13. Chloe
thirteen
Aloud flock of birds wakes me before the sun is up. I try to smother the outside sound with a pillow on my head, but the bitter memory of yesterday twists my stomach.
Not the unkempt restaurant.
Not the concerning financials.
Not the fact that my aunt was either clueless or not entirely forthcoming—or possibly both.
What twists my stomach is his voice. ‘You need to leave.’ The tone he used to speak to me, as unforgiving as the crying birds outside my window.
Did he not recognize me? Did he even look at me?
God, I have to stop these thoughts.
I take a quick shower and skip my morning espresso machine routine. Instead, I head out to Easy Monday.
I need my coffee, and they claim it’s the best in town. I want to put that claim to the test. I also need to forget about who my neighbor is, and exploring the town and all it has to offer should help me do just that.
The wooden door is painted a bright yellow that dings when I push it open. A young woman with long flowy hair, a long print dress, and actual flowers in her hair comes from somewhere in the back and says, “How can I make your day awesome?” with the most genuine smile.
“You already did.” I smile back and focus on the blackboard menu above her head.
“Cool!” She turns around and skips to the back, leaving me alone at the counter.
“Millie!” a woman with long, blue-streaked hair calls out. I hadn’t seen her when I came in. The place is a hodgepodge of beanbags, shelves stacked with books, wooden tables and chairs of all sizes and heights, artwork on the stone walls, and sculptures hanging from the ceilings, some, but not all, doubling as light fixtures.
Nudged between a table with a puzzle in progress and an easel with the half-finished canvas of some goddess or mermaid whooshing out of the river, the woman is deep in a couch, a coffee in one hand, a cupcake in the other, a book balanced on her knee. She looks at me and shakes her head, a you gotta see it to believe it look on her face.
“Over here!” a voice singsongs in the back, and the first young woman returns. “’Sup, Cass?”
“I think your customer might want more than your sunny presence.”
“Oh cool!” Millie says, a huge smile on her face, like someone ordering anything from her store is a complete surprise to her. “What can I get’cha?”
I read from the blackboard over her head. “One large Road to Heaven.” As the words leave my mouth, doubt strikes me. “That’s not… there’s no…”
Millie tilts her head patiently, waiting for me to find my words. I’m not even sure how to ask this.
“The weed place—420—is on the other side. Different entrance. Regulation,” the woman called Cass offers. “Here it’s straight up coffee.”
Millie frowns and smiles at the same time. “I can add a shot of CBD?”
“No, no, no, no. Straight up coffee is what I need.”
She leans over the counter. “You sure? Cos I heard about Justin. And his… you know… with you?”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Small towns are known for spreading news like a bushfire, but this is a whole ’nother level.
And hopefully she means yesterday’s argument with Justin.
Not the rest.
She has to, right?
“I can… not believe he wouldn’t talk to you!” she whispers. “He is such a nice man. So devoted to the community! Always lending a helping hand.”
I almost breathe easy. She does mean our argument. “Hey, we all have our limits.”
She drops the to-go cup she was about to fill. “Ohmygod, you are So. Right. I can… not believe you, of all people, would understand that. After how he treated you, I mean,” she adds quickly, like she just said something extremely offending.
She gets back to preparing my coffee, mumbling, “Maybe I’ll just bring him a gummy today.” She hands me my coffee and says, “Let me know if you like it,” looking at me like she really expects me to give her a full feedback on my cup’o joe.
What can I do? I indulge her. “Ohmygod.” I’m so not faking this. “Millie. It’s Millie, right?”
She blushes and nods.
“Are you for real?” I laugh for the first time in… a long time. “This is… heaven!”
She swipes her hand sideways. “That’s what it’s called.”
“You’re my new best friend. By the way, I’m—”
“Chloe.”
We both smile, big stupid grins, warmth spreading inside me. Day two, and I’ve already made three friends! “I should go. Big day ahead of me.” I pull out my wallet.
“On me,” she says. “Welcome to Emerald Creek.”
I fold a bill in the tip jar as she says, “Have an awesome day!” twists around and disappears in the back.
“Bye, Clover!” I swear the woman with blue hair says to me. I whip to look at her, but she pretends to be reading her book. I pause with my hand on the doorknob, my gaze fixed on her. She finally lifts her head and says, “Good luck today.”
That was… weird.
But I’m holding the best cup of coffee in the world. I have three new friends.
Life is good after all.
The restaurant is open when I get there, a radio blaring in the brightly lit kitchen, a man chopping vegetables. He looks like he could be the man I saw standing at the door when I drove by the day I arrived in town.
“Oh. You’re here,” I say. Life might be good, but it’s no thanks to him. As I get closer, the smell of cigarette emanating from him further confirms my suspicion.
He twirls his knife on the chopping board without really looking at it. “This is my kitchen. Why wouldn’t I be here?”
Are all men assholes in this town? They should have a sign at the entrance. This is not what the Hallmark movies prepared me for.
I love Aunt Dawn, and she needs the money.
“Right, good point.” I extend my hand. “I’m Chloe Sullivan, I’m here to—”
“—Yeah, Brendan said you might show up.” He looks down at my extended hand, and after a beat, extends his elbow for me to shake.
Sure, why not.“So. What happened?”
He starts doing the chop-chop-chopping of vegetables. I sip my to-die-for coffee. “Say what?” he says after such a long time, I thought he was either ignoring me or didn’t hear my question.
“I came in yesterday, and the place was… dirty. What happened?”
He stops chopping, knife pointed at me. “That’s for you to figure out.”
Um? No. His kitchen, his responsibility. “It is. You’re right. That’s why I’m asking you. Since you must have been here the last evening the restaurant was open. That would have been… Saturday?”
“Saturday. Saturday. Yeah. Well, if the place was dirty, you could ask Shoshana. She’s front of house.”
“How about the kitchen?”
“What about it?”
Anger starts coiling somewhere deep inside me, but I manage to keep it in check. “It was dirty.”
He drops the knife with a loud clank on the metal surface. “Are you questioning my work?”
Well, yes. And your attitude. “Not at all. Look. I’m just asking for help here. The reputation of my uncle’s restaurant rests… ninety percent on your shoulders.” A little ego stroking never hurts assholes. “I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for you. For the whole team. To keep going when there was no clear direction. When you didn’t know what the intentions of the owners were, if your jobs were secure—”
“Lady, I can find a job anywhere else. Tomorrow.”
“Chloe.”
“Huh?”
“My name. It’s Chloe.”
“Whatever.”
“Or Ms. Sullivan. Whatever you’re most comfortable with, Samuel.”
“I’m most comfortable with Chef.” I stifle my amusement, but he catches it.
“If you had any experience in the industry, you’d know to call me Chef.”
Right. “So. Back to the kitchen. Chef. Who am I supposed to have a talk with?”
“You can talk to me.”
At last! Ownership. I think? “Good. The kitchen was filthy. Dirty dishes. Greasy surfaces. Spoiled food in the cooler.”
He looks around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Looks pretty good to me.”
I see what this is. We’re playing games. Maybe I should have left it the way it was, after all. “Who cleaned it?”
“Whoever was supposed to. It was done.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“A’right, then, I’ll talk to them.”
“And who’s them?”
“Eric,” he says, pointing his chin to a young guy who just came in. “He reports to me. You have something to tell him, you go through me.”
“Great. So this is me telling you.” I lower my voice so Eric doesn’t overhear. “Party’s over. Do your job.”
His shoulders stiffen. “Anything else?”
“Yes. We need to discuss the menu.”
He swiftly uses the flat of the blade to slide chopped carrots into a large metal bowl. “There’s nothing to discuss. It’s set for the season.”
“Right. When is a good time?”
“For what?”
“For you and me to have a meeting.” Something about Samuel and a knife doesn’t sit well. Best have a talk when he’s not working.
“Next week?”
“Why don’t we make it Sunday?”
“We’re closed Sunday.”
“Exactly. Less distractions. Tell you what. I’ll take you out. Brunch?”
“Lady, I don’t brunch.”
“Your loss, Samuel. Next Sunday at noon, here. We’ll be discussing the menu.”
What a piece of work! But I’d say I didn’t do too bad. At least I didn’t lose my patience, and I showed I was no fool.
I think.
On my way out of the kitchen I introduce myself to Eric, the kitchen prep guy, if our pay stubs are anything to go by. Eric is a young guy with skin problems and a clear fear of Samuel. He walked into our conversation and has kept his head down the whole time, shoulders hunched.
Then I almost literally bump into a young woman in chef garb, and that would be Corine, our sous-chef. Corine is red and out of breath. She barely glances at me and beelines for Samuel. “Fudge, Chef, I’m sorry, won’t happen again. Daycare wouldn’t take Theo with a fever and Mom—”
“Strike three and you’re out,” Samuel cuts her, jaw clenching.
“Yes, Chef.”
“The boss here,” he says with a smirk my way, “is pissed about last weekend. So I guess that means no more leaving early for you guys.”
Eric and Corine both startle at his comment, widening their eyes at him like you would when someone is blatantly lying but you can’t call them out on it.
I’m pissed and uneasy and not sure how to handle all this. I can’t stand Samuel, but I need a chef. I need him to run his kitchen professionally, but I can’t undermine his authority in front of the staff.
I introduce myself to Corine, we exchange a brief handshake and a small smile, and I leave it at that.
For now, I need to ride this out. Make some cash. I hope I made my point with Samuel.
I still put out a job offer for a chef on a couple of specialized websites. Then I pay some of the bills to keep the providers happy, and call Aunt Dawn to lie about what a wonderful time I’m having.
My next call is for my cousin. “I don’t know how to put it other than, the restaurant is in the red. Pretty bad. Defaulting on payments.”
“Shit,” Brendan mutters.
“There’s no reason an establishment like that can’t do well in a place like Emerald Creek. There might be some tweaks needed,” I add, thinking about the sad décor. “And I need to investigate our costs.”
“What should I tell Mom?”
“Nothing until I know more. There’s no point alarming her until I can offer solutions.” For some reason I hold off on bringing up Chef Samuel’s attitude. I’m still hesitating between looking for a new chef right away and figuring out what’s wrong here. And there’s the fact that Aunt Dawn pointed out that Uncle Kevin relied entirely on him. I can’t just barge in guns blazing and fire the first person who crosses me.
Brendan grumbles something unintelligible, then says, “Makes sense.”
After we hang up, there’s still two hours to go before opening. I head to the cottage and take a shower and slip on my favorite little black dress. I tie my hair in a loose bun, strap on my three-inch heels and add a discreet gold bracelet and thin gold hoops to the clover pendant I always wear. Then I do my eyes a little smoky and my lips a little glossy.
I need the staff and the customers to believe the place is in good hands.
I pull into the back parking lot, close to the restaurant’s employee entrance. A door to the right opens, and Moose steps out of what must be the pub’s loading dock. I avoid looking that way, expecting to see Justin right behind him.
I slide out of my car, keep my head down, and hurry my steps. A warm and moist bump lifts my elbow. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper.
Moose whines.
“Yeah, I know.” I can’t help but pause a second to plop a kiss on his muzzle and give him a behind-the-ears scratch.
Then I half-run inside and slide into the office to calm my heartbeat.
“I can’t run tickets. The POS is glitching,” Abby, our server, says as she passes me, carrying four plates at once. She stops for just a beat to make sure I understand what she’s saying, then delivers her food to the back of the room.
Crap. The… what? Right. Point Of Sale. “Ok—what… what would you normally do?” I look around for help. Abby is already back in the kitchen. David, the bartender, is mixing two drinks at once.
Shoshana, our tall, thin, blonde and by all other accounts perfect hostess, lifts her shoulders. “Last time, we just cancelled people.”
David seems to listen in, but he says nothing.
Cancel people? “Why?”
“Because… we can’t track orders, and run food—”
“What’s wrong with paper pads?” They had restaurants before the internet.
“—and print the tickets, and run the credit cards,” Shoshana continues.
Um. Wow. “Hold on.” Shit, shit, shit. “We’re not canceling anyone. Office, now.”
“Am I in trouble?” she whispers as she follows me, teetering on her heels as we both rush to the back.
“We’re going to make manual receipts. Grab paper, scissors, pens, whatever you need. I want it pretty, and I want it neat, and more importantly, I want all the tabs to be perfectly correct, starting with our name at the top. Got a phone?” I ask on our way back to the front.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Use it to add up.”
“On it. Anything else?”
“D’you know if Uncle Kevin might have kept a knuckle buster?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Murphy.”
Her face falls. “Oh… right. Sorry—kept a—what?”
“The thingy for the credit cards.” I make a sideways motion with my hand like I’m scraping something off the table.
Her face lights up. “Oh, yeah. Under the bar.” I follow her, and we find it right under the bar register, with a neat pack of blank carbon slips.
“What’s all that shit?” David asks, pointing to the paper and scissors and pens.
“It’s for—”
“I get the intention. We got manual ticketing stuff down there too.” He crouches and pulls a bunch of booklets with carbon copies and flops them on the bar.
I flash my smile at Shoshana. “Back in business.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Shoshana? Drop the ma’am please, you’re making me feel old.”
She blushes. “Sorry.”
With Abby reassured she’ll be serving dinner all night—therefore getting her tips—and Shoshana hopefully learning a lesson on resilience, and David not a grumpy asshole—a refreshing change from the other men I’ve met here so far—I’m about to go sit in the office for just a second.
My feet are killing me.
I’m paying the price for wanting to look nice on my first day. Tomorrow, we’re downgrading to what Aunt Dawn would call sensible shoes.
“Behind!” A flustered Abby storms past me toward the kitchen, holding a barely touched dish that I swear she just delivered to table nineteen.
I slow my pace and linger next to the kitchen door. “The fuck?” Samuel yells. “The fuck it’s overdone. Tell ’em there’ll be a wait.”
Abby comes out of the kitchen, eyes bright and lips pursed. “I got it,” I tell her. “You take five. Give me your apron.”
Samuel barks at me. “You can’t be in my kitchen! Not during service!”
I cross my arms, widen my stance, and look up at him. “How much?”
“Say what?”
“How much d’you pay for that kitchen?”
He looks at me like I have three heads.
“How much d’you pay for the food that was sent back?’
Now he’s looking at me like he’s ready to murder me.
“How much d’you pay for rent?”
I pray to god he doesn’t know about the rent situation.
“That’s what I thought.” I get closer to him, so close I can smell his armpits and cigarette breath, so close I can feel the anger radiating, so close I could count the number of sweat beads pearling off his forehead. So close I can whisper, so this is just between him and me. “You get that salmon done right now, and you get it done so frigging perfect the guest will write us a five-star review that will erase the memory of all the shitty reviews we’ve gotten because of your crappy work ethic. And from now on, you’re dropping the shitty attitude and you. Are. Focusing. On. Work.”
His nostrils flare and his jaw clenches, and I see it coming, so I cut it short before the thought forming in his lizard brain makes it to his mouth and he does something we’ll both regret. “And if you so much as think about quitting without giving me a proper two-week notice, swear to god, you will find no work in this state, no work in the northeast, no work on the East Coast, or the West Coast, or the Midwest, or the South, or Canada, or anywhere else in the frigging world because swear to god, I made a promise to my aunt and I. Always. Keep. My. Promises.”
He holds my gaze in a stare-down contest.
“I’m waiting for the salmon,” I say in clenched teeth.
“Salmon!” he barks, still in my face, still staring at me, but I manage not to blink.
“Salmon, coming up!” Corine answers from somewhere.
“Hands!” Samuel barks in my face.
I break into my sweetest, fakest smile. “Thank you, Chef.”
I deliver the salmon cooked to perfection by Corine, comp the whole table, and we send in desserts and after-dinner drinks. Three hours later, while I’m reconciling receipts in the office and the kitchen crew is cleaning the kitchen and the front of house has the chairs on the tables and the lights on super bright so Trevor and Ryan—my newest recruits—can actually see where they’re mopping, we get our five-star review.
The first in over a year.
I get to the cottage at two in the morning. Too wound up by the night, I open a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate.
There’s not much else to celebrate than the review. We’re more in the red tonight than ever, what with that big table entirely comped and all the extra stuff we sent them.
I can’t make that a habit.
Samuel is going to have to suck it up and learn how to cook salmon properly the first time around.