Page 15 of Every Good Thing
On second thought, I follow her to confront Ben with, “What the hell?” before demanding his usual soft kiss and monotone, “See you later.”
But May yells through the serving window. “Lena, you mixed up Mr. Haywood’s ham and cheese with Reverend Jenner’s BLT.”
“We’re out of oatmeal raisin cookies,” June adds, gasping at the inner kitchen. “This place is a disaster! Did a tornado come through here?”
“It was a tornado out here, too,” May says. “I didn’t think we’d ever catch up with the morning rush. You had us scrambling, Lena. I don’t like to scramble.”
All I do is scramble. Through the small window, I see the Jeep pulling away.
“Hello? Earth to Lena?” May calls, snapping her fingers.
My automatic smile reappears, though their sisterly glares give off a creepy vibe, like the twins in The Shining. “Sorry. Running a little late this morning.”
June’s lips pinch. “Now, so is everyone else.”
My chest tightens with invisible pressure. She’s right. The long line of construction workers, farmers, and factory workers who stop in before heading to their shifts might be late because I was.
“She’s doing her best.” Trisha breezes between the sisters, sizing me up with her sea-blue eyes. “But there’s a shadow over your aura. Something’s wrong.”
“Aura, bora,” May huffs. Her penciled brow shoots up her forehead.
“I’ll help clean up,” Trisha offers.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” June’s hands plop against her impressive hips. “You’re needed out here. We don’t do clean up, anyway.”
“What do you mean? You don’t do clean up?” Dot’s boisterous voice fills the restaurant as she enters the kitchen through the swinging door. My three employees return to work—or at least, their version of it—while I clean my workspace. Dot chomps her Flamin’ Hot Cheetos as her glare moves from my employees to me and my mess. “Shit, it’s worse than I thought.”
“He left without coming in to say goodbye,” I say softly.
She leans against the counter, shaking her head like she’s watching a disaster movie. “Text him and tell him that was a dick move.”
“Can’t. Won’t. I need to think and… clean this shit up.”
“Why don’t they do clean up?”
Her question makes me grunt. “June says no one over sixty should work in the kitchen because of wet floors and other hazards, so they don’t clean up. Or bake. Or cook. Or take out the trash. Or mop. They handle the front—that’s it.”
Dot chuckles, tossing back another Cheeto. “Sounds like they’re the bosses here, not you.”
“Feels that way sometimes. Trisha’s great, though. I’m lucky I have her and Tessa.”
“You need to hire more help.”
I grab the broom. “I would if I could. Most people don’t want to work thirty minutes outside the city. The gas money alone works against me. Did you sign Alice’s petition for the city to add a bus route out here?”
Dot grins. “Of course. Can’t say no to Alice Harvey.”
I smirk. “Wouldn’t dare. Let’s hope the city can’t say no to her, either. A bus route would save us both.”
Jack and Alice Harvey are the formidable and quirky owners of the farm next door. He specializes in corn, soybeans, and sweet potatoes, and she in all things lavender. She makes lavender sachets, soaps, lotions, candles, pillow sprays, and teas. Her lavender chamomile blend is my favorite, and Ruthie adores her lavender bubble bath. Five years ago, they nearly bought my property to expand her Lavender Fields Forever business, but when that fell through, we settled on a partial land lease.
We’ve been the best of neighbors ever since, and that’s funny because I once wondered if they were serial killers. In my defense, Jack’s larger than Ben, and wears dirty coveralls and boots like Michael Myers. Alice dresses like a 1950s housewife, and gets things done like a mafia boss.
Raised voices pull our attention to the serving window where May and June bicker, each vying to roll silverware rather than clean tables. They argue at least once every morning.
“I usually separate them.” Resting my broom against the table, I check the schedule on the clipboard by the door. “Shit. I messed up. I wrote them all in today. I have no one for tomorrow.” I vaguely remember composing this schedule between helping Ruthie with her homework, ordering groceries for pick-up, and making dinner.
Multitasking is one thing. All-tasking is another. I do neither well.
