Page 52 of Every Good Thing
She meets Tessa and Mr. Wickers at the bakery early to review orders and provide instructions. Her slow movements indicate her body aches today, and her hand is swollen like an engorged balloon about to burst. Soon, she’ll return home to take over Ruthie’s care while I handle the restaurant—an agreement I insisted on. I don’t want her stressing her injury by doing too much. I watch from the balcony with coffee as I review my day.
Employee meeting at six sharp.
Set up for the morning rush.
Leave mid-morning with Ruthie.
Set everything right.
Stepping into Lena’s life is like joining the circus trapeze team with zero knowledge of acrobatics. Or gravity. I ground her team with military precision that’s met with grudging acceptance.
My presence doesn’t allow for the restaurant’s usual welcoming banter and relaxed atmosphere. Even now, as I hand-wash my fiftieth china plate—another area of inefficiency—I glance through the serving window and find the dining room uncharacteristically subdued.
That’s acceptable as long as the work gets done. It’s a business. Not a social event.
My phone pings, announcing an update to Saddletree’s social media pages. Lena posted the light menu we agreed on and announced a temporary closure starting tomorrow. I feel better—she’s listening to me.
Trisha, May, and June work the front end efficiently, though I could do without May and June’s excessive chatter and occasional bickering.
I tell them this immediately. They don’t like it, but they stop. Trisha appears grateful.
I assign tasks to ensure their continued focus. This also appears to be a surprise. Again, Trisha seems grateful. I suspect that these jobs typically fall to her. The other two are inefficient and lazy.
Lena’s inability to find good help isn’t her fault. Food service is difficult to employ, and our distance puts us at a distinct disadvantage despite offering above-average pay—a problem that will be rectified if Alice Harvey succeeds in her fight to incorporate a bus route nearby.
Identify the problem. Solve the problem. Simple.
I concoct a plan as I wash dishes.
A teacup breaks when it slips from my hands and falls against another dish. It’s my third casualty. Lena’s sentimentality in using her family’s old china is understandable but misguided. She spends more time washing dishes than baking, which is a terrible business model. Her baking makes the business—not her grandmother’s dishes.
I have two objectives today. First, I’ll prove to Lena that there are workable solutions to reduce her schedule and increase her efficiency. She should be baking and creating, not taking out the trash and washing china.
By accomplishing the first objective, I’ll achieve my second—restoring her faith in my commitment to her and Saddletree. I still can’t believe I compared it to a dog park.
This will make up for it. After today, everything will be better.
With the café handled and Trisha (and Mr. Wickers) in charge, Ruthie and I leave for phase two of my plan.
“Where are we going, Daddy?”
“To see an old friend.”
We travel downtown, and find Mr. Deakins loitering in the sheltered area of the Riverwalk downtown. It’s almost September, but it still feels like summer, and the homeless and home-insecure residents do what they can to stay cool. Mr. Deakins, a.k.a. Shakespeare, was homeless but now lives in a men’s boarding home. He cleans, does odd jobs for the landlady, and entertains his housemates with nightly poetry readings and karaoke.
He still uses the cane Lena gave him—a wooden antique once used by her mom. It thuds against the boards of the pier as he approaches.
“Ah, Ben Wright, what a joy and a pleasure… and this little sweetheart, what a treasure. Where is the love of my life? Your one, your only, your sweet, sweet wife?”
“Home. Recovering. She was in a car accident.”
“Mr. Deakins, Mom broke her hand… on land… not near sand… and Candyland! Do you play?” Ruthie rattles off awkwardly. I admire her effort. It reminds me of the first time Lena met him and tried matching his rhymes, too.
Mr. Deakins laughs like she’s told the perfect joke. “I do… on occasion. But it’s been ages. Call me Shakespeare, if you please. And I’ll say bless you, if you sneeze.”
“Deal.” Ruthie extends her hand, and he shakes it. Then, she fake-sneezes to test him.
“Bless you! Do you need a tissue? I have one right here; it’s no issue.”
