Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Kate
I walked up and down Main, looking for a job. Any job. It was the off-season for Bar Harbor. Every place I tried told me to come back in the late spring, when they’d be hiring and training for summer. How the hell would I survive for seven months with no job?
Mom’s check arrived by FedEx’s one-day delivery, thank goodness.
I cashed it immediately. I’d planned on opening a bank account with it, but I wanted to be able to do that with Gallagher as my last name, not Cady.
The woman at the bank was kind enough to tell me where I had to go to file the paperwork for my name change.
I also figured it would be good to contact my lawyer again—maybe she could expedite the process.
I stopped at a small bookstore that was bursting at the seams. Everywhere I looked, there were books shelved and displayed. The narrow walkways had people browsing, which I took as a good sign. Maybe books were a steady, year-round business.
I went straight to the counter where a lovely, middle-aged Black woman sat on a stool, going through what looked like a book catalogue. She wore a burnt orange sweater, and her reading glasses were on a glass bead chain in rust, brown, orange, and gold. She was autumn personified.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” I tried to look my most responsible and trustworthy.
She glanced up. “Hello, dear. Can I help you?”
I kept my voice low. “Yes, ma’am. Are you by any chance hiring?” I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice, but judging by her expression, I don’t think I managed it.
She gave me a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid you’re going to have a hard time finding a job around here at this time of year.”
I nodded. “That’s what I hear.”
“You might try the Bar Harbor Inn,” she suggested. “Sometimes they’re looking for housekeeping.”
“I appreciate the suggestion. I’ll try there.” I gave a little wave and walked out. Well, I did know how to clean. I continued down the street, looking in shop windows.
My salivary glands went nuts when I stepped into a cupcake shop. Oh my goodness; everything looked gorgeous and delicious! My stomach rumbled and I slapped a hand over it.
Just then, a woman walked out of the back room. “Afternoon, hon. What can I get for you? The white chocolate raspberry are amazing today.”
My stomach rumbled again, louder.
She laughed. “I heard that. Which one looks good to you, and would you like a drink to go with it?”
My face flamed. “Sorry. Honestly, they all look delicious, but I’m here for a job. Are you hiring?”
Her smile dropped. “Oh. Sorry. This time of year, it’s too slow to afford more help. I can handle things myself. Try again in late May. I usually hire a part-time assistant then.”
Nodding, I replied, “I understand. Thanks anyway.”
As I turned, she said, “Are you sure you don’t still want one?”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” I lied as I stepped out the door.
Standing on the sidewalk, I took in the gorgeous park and harbor. The trees were aflame in red and gold. I might starve, but I’d do it in picturesque surroundings. There was that.
I was just about to dash across the street, to try my luck with the shops on that side, when someone yelled.
“Yo, Red. You wanna dog?”
I spun, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. A man was leaning out of a food truck, his arms braced on the counter, watching me.
I walked over and stood before his counter. “Actually, I wanna job.”
He shrugged. “Buy a dog and we’ll talk about a job.”
Squinting, I took in his blotchy face and bloodshot eyes. “Really? Or are you just trying to sell me a hot dog?”
He laughed before taking a large gulp of water. “Oh, I’m definitely trying to sell the dog, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a job, too.”
I went up on tiptoe and tried to see inside. “It’s clean in there, isn’t it?”
“Not as clean as it’s going to be once you get to work. Now, do you want that dog?”
“How much?” I was calculating how long the money I had would need to last.
“Seven bucks.”
Stepping back, I looked around. “What is this, a baseball stadium? Seven bucks for a hot dog is robbery. No wonder I’m the only person standing here.”
I turned to leave, but he held up his hand. “For that seven bucks, you get a dog, a drink, and a possible job. Seems like a good deal to me.”
He had a point. As if on cue, my stomach rumbled again. He sniggered, pointing. “Gotcha! Now, whaddaya want on it?”
I gave up the seven bucks and ordered a dog with chili, cheese, and jalapenos. When he handed it to me, I was hit with the overpowering stench of sour, stale booze. Either he bathed in it or it was seeping from his pores. Given his rough appearance and bloodshot eyes, I was going with the latter.
I had to stop myself from inhaling the hot dog. I opened my mouth to take a bite and then thought better of it. “Do I want to know how many days you’ve been reheating this chili?”
“No,” he said before taking another gulp of water.
My mouth was watering. E. coli be damned. I took a huge bite, closed my eyes, and stifled a moan. Truly, this was the food of the gods! I opened my eyes to study the man and his food truck. If I worked here, at least I’d be able to eat.
As if reading my mind, he said, “You can have one free dog per shift.”
I took another juicy, spicy, smoky bite, wishing I had three more waiting for me. I swallowed and asked, “What would my job entail?”
He glanced around, confused. “What I just did. Weren’t you paying attention?” He downed the rest of the water bottle. “I’m not really impressed with your attention to detail, kid.”
“I’m a good cook. Would I be making anything besides hot dogs?
” I ate the last bite, stuffed after so many days with little to eat.
I was thinking about those warnings to starving people not to eat or drink too fast for fear of it coming right back up.
I put my hand on my stomach again, willing the dog to stay right where it was.
He looked me over, speculation clear in his eyes. “You can cook, huh? Now, that is interesting. What kind of stuff—food-truck stuff—can you make?”
“Well.” I crumpled the napkin in my hand and tossed it in the nearby garbage can. “I can make better chili than this from scratch. And if you grilled the jalapenos first, they’d taste better. I also do amazing grilled cheese sandwiches?—”
“Sweet. That asshole Jimmy runs the grilled cheese truck. He’s only around in the summer months, though. You’d have a couple of months to build a loyal following, so when he shows up, we can put him out of business.” He smiled broadly, transforming his hangdog expression. “What else ya got?”
I shrugged. “Anything, really. I can make cheesesteaks, burgers, corn dogs. Whatever.”
There was a gleam in his eye when he said, “You’re hired, kid.”
My heart leaped, but wariness followed close behind. “How much will you pay me, and what are my hours?”
“Enough, to my way of thinking, but probably not to yours. And as many as I need. Jeez, you ask a lot of questions.” He wiped down his prep area. “So, you want the job or what?”
I needed a job to survive, and I could make this work. It’d be like my own personal tiny restaurant. Thinking about the dark recesses of the food truck, I amended that description to a tiny, filthy, possibly rat-infested restaurant. I’d be a fool not to say yes.
“You need to give me an actual dollar amount and a general idea about my hours before I can agree.” Standing my ground, I looked him in the eye and waited.
“Fine. Fine. But I’ll fire your ass if you do a lousy job.”
“Agreed.”
“Ten bucks an hour, and you’ll be working the lunch shift—ten thirty to about two thirty. But weekends will be longer hours. And if you can make something people want to eat for breakfast, something that pays for itself and you, you can open earlier and sell that, too.”
“You do know that ten bucks an hour is below minimum wage, right?”
He grumbled a few choice words. “It’s my damn truck.
I get to decide what to pay people, not those worthless politicians.
” He paused for a second, studying me. “This is all under the table, too. I’m not paying for any insurance or withholdings or any of that crap.
You work an hour, I hand you ten bucks. Deal or not? ”
I thought about the quickly dwindling bag of dog food in the pantry. “Deal.”
“Good.” He opened and closed a drawer, then held up a key. Tossing it to me, he said, “I don’t want to deal with you today. My head is killing me as it is. Get here tomorrow at nine and you can clean up before you begin cooking.” He turned his back and walked toward the front of the truck.
“Wait! Why the key? Won’t you be here to train me?”
“I’ve got a second truck I take to Bangor. There ain’t enough people in the Harbor this time of year to make much of a profit.” His voice was muffled as he continued, “You can cook, right? Figure it out.” The engine rumbled to life.
I ran to the front of the truck, but my new boss was already looking the other way and pulling out onto the road. “I don’t even know your name,” I shouted at the back of the moving food truck. “And your service panel is open!”
Great. If a drunk hires you, are you really hired?
I trudged back up the other side of the street on my way to my car but looked in the window of a clothing boutique. The periwinkle silk cocktail dress on display called to me. It was ethereal and lovely. It felt emblematic of a better, more serene life.
A light tinkling sound came from overhead as I entered. Mesmerized by the play of light on the iridescent silk, I slid a finger down the skirt.
“Would you like me to find your size?”
I spun to find a tall, stunning, dark-haired woman waiting for my response. “Oh, no. Thank you. I just—well, it’s beautiful.”
She brushed nonexistent dust off the back of the dress. “It certainly is. And it’s done its job, bringing you in.”