Chapter Seven
Beth is still in bed, but I’m too excited to sleep.
Today is my first official day at Beth Ann’s Diner and I’ve been buzzing with anticipation all night.
Streetlamps guide part of my way as I begin my usual trek to the diner, my arms full of a tray of cookies and a lemon pie I’d made when I was too amped up to sleep.
The sun is rising as I arrive at the diner.
The sky is painted in bright, beautiful opalite colors, and the new recipe I’ve been wanting to try — blueberry lemon scones — is gnawing at the back of my mind.
I carefully walk up the steps to the back porch, balancing the desserts in my arms. Beth gave me a key the night before and I fumble with it as I try to unlock the door.
The kitchen comes to life before me and I feel my heart swell with excitement as I look around.
It’s the kitchen of my dreams. I can bake multiple treats at once with the dual ovens and every utensil under the sun is at my disposal.
I see all of the possibilities as I stare at the space, letting myself wonder what this could lead to, just for a moment.
Lately, I’ve toyed with the idea of opening up my own bakery but it seems a bit…
unambitious when my mom was a neurosurgeon.
I close the door behind me and then familiarize myself with the kitchen, learning what hides behind cabinet doors and what lives in the drawers.
I find some display plates in a cabinet and place the cookies on one, leaving them on the counter so I remember to take it up front before we open.
I put the pie in one of the refrigerators and then check out the back room.
There’re a few tables and scattered chairs, a bulletin board with this week’s schedule, another refrigerator, and a counter with a small television and microwave.
I see a tower of lockers on one side of the room and pick one without a lock, tossing my phone, keys, and wallet inside.
I walk back into the kitchen and roll up my sleeves, grabbing a black apron from the hook by the door.
I tie it around my waist and after a little trial and error, gather all of the ingredients needed for my recipe and get to work.
I can hear Beth in her office preparing the daily deposit as I crack an egg into a large metal bowl.
She arrived not long after me and has been pecking at the monstrous accounting calculator on her desk ever since.
She should really give up more control of the diner, but I understand her reservations in doing so.
I hum a song to drown her out and begin to whisk flour into the eggs in the bowl.
I become lost in my own little world of sugar, butter, and flour when I hear the back door open again.
I glance over my shoulder and see Graham in the doorway, illuminated in the early morning rays of sunlight. It glistens off his sandy-colored hair, making him look like a Greek god.
He smiles as he walks toward me.
“Well, well, well,” he says, peering over my shoulder at what I’m making. “What do we have here?”
“The beginning of blueberry lemon scones, if all goes according to plan,” I say as I add more flour, “or recipe, I should say.”
He laughs. “I can’t wait to try one.”
I grin as I look over my shoulder.
Graham ducks into the backroom and I hear him toss his belongings into a locker.
“What are you doing here so early?” I ask when he returns to the kitchen.
He nods toward the cart of fresh silverware and clean napkins in the corner. “They aren’t going to roll themselves.”
“Isn’t that a bit below your pay grade?” I ask as I watch him roll the cart over to the counter in front of me.
He drags a barstool across the floor and sits.
I assumed a busboy would have done it last night, but now that I think about it, I haven’t noticed one around the diner.
Of course, I’ve only met a handful of Beth’s employees.
He shrugs and starts rolling a set, making quick work of it. “I do whatever Beth asks of me,” he says simply.
I ponder what he’s said for a moment, until a specific memory pops into my head. “Including bringing a surfboard in here?”
He laughs and the sound of it wraps around me like honey — sticky, sweet, and golden. It’s a sound I could get used to hearing for the rest of my life.
Graham smiles at the memory. “Sometimes I just like to give her crap.” He finishes a utensil set and places it back on the cart.
It’s my turn to laugh now. I picture his mischievous grin and my heart does a somersault.
“Besides,” he says, gesturing at the mound of silver in front of him, “she’s been good to me.”
“How so?” I prompt. I hope it’s not too invasive.
While I’ve known him nearly as long as I’ve been in Driftbay, I want to learn more about him and his relationship with Beth.
Happy with the mixture in my bowl, I turn it over and dump the dough out onto the counter.
I reach for more flour and sprinkle it around the dough.
Graham nods. “I’ve worked here since I was fifteen. She took a chance on me when I was just a kid.” He shakes his head at the memories. “She’s seen me through some of the worst times in my life.”
Ah. We have that in common.
I stay quiet, hoping he’ll continue.
“I started as a busboy and did some prep work on the weekends while I was still in high school. I worked as much as I could. Got promoted to waiter once I hit eighteen and graduated. I practically lived here that summer, trying to make as much money as I could for college. Then, I went to the university a couple of towns over and worked on the weekends doing whatever she needed.” He pauses before continuing, “I loaded up on credit hours my first couple of semesters so I could graduate a year early. I got my bachelor’s in computer science. ”
“Yet you’re still here.” I stare at him with my head cocked to the side, letting my hands rest in the dough in front of me.
“Yeah,” he sighs, “my original plan was to move to a big city and get away from Driftbay once I got my degree, but life got in the way.” He keeps rolling silverware as I grab a baking sheet from across the kitchen for my scones.
“Life has a way of doing that,” I say, sighing as I think about how life got in my way. I set the baking sheet down beside my mound of dough and grab a knife to start cutting it into triangle-shaped pieces.
“My parents divorced during my senior year of college and then my mom got sick. So leaving…wasn’t exactly an option,” he explains.
I transfer a scone to the baking sheet. “I’m sorry,” I say, keeping my voice soft.
He shrugs. “Apparently, my dad had wanted to leave for a while, but waited until the beginning of my senior year. I was already locked into my college classes. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. At that point, I would have had to pay back my scholarship and I couldn’t afford to do that.”
“Wow. I’m really sorry.”
“It hit me hard, it was a nasty divorce. I’m not sure how I managed to pass that semester. I completely fell apart. Truthfully, I think my professors just felt sorry for me. I went from being a straight-A student to barely passing.”
“You know the old saying,” I say as I wipe at my brow, “‘C’s get degrees.’”
Graham nods. “Yeah, but I worked hard for my grades. I earned a high achiever’s scholarship that covered the majority of my tuition and books. It really helped my family out. I was the third kid in the family to go to college, so my parents were stressed about money.”
I can relate to that. Mom pushed me to do well in school, just like Graham’s parents obviously had. She had always talked about scholarships and setting myself up for success down the road. Her game plan was three steps ahead.
He continues. “I knew he obviously wasn’t happy if he’d been wanting to leave, but to end a twenty-year marriage like it’s nothing?
And at the same time, what about me? I was just finding my footing as an adult.
He derailed my life trying to change his.
I almost flunked out, almost lost my scholarship.
I know I can’t blame it all on my parents, but it really affected me.
It was like my worst childhood fear come to life. ”
He starts rolling the silverware more aggressively.
I can’t imagine the pain he must have felt watching his family be ripped apart by his father. I can, however, relate to the pain he felt watching his entire world crumble beneath him.
“I get it,” I say quietly, cutting more dough. “Trust me, I get it.” I place the last few on the baking sheet.
“I’m sorry that you do.”
We work in silence for a few moments, the air as thick as the dough between my hands.
“I have two older sisters,” he begins again, “but they have their own lives and families, so I was the only one still at home when it happened. Ginny, the oldest, is a teacher in Boston. She’s got two daughters, Melody and Cosette. I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like.”
“That can’t be easy,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Betty is in the medical field and just moved to Chicago a couple of years ago. They were as supportive as they could be, but it’s not the same as if they were here, in the thick of it.”
I understand what he means. People tried to be there for me when my mom died, but it felt like I was lost at sea and they were just waving at me from the shore, telling me to swim.
“It must be nice, though, having siblings,” I say. “I’m an only child so I can’t relate.”
“You know,” he says, leaning back on the stool as he works. “Growing up, I always wished I was an only child and thought my sisters were so annoying.”
I laugh. “Don’t all little brothers think that?”
Graham smiles and picks up more silverware. “Now, I’m grateful for them. I haven’t spoken to my father in years. It broke something in me when he left, and I just never got over it. I don’t know that I ever will.”
“Graham,” I say, “That’s a lot.”
“Sorry,” he shrugs. “I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you.”