Page 35 of Back in the Saddle

Case in point: the colorful mural at the back. The plants all around. The mismatched tables and lamps and seating areas and beanbags. Lucia’s excellent fusion food. My fabulous cocktails.

And then there was Tito, our boss and the owner, a man who knew the art of silence, because he didn’t talk much, but even so, he often had a lot to say.

He also looked like a diminutive Santa, but one who wore Panama hats, shorts, Hawaiian shirts and flip flops. The hat might change to a fedora, or a bandana. The flip flops might be slides worn with tube socks or red Keds. The shorts veered between madras to Bermudas, or, if he was feeling sassy, board shorts.

But always, a pair of shades covered his eyes.

Even at night.

There was no denying Tito was a weird guy, but I embraced weird. The minute I met him—when he recruited me from the speakeasy I worked at downtown—I hadn’t even seen The Surf Club, but I knew I wanted to work for him.

In the years since, my instinct proved right.

When I made it behind the bar, I got a chilly reception from Luna, who was there making someone a coffee. I also got a frosty glance from Raye, who was out, dropping some of Lucia’s Mexican hot chocolate French toast on a table.

This vibe permeating the air meant I also had Tito’s attention from where he sat, in what I considered his “office.” This was the back corner booth by the massive plate glass window that spanned the wall and afforded a view of the raised beds, which contained Lucia’s herb garden, and our paloverde-adorned parking lot.

Tucked with his plethora of books, journals, and holding his ever-present iPad, Tito didn’t move, even after I lifted my chin in greeting to him when I caught his eyes.

He just watched me.

Tito might be quiet, and for the most part unobtrusive, but he didn’t miss anything.

And he was the most generous man I’d ever met.

Even though tips were good, he paid over minimum wage, for one. He offered great insurance as well as contributed to a 401(k), for another. And if you were in a jam, he somehow always intuited it, even if you didn’t tell him, and extra would be in your pay envelope…in cash.

This had never happened for me, because I’d never needed it, but I knew it happened.

In other words, the crew at SC didn’t change much because Tito was loyal to us, so we were loyal to Tito.

I turned from Tito to Luna.

“If you give me The Hand, I’ll shoot you,” I warned.

“If you don’t understand why Harlow, specifically, but all of us collectively are hurt by you not sharing, you aren’t the person I thought you were, Jess.”

Ouch.

Luna was much like me, calling ’em as she saw ’em.

But that was below the belt.

She turned from me to put a latte in front of a woman sitting at the polished-ash bar.

When Raye came back and stabbed an order into the computer like she wanted to put her finger straight through the screen, I decided to let them stew.

I didn’t keep myself to myself to hurt them, and if they didn’t already know that, then, well…they weren’t the people I thought they were either.

I made coffees, took orders, dropped food, bussed tables and shook the occasional noontime cocktail through the lunch rush, and things were just calming down, when Lucia did the unimaginable.

She left the sanctuary of her creative palace (aka: the kitchen), and with a strange look on her face, she approached Tito in his office.

I was filling a customer’s water glass as she spoke to him.

I almost overfilled it, because when she was done, he got up and followed her to the kitchen.

Peculiar.

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