Читать книгу Harper's Wish - Cerella Sechrist - Страница 11
ОглавлениеHARPER WORTH STOOD in front of the brick building and stared at the weathered wooden sign. Rusty Anchor. Who in their right mind had thought that was a good name for a restaurant? It had been difficult to find, tucked out of the way along the docks instead of with the other restaurants and shops on the main street of town. It looked a little run-down, although dive wasn’t exactly the term she’d use. It was clean—the windows were clear of dirt and smudges, and the front stoop was swept spotless. There were several potted plants nestled around the entryway. If it hadn’t been for the name and the peeling paint, the restaurant might have been homey.
Beggars can’t be choosers, Harper reminded herself. All the other local restaurants were hired up for the season. It was down to the Rusty Anchor or the questionable Crab Shack on the far side of town. That place had received a number of health code violations in recent years, and Harper suspected the only regular customers were salty old fishermen.
“So. The Rusty Anchor it is.”
She could hardly believe she’d fallen this far. From lauded restaurant critic to desperate waitress. The fates must really be having a laugh at her expense. Well, no point putting it off any longer.
She went up the front steps, opened the door and was greeted by the not-unpleasant aroma of sautéed onions and the yeasty scent of bread as a brass bell hinged to the door chimed her arrival. Moving past the threshold, she approached a podium she assumed was the hostess station. The wooden pedestal bore several nicks and scuffs, giving it the appearance of weathered driftwood. There was no one there to greet her so Harper waited, taking the opportunity to survey the restaurant’s interior.
It was meticulously clean but worn, with several gouges in the walls, battered chairs and tables and outdated light fixtures. But despite its shabby appearance, it had a warm, welcoming air—like stepping into a friend’s house rather than the pristine anonymity of the shiny, sleek new restaurants she’d visited earlier in the day. It was the opposite of every establishment she’d ever reviewed, yet somehow she found herself drawn to its quaint atmosphere.
As she waited for the hostess to appear, she began to tap her foot impatiently. Looking around, she noticed less than half a dozen tables had diners. There were several couples, a group of three girls and what appeared to be a family of five at a table in the center of the room. But she didn’t see a single server.
She glanced around, searching for any restaurant employee, but there didn’t appear to be one anywhere. A quick glance at her cell phone screen confirmed the time, and she wondered why the place wasn’t buzzing when the clock was approaching the lunch hour. Perhaps the out-of-the-way location had something to do with it. And where was the staff hiding?
Moving around the podium, Harper scanned the doorway at the back of the dining area and willed someone to appear. Several seconds later, her wish was rewarded as a wiry young man with a black goatee, and a mess of curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, entered from the back of the room. She frowned as he looked around the dining room with a bewildered expression. His eyes widened as he took in the tables.
He began to duck back into the doorway as though trying to escape but then seemed to think better of it. He moved into the dining area and approached the family of five just as the youngest child, who was maybe three years old, began banging on her high chair with a spoon. The sound seemed to startle the young man, and he backed up again.
Harper feared he might make a run for it and decided to take matters into her own hands. Besides, her curiosity was piqued by this odd situation. Before the man could approach the table once more, Harper moved between him and the family.
She searched for a name tag but didn’t see one.
“Hi, I was wondering if there was someone I could speak to about applying for a server’s position?”
“Wh-what?”
He looked positively befuddled. Curiouser and curiouser.
“I just arrived in the area, and I’m looking for a job as a server. Maybe I could speak to the manager?”
“Uh...” He tossed a glance over his shoulder.
What in the world was up with this place?
“We’re pretty busy,” he claimed.
Harper thought this was a ridiculous statement if not a bald-faced lie. Five tables did not constitute a lunch rush.
“Oh. Is there anyone else I could speak to? Or maybe I could fill out an application and leave my contact information? I have experience,” she tossed out, hoping that might increase her odds of employment.
A spark of interest lit the young man’s eyes.
“You have experience? As a server?”
“Yes. I worked as a server during high school and all through college.”
To her stupefaction, he grinned.
“Follow me.”
Before she could protest, he grabbed her arm and tugged her after him.
“Excuse me. Sir? We’re still waiting to order.”
Harper caught the irritated expression of the father at the table of five as the unknown man pulled her toward the back of the room.
“No worries, buddy, we’ll be right with you!” the young man called out.
At this point, Harper wasn’t even sure she wanted to apply for a job here. Something about this place wasn’t quite right.
“You know what? I think I changed my mind.” She tried to tug her hand free but he held on tightly.
“No way. We need you.” He tugged her onward, through the back doors and down a short hallway. “I’m Rafael, by the way.”
“Harper,” she automatically replied.
“I’m the dishwasher and busboy around here. And occasional janitor.”
Harper opened her mouth and then closed it, not even knowing what questions to ask.
“Here ya go.” He pushed open a set of swinging doors and pulled her through behind him and into the back rooms. She immediately noted the chaos of a kitchen humming with activity and felt a spike in her adrenaline just being in the crackling atmosphere.
“Hey, Bossman?”
“Bossman” must have been the one in the middle of the storm, surrounded by steam and wiping his face with the back of his sleeve every few seconds. His black hair clung to his temples and forehead, and he didn’t even glance up at Rafael’s questioning tone. A pot began to boil over, and he reached for it, sliding it off the burner. He then shifted to another pan and quickly flipped what looked to be chicken before moving on to begin plating another dish. Harper was impressed with his movements. Though he was tall with broad shoulders and strong arms, he shifted gracefully through the steps of preparing multiple dishes at once.
“Connor?” Rafael tried again to get his attention.
“I told you, Rafael,” the chef snapped, “I know you’ve never done the serving before, but you have to do this. Just hand them the menus, write down whatever they want and bring the orders to me. I’ll handle it from there, yeah?”
It took Harper a second to sort through the Irish accent rounding each word. Before Rafael could reply to his boss, Harper laid a hand on his arm.
“Where’s everybody else?”
Rafael made a face. “Nobody else, chica. Just us.”
“What?”
“And push the soup, okay?” Connor barked without looking up. “I’ve got plenty of that, and it’s already made.”
Both Harper and Rafael shifted their attention back to the frazzled chef.
“Boss, there’s a lady here, and she’s looking for a job.”
“I don’t have time for job applicants right now. She should have applied six weeks ago before the tourist season got under way. Tell her to come back tomorrow. Or next week. Or never. Does it look like we can take on any additional staff?”
“Not to state the obvious but...what staff? It doesn’t even look like you have a server out there, just the busboy.” Harper spoke the words loud enough to be heard above the chef’s frantic movements.
Her words got the attention she’d wanted, and the chef, Connor, stopped for a full five seconds as his gaze zeroed in on Harper. His eyes were green, she noted. A deep, mossy color that seemed fitting for his Irish brogue. His dark hair was long enough to fall across his forehead, wild and unruly as he swept his forearm across his brow to brush it from his eyes. There was a smattering of stubble across his jaw, lending him a slightly rugged look that was enhanced by his broad chest and shoulders. It was clear that he was irritated by the intrusion.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?”
Harper knew she’d better talk quickly. Connor obviously didn’t have time to waste.
“I stopped by to apply for a job. I have experience. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can help get you through this.” She spoke with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. It had been several years since she’d done any serving, but she had to be better than the overwhelmed Rafael.
Connor made a sound of exasperation as he turned his attention back to the cooking.
“My scheduled server was a no-call no-show, and my sous chef had to step out due to a family situation. I tried calling in my part-time server, but I couldn’t reach her. We’re not normally very busy over the lunch hour, but we got a call for a party of fifteen who couldn’t get a reservation at any of the other restaurants. We need the business, so it’s up to Rafael to fill in as a server.”
“Which I’ve never done,” Rafael said. “I might occasionally help out on the line, but I’ve never done the serving.”
Connor slid several finished plates up onto the hand-off pass. “Order up. Get these dishes out.”
“Boss,” Rafael pleaded, clearly out of his depth. “Give her a shot, okay? I have no idea what I’m doing out there.”
To Harper’s surprise, Connor paused and eyed her through a cloud of steam.
“You said you have experience?”
Harper nodded vigorously. “About seven years’ worth, between high school and college.”
Connor arched an eyebrow. “How long ago was that?”
She placed a hand on her hip, annoyed at how he was trying to deduce her age. “It’s been a few years.” More like ten. “But it’s the same as riding a bike, isn’t it? It comes back to you as soon as you touch your feet to the pedals.” And that was how she felt, already craving the familiar adrenaline of working through a lunch rush as if she was still a server.
“You’re a feisty one. What’s your name?”
“Harper.”
He frowned briefly. “Well, Harper, you’d better get these dishes out or you’ll be fired before I even hire you.”
Harper turned to a relieved-looking Rafael. “Get me an apron. And an order pad.”
The younger man didn’t ask questions. He grinned as he moved to do her bidding.
“What’s the soup of the day?” she asked.
“Sweet corn and crab chowder.”
“Anything else I should know?”
This question drew Connor’s full attention once more. “I need this afternoon to go well. Help me pull that off, and we’ll talk about getting you a permanent position.”
Harper nodded in understanding and then turned, catching Rafael’s eye.
“You’re a lifesaver, chica.”
Two minutes later, Harper emerged from the kitchen wearing a hunter green apron over her sundress and carrying an order pad. She drew a breath and moved into the dining area, hoping she’d have enough time to take all the current orders before the fifteen-person reservation arrived.
“Hi, welcome to, um...” She faltered for a minute as she tried to remember the restaurant’s name. “The Rusty Anchor.” Her smile widened. “Sorry about your wait. Can I start you off with something to drink?”
* * *
TWO-AND-A-HALF hours later, Harper stretched as the last of the party of fifteen walked out the door. She placed her hands around her hips and dug her thumbs into her aching back. She’d forgotten how exhausting serving could be when you were on your feet for hours on end. And she’d barely spent a full afternoon at it.
“Need me to finish clearing your tables?” Rafael asked as he stepped up beside her.
“Yeah, it looks like things are going to quiet down for a while.”
“You showed up at a good time. I was really starting to freak out at the thought of doing all that serving. Hope it means the boss will give you a shot here.”
Harper followed Rafael to the last couple of tables that needed cleaning up.
“Connor’s the boss, I take it?”
“Yep. Owner and chef. Inherited the restaurant from his old man.”
“It’s normally pretty slow around here?”
“Oh, yeah.” Rafael nodded. “The place is usually dead, especially through the week like this. It used to be a favorite of the locals, but when Connor’s old man passed on, they stopped coming. And now, with all these fancy newer restaurants in the area, the tourists are more interested in hitting those than seeking out a local treasure.”
Harper didn’t say anything, but she couldn’t help wondering how much money she’d be able to make serving at a place like the Rusty Anchor. For now, though, any income was better than nothing.
“Is Connor a nice boss?”
Rafael began loading water glasses into a plastic bin. Harper helped by gathering up stray silverware.
“Yeah, he’s a good guy. A little uptight at times, but he’s got a lot on his plate, running this place and raising his daughter.”
“He has a daughter?”
“Yeah, Molly. She’s six. Keeps us all on our toes but especially Bossman.”
Harper digested this information as she reached for a fork.
“Rafael?”
The sound of the Connor’s voice startled Harper, and she dropped a handful of silverware. It clattered to the table.
“Mind if I borrow our new friend?”
Harper began scooping up the forks and spoons once more, the back of her neck tingling as she felt Connor’s eyes on her.
“Sure thing, boss.”
Rafael took the utensils from her hand.
“Go on,” he urged.
And before she got out of earshot, she heard him whisper, “And good luck.”
* * *
CONNOR ESCORTED HARPER through the doors at the back but instead of heading right, toward the kitchen, he moved left in the direction of his office. He entered the room and frowned at the disarray of papers scattered across his desk, files piled on the floor, broken restaurant equipment stashed in the corner and various cookbooks and periodicals stored haphazardly on a sagging bookshelf. There was also a plastic crate filled with Molly’s toys and coloring books, which she used to entertain herself when she was forced to wait around in his office.
He was about to gesture for Harper to sit when he noticed the only other chair in the room, besides his own, was stacked with inventory paperwork. He quickly moved to gather up the clipboard and sheets and then nodded for Harper to take a seat. She still had to nudge a box out of the way to sit down.
“Rafael doesn’t tidy up the office as part of his janitorial duties, I take it?”
He didn’t know if she was trying to be funny or criticizing his lack of organization.
“I don’t let the staff mess around in here.”
“I’m kidding. It was a joke. Sort of.”
He ignored her and took his own seat on the other side of the desk, suddenly embarrassed at the peeling upholstery with tufts of gray padding poking through.
“You seemed to handle yourself pretty well out there this afternoon,” he remarked, trying to get them back on track and forget about the state of his office.
“Thanks. Like I said, it’s no different than riding a bike. It all comes back pretty quickly.”
Connor leaned back in his chair and took a moment to study the woman across from him. She had caramel-tinted brown eyes and a cute, upturned nose. Her lips were bow-shaped, and there was just the slightest dimple in her chin. Her blond hair was still swept up in the ponytail she’d made before jumping into the role of server, but now several wisps had come free to softly frame her face. The sundress she wore looked to be of the designer variety, but her manner was warm, even down-to-earth.
“You’re new to town?” he questioned as he began riffling through papers on his desk in search of a clean notepad.
“I am,” Harper confirmed. “My sisters and I used to spend summers here when my grandmother was still alive. She owned the white cottage out on Bellamy Drive. Now that she’s passed, my younger sister, Tessa, lives there. I’ve always thought Findlay Roads is a sweet little town.”
He grunted. “Not so little as it once was,” he remarked. “We were named one of the top five Chesapeake Bay towns to visit in a national magazine a few years ago. Since then, we’ve seen an influx of celebrities and political figures looking to try the latest resort destination.”
He couldn’t find a notebook, but his fingers finally landed on a piece of paper with a half-formed recipe scribbled on the back. He flipped it over to use the clean side and scratched out a few highlights.
New to town. Sisters. Tessa. Cottage on Bellamy Drive.
“I take it you’re not here on vacation, so what brings you to town?”
She seemed to hesitate at this question but then began to explain.
“I lost my job in Washington, DC. I needed a break from the city after that, so I decided to come stay with my sister for a bit, until I get back on my feet.”
“Uh-huh.” He made another note.
“And what did you do in the city?”
She visibly swallowed. “I, um...worked in the food industry.”
He raised his head. “You said you were a server in high school and college.”
“I was.”
“And you’re still in the food industry?”
“Kind of. I review restaurants for a living. Or rather, I did.”
He tensed, as he always did, at the mention of critics.
“A restaurant critic.” His tone came out flat.
“Yes.”
He dropped the pen he’d been holding, his gaze narrowing.
“Harper.”
“Hmm?”
“What was the name of your critique column?”
“Worth It? I reviewed restaurants and determined whether they were worth spending money on. It’s a play on my name—”
“You’re Harper Worth.”
She flushed but still managed a smile. “Guilty as charged.”
“Get out.”
He’d obviously stunned her because she sat there blinking for several long seconds.
“Excuse me?”
“I said...get...out.”
Harper Worth. In his restaurant, his second restaurant, after all this time. And not as a critic but looking for work. He wasn’t sure whether to feel outraged or vindicated.
“My name is Connor...Callahan,” he stated, the words clipped.
Her expression didn’t budge, not a glimmer of recognition there.
He’d never seen a proper photo of her. Restaurant critics often concealed their identities so they wouldn’t be recognized when visiting establishments. And with Harper’s vitriolic reputation, he assumed she’d made every effort to keep her image from being exposed when dining out.
Now he finally had a face to put with the name—a much prettier face than he had imagined. He had built her up in his mind’s eye as the harpy he’d dubbed her, thinking she’d be thin, gaunt, with unnaturally long teeth and beady eyes.
She was nothing of the sort. But she was still the woman who’d nearly ruined his career, he reminded himself.
“You don’t even know who I am,” he said.
Her eyebrows dipped in confusion. “Sorry, should I? Have we met?”
He couldn’t help it. He cursed.
“Connor Callahan?” he repeated his name. “Éire?”
Satisfaction flooded through him as he watched the color slowly drain from her face.
“Éire?” she whispered.
“Ah, you remember what the restaurant was called, even if you can’t remember the name of the man whose reputation you ruined.”
“I—” But she stopped there, seemingly at a loss for words.
“Let me see if this rings any bells.” He cleared his throat before he began the recitation of her review from memory.
“Though barely competent, Éire’s executive chef tries too hard with the menu, putting on airs with mediocre aptitude.”
Her face whitened further, her expression becoming pinched as he continued.
“The filet mignon, though a fine cut of meat, is decimated by the lack of skill in preparing it. It will never measure up to the succulent cuts to be had at nearby restaurants in the district, and if ingredients as pure as this can be prepared with such average talent, then imagine the rest of the dishes.”
“Oh. That Connor Callahan.” She attempted nonchalance, but by the pink rising in her cheeks, he knew he had her right where he wanted.
“Can I tell you my favorite line? The one my investors quoted when they pulled out on me?”
She shifted in her seat. He injected a full Irish brogue into his voice and spread his arms to accommodate the full theater of the words.
“Éire is owned by Institute of Culinary Distinction–trained Irishman, Connor Callahan, who clearly believes his own blarney when he claims his restaurant is a dining experience to delight the senses. Perhaps he could use a taste of humble pie since I remain unimpressed and dub his establishment not...worth...it.”
The silence that followed these words was thick. He watched the fine cords in her neck flex as she swallowed. Her cheeks were stained crimson with what he hoped was embarrassment and shame, the very same emotions he’d felt when he’d read her defamatory review.
“Well. Clearly, it all worked out for the best.” Her gaze skittered around the office’s interior, came back to his face, and then quickly looked away again.
He ground his teeth together. Hadn’t she been paying attention? Could she really be so self-focused?
“Perhaps it’s best you leave now.” He didn’t think he could control his temper much longer if she stayed.
To his aggravation, though, stay is exactly what she did.
“I, um... I admit that review was perhaps a bit...harsh.”
“A bit?” He tightened the arms crossing his chest, trying to hold the worst of his anger inside. “When my customer counts dropped, I lost my investors, all my backing, and after that, I didn’t stand a chance. You ruined me.”
He didn’t dare mention how Chloe had left him and Molly shortly before Éire’s failure. While he knew he couldn’t place the blame for that directly at Harper’s feet, the memory of that time, with all its bitterness and disappointment, still chafed.
Harper looked into his face, and he suspected that took some courage on her part. Her eyes sparked. “You can’t blame your restaurant’s failure entirely on me. My reviews are just words. People can decide for themselves.”
“Sure, if they would have given me a chance. But scarcely a single patron darkened my door after that review.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Isn’t it?”
She hesitated again.
“Maybe you’re right. I should go,” she suggested at last.
“Yes, I think you’d better,” he tossed back.
She took one last glance around, almost as if she wished she could stay. The very idea threw him and deflated some of his ire.
“Well, I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me, Connor Callahan.”
She backed up without taking her eyes off him, as though she was wary of letting down her guard. He felt a twinge of guilt at that. Had he really come off so fearsome? Wounded was more like it. This woman had callously ruined his reputation in an industry where reviews like hers could make all the difference.
“I wish you the best this time around,” she offered before finally turning and exiting his office.
When she was gone, he experienced another ripple of irritation.
She had ruined him. His first restaurant had struggled a bit at first, but his father’s faith in him had carried him through the rocky beginning. Yet when Éire had been awarded the “not worth it” rating, the clientele he’d been building suddenly dispersed into the dining rooms of trendier, more popular establishments. He knew it hadn’t all come down to Harper’s review, but her critique certainly hadn’t helped. And it wasn’t just the criticism. It was one thing if she didn’t like his food, but her words had been outright cruel, disdainful and full of snobbery. After that review...everything had begun to fall apart.
But here she was, the woman who had been the catalyst to his first restaurant’s failure, obviously as down on her luck as he had been three years ago. There was a certain poetic justice in that, and he couldn’t help feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t that he wished anything truly horrible on her. After all, she had just gotten him out of a tight spot. But he had to admit, there was something satisfying about learning she’d fallen from grace. It made him wonder if the old adage was true—what goes around comes around.
