Chapter Six #3
Beverly and Vincent Walters used to be a power couple in New York City until they retired and moved to Fairbanks fifteen years ago.
They’ve had a summer house and family ties here most of their lives, and wanted to give back to the community they’ve considered their home after years of successful stock trading in the Big Apple.
Their son, daughter, and all their grandchildren are here too.
The entire family, kids included, will come during the holidays to help serve huge turkey and ham dinners for those who need it most.
Since Kourtney got married, she doesn’t come as often.
Apparently, Brad doesn’t like her being around “these people,” as he refers to them.
But nothing could make me stay away. It doesn’t matter if it’s Thanksgiving or Christmas, I’m bundled up in my holiday best with a smile on my face and a ladle in my hand.
Screw Brad.
“You and your friends are always welcome here, sweetie,” she answers, pinching my cheeks lightly.
I don’t bother correcting her about who the man behind me is.
If she wants to believe we’re friends, then I won’t tell her otherwise.
It’s easier than explaining the real reason the six-foot-three hockey player is standing in her kitchen.
When I suggested this little setup, she knew it would involve a camera and a journalist, but she didn’t ask any questions.
Knowing Bev, she’ll try getting a story out of him at some point today. She’s good at that.
To my surprise, Moskins appears beside me with his hand extended. “It’s nice to meet you, Bev. I’m Moskins.”
Bev is five feet tall on a good day, so it’s comical watching her look up, up, up at him as they shake hands. “It’s nice to meet you, dear. We’re always happy to have extra hands on deck. It’s been a busy summer for us.”
Vinnie comes in with his usual purple frilly apron tied around his waist. It was a joke gift from Bev that she never thought he’d wear. But he dons it proudly every single day with a smile on his face.
“I see you brought an entourage today,” Vinnie greets me, pulling me in for a one-armed hug and kiss on the temple. He pulls back to study Moskins. “He looks sturdy. I have some boxes I need moved around, and he looks like he can get the job done.”
“Moskins,” I say, “this is Vinnie. Vinnie, this is Thomas Moskins. He is at your service today. We both are.”
The plans for today are simple. After we get a good few photos of him serving the clientele, we’ll talk to the journalist to answer some questions and spend the rest of the time helping out. It’s clear-cut. Easy. As long as he plays along.
Vinnie shakes Moskins’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, son. Welcome to Our Open Table. We appreciate you taking time out of your busy day to help us out.”
The familiarity in Vinnie’s words tells me he knows exactly who Moskins is. I suppose I’m not surprised. He’s always talking about sports to whoever engages him in conversation.
“Kourt says hi,” I tell Vinnie, seeing the fondness on his face grow. As someone who took in his own siblings after their parents left, he has a soft spot for my sister. He sees a lot of himself in her stubborn demeanor.
“She better stop in and see me soon,” he says, pinning me with a look. “Her boy too. It’s been too long.”
I know it’s not Brad he wants to see, but Luca. I’m pretty sure we’re on the same wavelength when it comes to believing Kourtney can do way better than the man she married. But neither of us is willing to say it because she’s unyielding about her choices.
Moskins watches me as I smile at the older man. “I’ll drag them here myself.”
He tweaks my nose the same way he did when I was thirteen, before turning to Moskins. “Shall we get started? The lunch rush is going to come any minute. Best to prep.”
Ten minutes later, I’m being glared at by Moskins as he adjusts his hair net and rubber gloves. The photographer is still setting up, getting ready to snap some photos, so I gesture toward my lips and trace a smile in the air for him to remember he can’t scowl in the pictures.
It only makes him scowl harder.
I snort. “It’s policy,” I tell him.
When Vinnie passed him a hair net, Moskins stared at it for a solid minute before my favorite eighty-year-old said, “It’s for your head,” before walking off to help someone else.
I point to my head. “I have one too.”
“But you have hair,” he grumbles.
My eyes go to his head, which very much has brown hair on it. It’s shorter on the sides and longer on the top, but it’s still hair. “So do you. And nobody likes getting hair in their food, Tommy.”
The name makes his shoulders stiffen. Then he grumbles under his breath something unintelligible about looking ridiculous.
I don’t pay much attention to his complaint.
Mostly because it’s not true. A tiny hairnet and rubber gloves don’t make him any less attractive, like I wish they did. He’s still hot.
Not that I’d ever say that out loud.
“All right,” the photographer says. “I’m ready whenever you guys are. I got the list of shots to get, and then I’ll get out of the way so you can go about your day.”
Janel got a list of photos we can take of Moskins approved by his team, so they know we’re not going to make him randomly strip down for the cameras. While I’m sure Thomas Moskins serving the homeless in his underwear would garner a lot of attention, it’s not the kind we want.
Plus, Vinnie is strict about proper clothing in the kitchen. If he doesn’t allow anyone without a hairnet to serve, I can’t imagine he’d let someone without pants in his kitchen.
Bev, on the other hand…
She’d totally be okay with that.
“What’s that smile for?” Moskins asks, making me realize I have a very detailed mental image of him in his underwear in my head. Tight briefs on thick thighs and all.
I wave the pleasant image away. Far, far away. “Nothing. Let’s start! We’ll get a few shots of you alone, then you with some workers. Everyone here has agreed to be photographed and signed consent forms to be posted.”
“What about you?” he questions as they open the doors to the kitchen for people to start forming a line at the end.
I rock on my heels. “What about me?”
“You’re supposed to be doing this with me.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I quip, gesturing around us.
His eyes narrow. “Are you just going to watch or make yourself useful?”
Bev steps in, winding her arm around mine. “Winnie always makes herself useful when she’s here. Her presence alone makes everybody lighter.”
I beam at her compliment. “I try.” When I turn back to Moskins, I can’t help but see an odd bit of…
softness to his face when he looks between Beverly and me.
“After you get some solo pictures, I’ll hop in and help serve.
Then you can go help Vinnie move whatever he needs in the back.
They get bulk shipments every Saturday morning, so it’s probably heavy items that he’ll struggle with.
It’s good if you can help him out with that. ”
Bev nods along. “His back isn’t what it used to be.”
I smile sadly at her. “We’ll help,” I promise. “I don’t want him throwing it out again. He was cranky sitting at home for a week to recover last time.”
She groans. “I swear I was two seconds from suffocating that man. The only thing that stopped me was the realization that I wouldn’t survive in prison. And orange is not my color. It would wash me right out.”
I’m not sure all prisons have orange jumpsuits, but that’s beside the point.
The snort that comes out of me is big and embarrassing, making my cheeks warm when I see Moskins’s raised brows at the sound.
I direct my focus to the photographer as people make their way down the line, getting soup from one volunteer, rolls from Moskins, and vegetables from a third person. I nod at him to start taking pictures, making sure I’m out of frame.
Despite agreeing to do this, I still don’t want to be in any photos. It would fuel a fire I’m trying to put out. I’m sure his team would agree.
Forty minutes later, the photographer has seemingly gotten everything he needs and shakes both Moskins’s and my hand before leaving us.
I stepped into the serving line twenty minutes in to make conversation with some of the locals I’ve spoken with before.
Asking how their days are. Asking about their kids.
Little things that seem to brighten their days.
One thing I learned a long time ago is that you never know how far kindness can go. One smile can make somebody’s day. One compliment can save somebody’s life. So no matter how badly I want to let my inner demons win, I smile anyway.
Moskins watches me contentedly throughout each interaction, sometimes chipping in and even offering his own greetings once he warms up to those walking in. I’m sure he’s not used to conversing with the people that Our Open Table brings, but he seems like a natural as time goes on.
“This one,” Ridley, a sixty-something man who frequents Our Open Table, says to Moskins while pointing to me, “is a troublemaker. Best watch out for her.”
I gasp dramatically at his playful accusation. “I thought we were friends, Ridley.”
“You beat me at cards last week,” he harrumphs, accepting the roll I pass him with my tongs. “Haven’t forgiven you yet.”
I laugh at his theatrics. “It was a no-stakes game of Go Fish. If it makes you feel better, we can have a rematch soon.”
His eyes light up. “Today?”
I smile sadly at him. “I can’t today. But I’ll swing by next weekend. How’s that?”
Ridley is a kind soul who lost his fortune to addiction. He’s been clean for years, but never quite got his life back in order. It’s better than it was, but something is holding him back from truly putting the pieces together permanently.
He hefts out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll see you next week then.”
I wave him off and frown when I see the skeptical stare Moskins gives me. “What?”
“How often do you come here?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. “Every week if I can. Sometimes every two. It depends on how busy I am. Janel usually offers me overtime if I come into the office on weekends to help her, and the money is decent.”
He blinks.
Blinks again.
The line is pretty much gone now because everybody is eating, with a few stragglers coming in here and there.
His weighted stare makes me shift on my feet uncomfortably. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m trying to figure you out,” he says casually.
I make a face. “Why?”
“Because you intrigue me.”
Despite the tingling in my stomach, I don’t like the sound of that. “I’m not that hard to figure out, Moskins.”
He huffs out a laugh. “On the contrary.”
We serve a few more people, making idle greetings and small talk with them before we’re alone again.
That’s when I quietly say, “I never got to thank you for the food. You didn’t have to do that.”
He doesn’t deny what he did, which I’m grateful for. In fact, he doesn’t say anything in response.
I lick my lips. “Why did you do that?”
I’ve been wondering ever since I realized what he’d done.
It hasn’t bothered me, even though I don’t like feeling as though I owe somebody.
He’d pissed me off too much to say anything about it during our last meeting, but he’s been surprisingly great today.
Humble. Kind. It could all be an act, but I don’t think it is.
That is, until he replies, “Didn’t want you to have to go on any more dates. You clearly don’t have a great radar for decent men.”
I glare at him.
He smirks.
And then Vinnie comes and pulls him away to help him in the stock room. Which is probably a good thing. Because I’m two seconds away from throwing a dinner roll at his head.
At the end of the lunch rush, I help Bev and a few others take the empty trays and plates to the sinks in the back to be washed. Cleanup between meals usually takes at least an hour, but we’ve become a well-oiled machine in our routine to get it done as quickly as possible.
Bev nudges me with her shoulder as we scrub plates in the soapy water. “He’s quite the looker.”
I know who she’s referring to, but I don’t play into whatever this is. “Don’t let Vinnie hear you say that or he’ll ban Moskins from stepping foot in here again.”
Not that I think he’ll come back willingly after this obligation is over.
She chuckles. “I’m just saying, you’ve got a good eye. And he was a natural today. Some people will come in and judge those we serve for what they wear or what they look like. He didn’t have an ounce of judgment in his eyes. I don’t know his story, but I bet it’s an interesting one.”
I’m surprised she didn’t try getting it from him today. In the few hours we’ve been here, she’d only come over to praise him for his work. And that one time she told Thomas that he had a nice smile and should do it more often. I swear I saw his cheeks turn pink. It was kind of…cute.
Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.
There is nothing cute about Thomas Moskins and an overinflated ego. That kind of charm is exactly why he’s here. It’s what he uses to get girls into his bed. I will not be next.
“This is a professional relationship,” I explain to her softly. It serves as a good reminder to me as well. “Nothing more.”
She hums like she doesn’t believe me, continuing to wash the dishes. After a minute, she says, “That’s a real shame.”
And I think, I know.