Pining for You (Good with His Hands: Season 2)

Chapter 1

1

CHLOE

The restaurant’s lights flickered as I slid a plate of pancakes, bacon, and toast in front of the man sitting at table four. Startled, I glanced up at the lights, wondering if a bulb was going, but they looked fine. Then I noticed my patrons staring outside, so I followed their gaze. Where minutes before there’d been a brilliant blue sky, reflecting off Hawkeshead Lake, now dark clouds raced towards us, obscuring the sun.

“Storm’s coming in,” the guy muttered as he poured syrup over his pancakes until it formed a lake on his plate.

“Huh, the weather guy said it wasn’t supposed to rain today,” said the guy on the other side of the table as I placed his order of a Reuben sandwich on rye with a side of home fries in front of him.

Pancake guy snorted. “Yeah, like you can trust those weather guys. You might as well look out the window to see what it’s doing.”

Reuben guy leaned back in the booth. “I swear one Toronto channel’ll say the weather will be fine, while the other one will say it’s gonna storm. I’m telling you, Jer, these weather people don’t know what they’re doing.”

I left Jer and his friend to their meteorological discussion to stand by the register near the front of the restaurant. I loved this spot because I could stare out the huge plate-glass window that overlooked not only the parking lot but also gave me an excellent view of Hawkeshead Lake.

The first drops of rain darkened the pavement, and the trees the city had planted along the verge swayed and danced as the wind picked up. I jumped when a spear of lightning streaked down at the far end of the peninsula that jutted out on the right side of the lake. Moments later, thunder rattled the restaurant windows, and one of the patrons seated at the four-top table by the window squealed in alarm.

I turned my attention back to the restaurant. A half hour until closing. It was one of those breakfast-and-lunch-only places that closed at 3:00 p.m., so the place was clearing out except for Jer and his Reuben-loving friend, and an older couple who had already paid their bill and now lingered over the last of their coffees. The woman was mid-sixties, gray threading through her hair. The man was older, perhaps early seventies. He was saying something, and she leaned forward, her gaze not leaving his. I wasn’t sure if it was interest in the conversation or the woman was hard of hearing. Their wedding rings were old, scratched and tarnished, the woman’s, nearly embedded in her swollen finger, so not new friends or lovers. Their absolute concentration on each other kept me watching, trying to capture some of the emotion thick between them.

Contentment.

Love.

Trust.

A marriage that worked. They’d found the magic formula to survive through tough years, and stay together.

I thought I’d had the magic formula once, too. I’d been content in my marriage, and I’d loved my husband, even trusted him. What a fool I’d been.

As I watched, keeping my eyes lowered as if feigning disinterest, the couple shifted the edge of their seats in their booth, and craned their necks, looking for something. Or someone. From the plates the couple had shoved to the edge of the table, they were probably looking for their bill. Except their waitress, Josie, had escaped to the kitchen, either doom scrolling her social media accounts or chatting up the new fry cook.

After signaling the couple that I saw them, I hurried to the kitchen and found Josie on her phone, as in actually talking to someone. Huh, I didn’t think people her age actually talked on their phones these days, instead preferring to text. As soon as she saw me, she turned away, her shoulders hitching up to her ears. Her voice dropped so I couldn’t understand what she was saying. When she finally looked over her shoulder, she grimaced and asked, her tone sullen, “What?”

Right after I informed her that her patrons were looking for their check, my own phone vibrated in my apron pocket. I waited until Josie had gone out front before discreetly checking my phone and found a text message from my father looking for help to check his clients’ properties once the storm had passed.

Dad ran a property management firm that looked after cottages where the owner either was absent most of the year or rented it out and required someone to maintain the premises. Which meant, since I’d returned to Port Paxton, he relied on me to help him clean out the cottages between renters. While he didn’t pay me, it was the least I could do because he and Mom helped me out so much during my divorce.

At least today’s shift had been fairly quiet, and his request was a check-in on a couple of properties out on the island.

I shoved my phone in my apron pocket when the back door opened. Gord, the Cozy Counter’s owner, wrestled it closed as the wind attempted to tear it from his hands. He used a four-letter word that he’d have fired any of his employees for using. He was one of those old-school guys raised in the fifties and didn’t like swearing around women. Or women who swore.

“Hey, boss, wasn’t expecting to see you in today,” Tom, the fry cook, called, a frown creasing his face.

As Gord took his time hanging his coat up on the hooks by the back door, an ominous feeling enveloped me. Tom was right. Gord rarely came in on Friday mornings. Finally, he faced us, though his gaze danced about the kitchen without landing on anyone. “Josie still around?”

“Yeah, she’s in the front. Do you need me to get her?” I offered.

“No, but when you guys close up, don’t leave right away. I need to speak to you all. Make sure Josie knows too.”

Tom and I exchanged glances, an unspoken acknowledgment that whatever Gord had to say wasn’t going to be good news.

Gord opened his mouth to say something else, stopped, gave what might have been a shrug, and headed into the storeroom that he used as his office.

The storm was in full fury when I returned to the main room, rain lashing against the windows, a mist rising off the pavement so we could barely see the buildings on the other side of the road. Lightning arced across the sky in epilepsy-inducing flashes, thunder roaring right on its heels, rattling the windows. The parking lot that had been mostly empty fifteen minutes ago was now filled with cars and trucks pulling off the highway, waiting for the storm to pass over.

“Oh, come on,” Josie whined when six people entered, battling against the winds to close the door. “We close in twenty minutes. Tell Gord we should lock the door.”

I wasn’t about to interrupt Gord with whatever issue he was dealing with in the office. “Think of the extra tips you’ll get.”

Tips which had been decreasing with each passing month, ever since the opening of a fancier breakfast chain a block away.

Luckily for the kitchen, most refugees from the storm ordered coffee, not food. Eventually Gord appeared, frowned, and then realized the dilemma. He gave the newcomers a half hour before he announced the restaurant was officially closing and waited for the customers to pay their bills and seek shelter elsewhere.

Once they’d all left, Gord stood in the middle of the restaurant and gestured for Josie, Tom and I to be seated.

I settled onto the bench of a four-top. Tom sat across from me, but Josie leaned against the wall by the front door, which earned her a frown. After studying us all, Gord took a deep breath and said, “I know you have other places you need to be, but I need to make an announcement, and I’d rather make it to you in person than over an impersonal email.”

I schooled my face into a blank expression, one I’d perfected in the hours, days, and months that I’d been questioned by police and lawyers thanks to my ex-husband’s shenanigans.

“Last week, I received notice from the mall owners that they’re going to increase the rent this year. By thirty-five percent.”

Shit. With the way the sales had been slumping, I knew what was coming and braced myself.

“Unfortunately, there’s no way I can afford that type of increase. So I’ve made a tough decision, one I haven’t made lightly.” He took another deep breath. “I’ve decided to close down the diner at the end of this month.”

My heart sank.

“Have you investigated moving to a new location? There are lots of empty places available downtown right now,” I suggested. “Or you could offer a dinner menu instead of closing at three?”

“You know how the economy is right now. Everything’s expensive, and with the tourist season about to hit, the owners around here all know they can demand top dollar.” He held out his hands in a who knows gesture. “I can’t afford to pay to have all the equipment stripped out of here and rebuilt in a new place. We’ve been scraping by on dregs for the last four years.

“I kept hoping things would turn around but …” Another shrug. “Consider this your three weeks’ notice. I’ll be happy to give you all references. I am sorry about this decision, but I can’t find a way to make it work, and believe me, I’ve tried.”

He apologized again, then disappeared into his office, shutting the door firmly despite Josie trailing after him, wailing her displeasure.

My phone buzzed with a text message. Dad reminding me to check in on Marilyn Bordon and the Tamblin campground on the way home. The “on the way home” was ironic considering the island was in the opposite direction of my apartment, but I knew what he meant. Plus, considering the ferocity of the storm, I probably would have headed to Mrs. B’s place anyway.

Wind whipped into my face when I opened the door, hard enough that I gasped and had to take a step back. I’d left my umbrella in my truck, but even if I had it, I wouldn’t dare open it without it being caught and turned inside out. Instead, I hunched my shoulders, lowered my head against the sheets of heavy rain, and dashed across the parking lot. Water ran off my chin, and my clothes were dripping by the time I climbed into the cab of my battered half-ton. Finally out of the maelstrom, I put the truck into gear and headed out.

brAD

Lightning forked at the far end of Hawkeshead Lake. Before we heard the thunder, the skies opened up and rain torrented down, forcing me to flick the company truck’s wipers to high. I leaned forward in my seat, straining to see the car I’d been following over the causeway as the thick band of rain swallowed it up and obscured anything except about twenty feet of road ahead. Normally, I left the driving to my groundsman, but today, I’d accompanied my boss, the owner of Pine Ridge Prunery, to a meeting with a new client. While my boss was a qualified arborist too, he had reached an age where he brought me along to do any tree climbing while he chatted with the client, safe on the ground.

Sitting shotgun, John looked up from his notes about today’s meeting and grunted. “Pull over first chance you get. It’s not worth getting in an accident today.”

It was another five minutes before we reached one of the older strip malls on the eastern edge of Port Paxton where we could shelter out the worst of the storm. As I parked beside a battered blue pickup on the edge of the lot, the truck’s sound system beeped, warning of an incoming call. Since the truck’s audio system was paired to John’s phone, he reached over and hit the Answer button on the steering wheel.

“What?” John barked.

I’d have started with the more professional “Pine Ridge Prunery, Brad speaking,” but John was the boss, so he could answer the phone however he wanted.

I glanced at the screen showing the caller ID, but I didn’t recognize the name. The client—possibly a potential client—was an older man whose voice trembled in both anger and fear. He described a tree that had fallen down and nearly broken a dining-room window and taken out the power line that ran from the road. He demanded John send a team over to take care of it. Right the hell now.

While that discussion was going on, a beep announced another call was coming in. Leaving the first client with a vague “as soon as we can,” John accepted the next call. Which turned out to be a similar demand by a client west of here, the direction the storm had come from.

Luckily for this caller, the fallen branches hadn’t damaged any property, but the branches were blocking his driveway.

“Storms are always good for business,” John grunted as he disconnected the call. “That’s when all the trees people have been ignoring come down and they’re forced to pay us to clean up their negligence.”

I kept my opinion to myself. When folks around here had to choose between the mortgage and putting food on their family’s tables or cutting down a tree, the mortgage payment and food would win out every time. Old trees with dead limbs didn’t seem so important when that was the measuring stick.

Then there were the folks who figured they could save themselves some money and cut down a tree themselves. Usually, they’d get together with a neighbor who owned a chain saw and they ended up felling the tree right through their roof, or slicing their leg half off with their chain saw. I’d seen both happen.

As we waited, the wind rocking the truck, and rain still slashing down, I broke the silence with, “You done anything about hiring someone to replace Brian yet?”

The groundsman for Team Two had given his notice the previous week to go work for a firm over in Peterborough that offered better benefits. While John had been told that day, as far as I’d seen, he hadn’t started to search for a replacement.

Pine Ridge Prunery had three teams, two of which had two workers, a certified arborist like John and myself, along with a groundsman who cleaned up all the fallen branches, cut them to size, tossed them in the chipper and kept the client’s yards clean. They also helped secure the lines that held the branches on the right track as the arborist used his chain saw. Our third team had a co-op student from the local college. Which was part of my usual team, though the student had called in sick today. Probably too much partying the night last night

John sighed. “No.”

“We need someone by the start of next week or it’ll leave us real shorthanded. Especially after this storm.”

John grunted. “I hate interviewing people.” He side-eyed me. “You want to handle that? It’ll give you practice for when you’re running things after I retire.”

I held still, my brain whirling as it tried to decipher the unspoken meaning. After? Not if ? At his fifty-fifth birthday party, John’s wife Molly had suggested he retire, but John had laughed it off and told her to wait another five years. At his sixtieth birthday party, she’d mentioned it again, only to receive the same answer. Same answer he gave her at their annual Christmas party last year. But that after hinted that Molly’s suggestion had taken hold.

“You’ve made a decision?”

He heaved a long sigh. “I got a call yesterday about selling out to that outfit out of Toronto—the one that runs all those cheesy commercials. I gotta admit their offer is pretty tempting.”

Shit. I’d heard horror stories about that company. About how they were run by a businessman who had no understanding of tree management. They were all about how to make a profit and save a buck, even if it meant putting its employees at risk.

John stared out the side window, and lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “You know how Molly’s been nagging me about moving back to New Brunswick. Goin’ on about how her parents are getting older and she wants to be there for them.” There was a long pause before he said, “Housing is cheaper down that way. We could sell our house here, buy a bigger house with some land, and still have a nice nest egg to live on.”

Hard to argue a decision that would make a man’s life easier, his wallet heavier. And his wife happier.

John had his rough side, was grumpy as hell, and saw things only his way, but over time, we’d learn to respect each other.

He shifted in his seat, angling his body toward me. “I haven’t given them my answer yet but if I do decide to sell, I want to give you first shot. Are you interested? If you’re not, that’s fine.”

Wow. Me being the boss? Owning my own business? To take over Pine Ridge Prunery meant I’d have to learn how to manage employees, payroll, taxes, client management. None of which had been covered in my arborist training. How much would John want for me to buy him out? Could I afford to take on a loan to purchase the client list and take on the company name? Would I even qualify for a loan?

“Let me think on it,” I said slowly. “I’d need to talk to the bank, but yeah, I’d love first shot at it.”

“Good. As I said, we haven’t made a decision yet. Might not happen at all. We’re simply talking, you know?”

I nodded, both thrilled and terrified at the prospect. The idea of working for myself, of being the boss and responsible for other people’s livings, scared the crap out of me. If I didn’t take a chance now, when would I? Not only that, if I didn’t step up, the new bosses might lay off me and everyone else, too.

John rolled his shoulders, the joints audibly cracking. “Don’t say anything to anyone yet or everyone will jump ship and leave us—leave you—shorthanded.”

Though the wind was still fierce, the rain had died down and the thunder now rumbled in the distance to the south. I was about to start the truck to get back out onto the road when John’s phone rang yet again.

John raised a finger, stopping me before I could put the truck into gear. “Hang on. It’s Mike Pogue.”

Mike owned a local property management business that sent a lot of business our way. Saving John the trouble, this time I hit the button to accept the call.

“Hey, Mike. What can I do you for?” John said.

“I got a call from Marilyn Bordon over on Island Road. One of her trees has come down in this storm and is resting against the side of her house. She’s worried it’s going to tear off her eavestrough or come through her kitchen window. Can you get someone over there to get it out of the way?”

“Let me guess, it’s the old mountain ash I recommended be taken down a couple years ago?”

“That’s the one.”

John rolled his eyes at me. “I’ll send Brad’s team over to check it out. We’ll take care of the old lady, no worries.”

John hung up and muttered, “Old Marilyn is lucky that sucker didn’t come through the roof. We told her when we gave her the estimate three years ago that tree was riddled with borers. It’s not like she couldn’t afford what we quoted to remove it.”

“She loves that tree. Her husband planted it for her when they bought the house,” I reminded him.

Marilyn Bordon had been the school secretary at my elementary school and had always been nice to everyone. Including me, even on the days when I’d been sent to the office and ended up sitting in front of her, waiting for the principal. Which happened more times than I care to admit. Don’t ask.

“Her damned fool husband planted it too close to the house.” John harrumphed. “People always forget that the tiny sapling is going to grow into a big-ass tree.”

Like I hadn’t heard that complaint, and said it myself, though never directly to the client who usually hadn’t been the one to plant the tree in the first place. I changed course and took John to the office so I could get to work. “I’ll call Nash and have him meet me over there.”

As John was climbing out of the truck, I leaned over and caught his attention, “D’you want me to give the bill directly to Marilyn or email it to Mike?”

If I gave it to Mike, John would charge regular rate, but then Mike Pogue would also probably upcharge Marilyn. But if I gave it directly to Marilyn, one of them might be pissed that I’d done them out of a bit more profit.

After a pause, John said, “Give it straight to Marilyn.”

“Marilyn’s special rate?” Which barely covered our salaries, but I wanted to cover my ass. Sometimes it was hard to read John.

John’s lips thinned and he sighed. “Yeah, give her her usual discount.” For all his grumbling, John’s kids had grown up under Marilyn’s watchful eye and he’d been protective of the old lady, too. “Word of warning if you ever run your own business—be careful about giving discounts to friends or people you feel sorry for. It’ll end up costing your business a shit ton of money that you can’t afford to give away.”