CHAPTER THREE #4
This was why one of our main objectives with Bonn Remmen’s land was to build more staff housing.
Dorms and small “couple” dwellings for seasonal staff.
Because at the moment, we had a deal with the water taxi company.
At six in the morning, they would pick up the seasonal staff for the vineyard who couldn’t find lodging on the island, bring them across, and then take them back to Seattle at six at night.
Yes, they were long days, but we gave them multiple breaks, paid very well, and even offered benefits.
The applications for staffing were already pouring in, and poor Gabrielle was having to sift through the rough to find the diamonds.
Of course, we always hired returning staff first, then opened up the hiring to new employees if there were still positions to fill.
Gabrielle headed home before I did to finish making dinner.
I took another thirty minutes to send Raina a new comprehensive list of what we’ll have on the tasting menu.
Since a few of the wines we had on it last year wouldn’t be returning to it this year, she’d need to order new menus to be printed.
It was still light out, and my Hacky Sack enthusiast son was not out in the yard when I finally stalked across the property, through the trees, and down the stepping stone pathway to our cottage.
I’d pulled a frozen bag of homemade turkey chili out of the freezer this morning, and it was in the slow cooker. So I was pleased as punch to open the door and smell chili.
Honor was already back, after having baked the rest of the day away with her cousins, and both she and her brother were at the kitchen table doing their homework.
I walked around behind them and pressed a kiss to the top of each of their heads. “Dinner will be about ten minutes.”
Austin grunted.
Honor said, “Okay.”
About a dozen double-chocolate with white chocolate chunk cookies sat in a container on the counter next to the slow cooker. I carefully opened the lid, determined not to make a peep, and grabbed one. I was starving, and since I was an adult, didn’t have to wait to have dinner before my dessert.
“I saw that,” Honor said, humor in her tone.
“Saw what?” I didn’t turn around.
“You stole a cookie.”
“You can’t prove anything.” I chewed as quickly as I could and swallowed before spinning around. “I didn’t take a damn thing.”
All she did was smirk. “You’ll spoil your appetite.”
“I’ll spoil nothing.”
She closed her workbook and got up from the table, bringing down three bowls from the cupboard without me even asking. She set the table while I got out the shredded cheese, tortilla chips, sour cream, and chopped veggies.
In ten minutes, we were all sitting around our little four-top, round kitchen table eating chili.
While my son wasn’t an aspiring conversationalist, my daughter made up for it by never really shutting up. And I loved it.
Growing up, our dinner table was meant to be silent.
If we did anything besides ask someone to pass the peas, we got a fork stuck into the back of our hand by my father—or worse.
So I made a point of always having conversation around the dinner table.
Lively discussion about anything and everything.
Very few topics were off-limits, and even topics that might be considered off-limits, I tried to find ways to discuss them in a manner that was age appropriate.
However, no matter how hard I tried to veer the topics in other directions, both kids kept coming back to the new principal and how cool he was.
Particularly Austin. He seemed slightly enamoured with the guy.
Up until Raina started dating Jagger, Gabrielle picked up with Maverick, and Danica fell in love with Tommaso, the kids didn’t have much of an older male influence in their lives.
And we did that on purpose. However, we trusted these men, and they were wonderful with the kids.
I’d never heard Austin gush over another man the way he gushed over Lennox though.
It was almost like the sun rose and set on the guy.
How he read to them all over the PA system while they ate lunch, that he was out on the field with the kids during recess kicking the soccer ball around, playing hopscotch, or tossing the Hacky Sack back and forth.
Austin even went on about how cool it was that their principal had two sleeves of tattoos.
He wondered if maybe Lennox used to belong to a motorcycle club or a gang, but left that darker side of life to help teach children and shape the future.
“You’re ridiculous,” Honor said to him when he brought up the gang theory. “I haven’t seen any tattoos across his knuckles. And no teardrops on his cheeks.”
“Those are only if you kill someone,” Austin argued. “The teardrops anyway … I think.”
“How do you know this?” she asked. I had the same question.
He shrugged. “I pay attention to stuff.”
Honor rolled her eyes. “Weird stuff. I doubt our principal was in a gang.”
A gang? No. But that acidic prickle in my belly was back, and I pushed away my chili, unable to finish the rest. For my own peace of mind and my family’s safety, maybe we did need to do a deeper dive into Lennox Paul. Or at the very least, figure out just how old this young, handsome father was.