4. Dara
4
Dara
I suppose the benefit of working in a diner is the fact that you can prepare your own dinner before you leave work, which is what I do nearly every night. I work the day shift, a stipulation I made quite clear with Chuck when I first took on the job. Tom, Chuck’s brother, takes over after six, and I don’t think there’s yet been a day where I haven’t been glad to see his face.
He’s a pretty good cook, though not really trained. The brothers started the business about seven years ago, though Chuck takes the lead. Before that, the diner had been run by a family who have lived in Riverdale for generations. But when it was time for Mr. Thomas to retire and pass the baton, his only son had declined.
Clay Thomas has dreams of his own and has slowly built up a sculpturing business. I admit, he makes amazing pieces from the scrap metal he picks up. I have a few of his wonderful works of art standing in my front yard.
After throwing my carton of food onto the kitchen counter, I kick off my shoes. Yanking my socks off, I spread my toes, sighing with relief as they press against the cold tile of my kitchen floor. Being on one’s feet all day is probably not good for you, but it comes with the job.
My phone beeps, and as I lift it, I open the message.
“I’ll see you at 8,” it says.
The text is from my best friend, Astrid. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, and when I got the opportunity to work in the city, leaving her was the hardest part of going. Mom and Dad had already moved to Ghana at that point, so I was used to being so far apart from them. But not from Astrid.
When I was forced to move back to Riverdale, she welcomed me back with open arms, even though she could tell how sorry I was that things had not worked out in the city. She’s been my anchor since I got back, and I’m so grateful to have her as my friend.
Tapping the keys, I quickly reply to the message and then throw my phone down next to the carton.
“Before I do anything else, I need a shower.”
In my bedroom, my whites end up in the wash basket, and then I step into the glorious hot water as the shower rains down on my aching back. It feels so good I could stay in here for hours. Allowing the heat to ease my aching bones, I just stand there for a while, enjoying the sensation.
Alex Bennett seeps back into my mind as I relax a little. I’ll admit, his unexpected presence at the diner today has been on my mind for quite a bit of the afternoon. I wish now that I had just asked him what he was doing moving to Riverdale, because for the life of me, I cannot figure it out.
Does Mark know he was planning to move here? If he does, why hasn’t he mentioned it to me? I mean. When my brother’s home, we talk nearly every day. He left for Ghana about two weeks ago, but buying a house takes more than two weeks, right? Surely, he knew before that.
I have no doubt in my mind that Alex would have told Mark. It would be weird not to mention to your best friend that you’re moving to the town he lives in. But why? Why is he here?
Why do you care? You can’t stand the man.
I don’t know. Maybe I find his presence here unnerving.
I still haven’t come up with an answer by the time I’m out of the shower and dressed, and in the end, my deliberation over his reasons for moving to a tiny town take a back seat, and I move on to Alex’s invitation to be his personal chef for the dinner party he’s having.
Alex Bennett moves in circles I can only dream about, and by that fact alone, I know it certainly won’t be burgers and fries I’ll be preparing. At the thought of the menu I could create, I get a little excited. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to make a delicious gourmet meal. I’ve missed using herbs and spices that neither Chuck nor Tom even knows exist, never mind can pronounce.
Okay, it’s going to be a one off, but I’m still going to love it.
Even if you are cooking for a man you have no time for.
After finishing my rather underwhelming chicken breast and salad, I grab my car keys and make my way to Astrid’s house. She lives on the outskirts of the town and is known as the resident witch. It’s a playful nickname she’s adopted and has to do with the fact that she’s a naturopath and healer.
Her shelves are full of tinctures, concoctions, and salves that she makes with herbs, flowers, and plants from her own garden. She really is a natural child of the earth, barely ever wearing shoes and floating about in loose, linen clothes. Some years ago, she told me that the material you wear, is as important as the food you put in your mouth.
“Hello, my darling,” she exclaims, throwing her arms around me as I enter her small cottage. Exactly the kind of home a witch ought to have, in my opinion.
Astrid is some inches shorter than me, slender and pretty, with beautiful brown hair. She seems to have a glow that always emanates from her.
She looks me deep in the eyes and then shakes her head and tuts. “You look exhausted. Come on,” she says, turning and wandering into her quaint abode. “I have a tea that will pick you right up.”
“Of course, you do,” I reply with a smile.
Her home always reminds me of Bilbo Baggins’s house, as if J. R. R. Tolkien had created his character’s living space based on Astrid’s interior, which of course, couldn’t possibly be true given the fact that the books were written before either of us were born.
I would say it’s the other way around, but I know for a fact that Astrid has neither read the books nor watched the movies.
There are alcoves filled with all sorts of books, many of which she has read. There are books on nature, herbs, healing, there’s fiction, and then there are encyclopedias and history books.
In other alcoves there are shelves of brown bottles, all labeled with their contains. Rows and rows of medicine she has grown. Astrid doesn’t believe in weeds. For her, weeds are medicine. “People pull up the most useful plants without even knowing it,” she will say. “There are healing remedies everywhere you look.”
Her windows are small and don’t let much light in, but she compensates with candles and lanterns dotted around the place, giving it such a magical look. Sometimes I wonder if she realizes how jealous some interior decorators would be to see what she’s created.
I have to duck a little to get from one room to the other, just like I would if I happened to be in Bilbo Baggins’s house, and eventually, we reach the kitchen.
“Now, sit down and take the weight off your poor feet,” she says, pointing to the large oak table in the middle of the room.
She grabs her copper kettle, and, after filling it with water, she places it onto the gas hob. Honestly, I’m surprised that there isn’t a huge black cauldron sitting over an open fire. That would really set this whole scene off.
“Well,” she says, dropping herself down on the opposite side of the table, “what’s new with you?”
“What do you want to hear first? The fact that I might have a gig that will pay me a lot of cash, or the fact that my brother’s best friend has moved to town?”
She gasps. “Is that who that is? He’s bought the big house just past Mr. Falk’s farm.”
I nod. “That sounds about right.”
“Who is he? Tell me all about him,” Astrid pushes herself from the table and opens a cupboard door. As she’s reaching for some kind of powdered concoction, I begin to fill her in.
“He’s a very wealthy surgeon,” I begin.
Astrid curls her lip. She doesn’t have much time for modern medicine.
“He does plastic surgery,” I continue.
This nearly makes her drop the jar she’s holding in her hand as she stares at me with disgust. I can’t help but giggle at her.
“He’s not the devil, Astrid,” I laugh.
“How do you know?” she counters. “Surely anyone who slices women up to try and make them look better can’t be far off.”
I shrug. “It’s their choice at the end of the day.”
“Hmm, I suppose,” she agrees with little enthusiasm. “So. Tell me more.”
“Well, he’s a billionaire, and as far as I know, he has an apartment in the city.”
Astrid has given up trying to get the lid off her jar while listening to me and now is gawking at me in astonishment.
“A billionaire? Living here in Riverdale?”
“Apparently so.” I grin. “It takes all sorts, right?” I give her a teasing look.
She smirks back at me and then turns back to struggling with her jar. “He has to be the guy who owns that big fancy car I saw driving down the road earlier then.”
“Probably,” I say. Though all his money can’t get him to smile. “His name is Alex Bennett.”
“Have you mentioned him to me before?” Astrid frowns, clearly not recognizing the name.
“I can’t imagine I have. I don’t really know him like Mark does.”
“Wow. I can hardly believe it. We have a billionaire living in Riverdale.” Lifting her nose in the air and pretending to look offended, she says, “Clearly, I will no longer be the talk of the town. Mr. Alex Bennett has stolen that trophy from me.”
I laugh and say, “Dr. Alex Bennett.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she mocks, pouring the hot water into the same cup she’s sprinkled the powder into. Taking a spoon, she gives it a good stir and then hands it to me.
“Now, sip that carefully. It’s hot, but it’ll put a spring back in your step.”
“What is it?”
“Best not to ask, my darling. The ingredients might scare you to death,” Astrid says with a wink.
I giggle at her again, and then tentatively sip my tea.
“And your other news?” she says, after sitting back down opposite me.
“Funnily enough, it has to do with our new billionaire. He’s having a dinner party next week and wants me to cook for his guests.”
Astrid gives me a long look. “And how do you feel about that?”
“It will give me a chance to do something I’ve missed for the last six months.” I reply. “Alex isn’t a greasy spoon kind of guy, so—”
“Alex?” She smiles and lifts an eyebrow.
“It’s not like that,” I say, shaking my head. “Not with this guy, at any rate. He has the charm of an old shoe. I think it causes him physical pain to smile.”
Astrid nods with satisfaction. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I like him already.”
“It’s only a one-time deal, but he knows who I worked for in the city, so he’s already told me he’ll pay me well. It gets me closer to my goal.” I shrug, taking another sip of my tea.
“Your own place,” Astrid confirms.
“My own place,” I repeat.
“Where there’ll be a small area for your closest friend to set up a stall and sell her weird and wonderful concoctions.”
We both fall into laughter then, knowing rightly there’s not a chance of that ever happening.