Chapter Three
At four o’clock on January second, Chloe stepped out of her apartment, locked the door behind her, and, shivering in the cold, took the narrow stairs that ran down the back of the building to The Wild Clover for her shift at the bar.
She let herself in the back door, stepping into the narrow hallway between her aunts’ office and the tiny room that served as the staff lounge. Yanking the door shut behind her, she turned into the lounge.
The hooks just inside the door held half a dozen black aprons, fresh and crisp from the laundry.
She snagged one, and a small pad of paper from the shelf next to it.
Everything was electronic, but if she had to cover any of the tables or the bar got busy, she liked to be able to write things down.
Seeing that Mo—who handled all the supply ordering—had restocked her favorite pens, she took three, tucked them next to the pad of paper, and headed out to the bar.
The pub was dimly lit, as pubs tended to be, with music playing low. The room was empty, as they didn’t open for the evening for an hour yet, and she scanned the room as she walked to the bar.
The tables were clean, the waitress station tidy. Someone had already done all the setups, and that meant Katie had probably had the lunch shift. Aways looking for something to do was Katie, and if she hadn’t been busy with customers she’d likely have done half the bar prep for the evening shift.
She stepped behind the bar and checked. Sure enough, the containers for limes and lemons and oranges were filled with fresh slices, the peels for garnish and twists tidily placed, and the containers of fresh juice filled.
“Correction,” she murmured. “All of the bar prep.”
Reminding herself to thank Katie—and tip her well—Chloe turned to her ice bin.
She made sure it was full, then checked the cooler she kept filled with pint glasses.
That was running low, so she moved the already chilled glasses to the front and refilled from the back.
She checked the beer kegs, made a note of which ones were at half or lower, then went to the kitchen for more glasses.
By the time her aunt came out of her office at four-thirty, the bar was fully stocked and ready for the evening’s business.
“Hey, Aunt Mo.”
“Chloe.” Maureen Dobbs, a trim and fit fifty-five with bright auburn hair, a freckled nose, and what her wife of twenty years called doe eyes, came behind the bar to give her niece a fierce hug. “Happy birthday.”
“You already told me that on Wednesday,” Chloe reminded her, returning the hug.
“What, I can’t say it twice?” With a last squeeze, Mo stepped back. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”
“Bailey cut it,” Chloe said and barely resisted the urge to reach up and fuss with it. It still felt weird. “Do you like it?”
Mo reached up to tousle it, much as she had when Chloe was a child. “Very chic. You girls have a good time?”
“A great time,” Chloe said cheerfully. “Thanks for the night off.”
“You should thank me.” Mo moved past Chloe to reach into a cooler for a cold Coke. “Giving up my best bartender on New Year’s Eve.”
“It’s the only holiday I ask for all year.”
“Which is why I give it to you.” Mo popped the top on her Coke and drank. “And we managed to survive without you.”
“Speak for yourself,” came a voice from the kitchen doorway, and Chloe looked over to see Carrie coming out with a plate piled high with pasta. “I nearly died.”
Mo rolled her eyes. “You did not.”
“Well, it felt like it.” In her black-and-white checkered pants and white chef’s coat, Carrie walked around the bar, set down her plate, and hopped on a stool. “You can never have New Year’s Eve off again.”
“You say that every year,” Chloe pointed out with a smile.
“And I mean it every year.” Carrie aimed narrowed blue eyes at Chloe. “And every year, you ask Mo for the night off instead of me, because she’s a soft touch.”
“She’s in charge of front of house, you’re in charge of back,” Chloe reminded her. “Do you like my haircut, Aunt Carrie?”
Carrie’s mop of dishwater-blonde hair, tied up in a blue bandanna, bobbed when she snorted. “Don’t try to distract me.”
“Would I do that?”
“Humph.” Carrie forked up pasta, jabbed it at Mo hard enough to slop red sauce on the bar. “And you. Don’t think you can get around me with those doe eyes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mo said, widening her eyes dramatically.
Carrie shoveled in pasta. Round where her wife was lean, her soft white skin flushed pink with indignation and the heat from the kitchen, she worked like a teamster and had a heart the size of Canada.
“Did you have a good birthday at least?” she asked once she’d swallowed.
“Great,” Chloe said and dampened a bar cloth to wipe up the sauce. “Bailey wrangled us a suite at The Mark.”
Mo let out a whistle. “Swanky.”
“I thought she was drunk texting me at first,” Chloe admitted.
Carrie barked out a bawdy laugh. “You didn’t trash the place, did you?”
“No, but we used all the bathroom towels,” Chloe admitted. “And spent a good hour cleaning up before we left.”
Pleased, Carrie nodded. “And you tipped housekeeping?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Her gaze flicked to Mo. “Did you tell her yet?”
Mo shook her head. “I just got here.”
Chloe glanced from one to the other. “Tell me what?”
“The permits came in,” Carrie said in her typical blunt fashion. “Demo starts on Monday.”
“Oh.” Suddenly thirsty, Chloe reached into a cooler for a bottle of water. “That soon?”
“We want the restaurant up and running for Valentine’s Day,” Mo said.
“We’re keeping the bar open during reno,” Carrie continued, winding pasta around her fork. “With the wall up, it shouldn’t be too much of a bother.”
Chloe looked across the room at the wall separating the bar from the new space, the yellowed plaster and dark wood paneling that had been there as long as she could remember. “They’re not taking it down?”
“Not all of it.” Mo plucked a cocktail napkin off a stack and passed it to her wife. “Sauce on your chin. We were going to open it all the way up, make it one big room, but the wall’s brick.”
“Looks cool,” Carrie put in, swiping at her chin. “So we’re going to do a wide archway, take down the plaster on both sides to expose the brick. They’ll do that last.”
“Noise shouldn’t be too bad once the demo’s done,” Mo put in.
Chloe nodded. “Okay.”
“Jesse’s got a key to next door, and one for here.” Carrie gestured with her fork. “He’s gonna have to get to the electrical panel, plumbing, that kind of thing.”
Chloe sipped her water. “Makes sense.”
“Anything they gotta do with that stuff, they’re gonna clear with us first. You comfortable being his point of contact on that?”
“Me?” Her hand tightened on the bottle, making the plastic crinkle. “Why me?”
“Because you’re on site,” Carrie said, jabbing her fork at the ceiling—and Chloe’s apartment above it. “They can’t do that kind of thing while we’re open. And if they have to kill power to the building to work on stuff, that affects your place, too.”
Chloe gulped water. “Right. Okay, I guess.”
“Good. I gave him your number.”
Jesse has my number. “Okay.”
“Good. Your friend Gwen, she still waiting tables at Le Pigeon?”
The lightning change of topic made Chloe blink. “Yes.”
“She happy there?”
Confused, Chloe looked at Mo. “I guess?”
Mo sighed. “Slow down, Carrie. I’m in charge of the front of house, remember?”
Carrie grunted. “Just getting the ball rolling for you.”
“I can handle the ball myself.”
“Handle it, then. And while you’re at it, grab me a Sprite.”
“You’re such a pain in my ass,” Mo muttered, but reached into the cooler.
Carrie grinned. “That’s not what you said last night.”
“Yes, I did.” Mo plunked the can of pop on the bar and winked. “After.”
“If you two want to flirt, I can go do liquor inventory,” Chloe offered.
“We’ll flirt later,” Mo said while Carrie picked up her Sprite and drank. “When the restaurant opens, we’re going to need to hire more staff.”
“Sure,” Chloe said, nodding, then the light went on. “You want Gwen?”
“She’s an experienced waitress at a high-end restaurant,” Carrie put in. “Michelin star and all that happy shit.”
“Carrie,” Mo warned, and Chloe bit her lip to keep from smiling. Carrie had a chip on her shoulder about Michelin and their stars.
“What?”
Mo just sighed and turned back to Chloe. “We could use someone with her experience.”
“I don’t know,” Chloe hedged. She loved her aunts, loved the pub, but the kind of tips the wait staff got at the Wild Orchid didn’t hold a candle to what Gwen pulled in at Le Pigeon. “She makes pretty good tips, she might not be looking to switch.”
“Not a waitress,” Carrie mumbled around the last of her pasta. “Restaurant manager.”
“Really?”
“We need someone to handle that side of things,” Mo explained. “Train the wait staff, keep things running smoothly. I’m keeping the ordering and the scheduling for now, but I want someone I can pass that to, and other responsibilities.”
“I think she’d love it,” Chloe said. “But the money…I don’t know, Mo.”
“I know we can’t match the flying rat for tips—”
“Carrie.”
“—but the apartment would be part of the salary.”
“Apartment?” Chloe echoed.
“There’s an apartment above, right next to yours,” Mo explained. “It needs a little work, but it’s mostly cosmetic. New floors, cabinets, counters. Jesse and Knox say they can have it done the same time as the restaurant.”
“You’re kidding.”
Mo shook her head. “If she wants it, she can pick out some of the finishes—within budget.”
“Do you think it’d make a difference?” Carrie asked.
“Gwen’s got three roommates. Her cat’s scared of one of them, and the other two steal her food. Hell yeah, it’d make a difference. She can bring her cat, right?”
Carrie shrugged. “Long as she doesn’t bring it to work it’s fine by me.”
“Tell her to call me if she’s interested,” Mo said.
“I will.” Grinning, Chloe pulled out her phone, fired off a text—Call me ASAP, good news—then tucked it away.