note to dig out the last of the leather cleaner. “Or Jim or Jessica can help you if there’s something you need done around the house.”
“Those two,” he huffs but he doesn’t object again. We’ve had this argument so many times. Just when I think he must be bored by it and ready to talk about something else, it comes right back around.
I don’t begrudge my dad. He needs my help, and I’m happy to give it. Of course I am—he’s my dad. I love him. It’s certainly the least I can do since he raised me alone after Mom ditched us. I try my best to show him that not everybody is chickenshit like she was, that he raised me better than that.
I guess I still blame her for leaving us. And why shouldn’t I? It wasn’t even a year after his accident when she took off, and after twenty years of marriage the best she could do was a note that said, “I can’t handle it. I’m sorry.”
He still has it, that stupid note. Dad doesn’t know that I know but I found it cleaning one day, tucked in the old family Bible in his room.
My hands are shaking, so I scoop up the mess I’ve collected and haul it to the kitchen to throw away.
“What about lunch?” Dad hollers, as though I can’t hear him from fifteen feet away.
“You already had lunch today.”
“I mean tomorrow,” he says. “You won’t be back before lunch.”
I brace my hands against the counter and close my eyes.
“I’ll make sure to fix you a plate before I catch the bus.” I wince at my own words. Taking the bus means more time away from the house. I’ll have to leave at least an hour early, which means Dad will be here alone half the day.
I can hear him grumbling in the next room, which means that’s likely just occurred to him, too.
But what can I do? He’ll want the car in case something happens and he needs to get himself to the doctor. God knows he’d never call 911, and any friends he had when I was a teenager stopped coming around long ago.
I wish he had more good days, but despite what his doctors and therapists tell him, Dad seems to be getting worse. His body is stronger than it’s been since before the accident, and yet his moods get darker every day. He doesn’t even bother trying to read anymore. Just sits in front of the TV when he’s not working on his PT exercises. Even those go by the wayside unless his team is here.
I’ve learned not to mention it. I’ve learned not to mention a lot of things in the last couple of years.
But it doesn’t matter because I have a plan. I’ll use this meeting with Elliot James to convince him to give me a job in his kitchen. All I need is six months of experience and that’ll be enough to get me into school. If I get really lucky, I’ll be able to keep working around my classes.
Haven’t talked about that with Dad yet, but surely he’ll understand my being gone. Somebody has to support us.
I head back to check on Dad, but he’s already tuned out to his game show so I go to my room to plan.
First things first. Time to research Duckbill and Elliot James.
And holy hot damn on a pogo stick. Mr. Sex Voice must have made himself a deal with the devil to get that face. Mother of God.
I grab a magazine off the shelf next to my desk, fanning my face.
Right, this isn’t a problem. So my new boss is attractive. Big deal. Plenty of people are.
I mean, not the people I’ve spent time with lately. I don’t spend a lot of time around other people, period. Certainly I don’t date. Which means my reaction is completely normal. And it’s probably just a really flattering photo.
I click over to the restaurant’s website and pull up their current menu.
Jeez.
Well, Elliot James gets points for trying, anyway. There’s nothing even remotely healthy on this menu, although a couple of the dish descriptions have my mouth watering. I jot down some notes on what menu items catch my eye and list some of the available ingredients he must already have on hand to use. Before I know it, it’s dark outside and I’ve got four pages of handwritten ideas to bring with me in the morning.
The next morning,I spend about thirty-seven hours too long staring at my closet, trying my best to make new clothes appear out of thin air.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.
By the time Dad’s therapy team rings the doorbell, I’ve tried on and discarded so many outfits my room looks like a laundromat exploded inside. Settling on a gauzy blouse and black jeans with ballet flats, I push another couple of pins in my hair for good measure and pack up my laptop and notepad.
“Okay, Dad, I’m heading out,” I say. Jim’s got him sitting on a bench manipulating a large yoga ball with his left foot.
“Heard you’ve got a big interview today,” Jessica says, unpacking something from her ever-present duffel bag. “Good luck!”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling. “Dad, your plate is in the microwave. I should be back a little after noon.”
Dad grunts and nods, but doesn’t say anything. Jim looks at me over his shoulder and gives me a sympathetic smile.
“Okay,” I say. “Text or call me if you need me.”
The bus is running a minute ahead of schedule, further proof this week is primed for things that would never otherwise happen. I’ve been looking for a job for months, but nobody’s looking to hire a twenty-two-year-old with no degree and zero professional work experience. At least, not until yesterday.
Elliot James didn’t mention anything about my work experience; the only thing he talked about was my blog. And yeah, I’ve put a helluva lot of work into that thing, but it’s a passion project. I’m already cooking all the time anyway—all the blog does is show a record of it.
But hey, if it gets my foot in the door at a real life restaurant, that’s all the chance I need. I’ll talk Elliot James into giving me a real job after this gig with his new menu, get my six months of kitchen experience, and then my life can start for real.
Invigorated by the thought, my heart starts to pound as Duckbill comes into view. I thank the bus driver and step down to the curb, looking up at the blue and red sign.
This is it, Joelle. Here we go. Laptop case in hand, I tap on the glass front door.