Page 2 of Holly versus Mr. Ivy
“I’m heading to work soon. Want—or need—anything else before I go?”
“More water, please.”
I did as she asked, leaving her with a kiss on her forehead and a promise that Trevor would be there in a few hours.
Holly:Hey. FYI: Mom’s not doing as well as yesterday. I was late dosing her morning meds from the stupid power outage. I logged everything in the spreadsheet. Hopefully, you can get her to eat more than a few bites of pudding. Call you on my break.
Rushing out the door, I headed to The Boardwalk, hitting every red light on the way. Who was watching down on me manically laughing as they orchestrated every single traffic light to turn yellow as I approached?
Whoever it was, I’d like to file a complaint.
I glanced at the clock on my dashboard and groaned. Great, now I was late, getting further off my schedule. Pulling into the employee parking lot at the back of the restaurant, I threw my car in park, grabbed my purse, slammed my driver’s side door, and took one step forward, only to be yanked right back.
My arms pinwheeled in the air as I fell backward. “Ahhh!” My backside slammed into the side of my red Miata convertible. Today wassonot my day.
Grumbling to myself, I unlocked the car, then yanked my leather purse strap free, staring daggers at my car.How dare you betray me like that?Triple-checking nothing tethered me to my vehicle, I stormed inside, cursing under my breath the entire time.
No one noticed when I slipped into my office to lock up my purse and grab my uniform. I stood in the hallway between my office and the kitchen, buttoning my double-breasted chef’s jacket. The voices of my staff members echoed in the kitchen amid the clanks and whacks of food prep.
“She rails on us if we’re two minutes late, and yet she can be twenty?” Darby, one of my vegetable chefs, complained. “It’s not fair—and it’s exactly like her to hold us to a high standard that she doesn’t follow.”
My nostrils flared, and I let out a slow breath. Darby had been a thorn in my side since I’d started working here. She uttered complaints about me nonstop. In her mid-forties, she had never married and often bemoaned her failed dates. Newsflash, Darby: stop dating losers you find at the fishing tavern down the street.
“As the Ice Queen, she can get away with whatever she wants,” Josh, my other vegetable chef, responded. “One wrong move on your part, though, and she sends you her cold, hard stare. It’s perfection or the chopping block,” he said, trying to mimic my tone.
I didnotsound like a high-pitched harpy, thank you very much.
“She’s a witch, through and through. Makes working heresuch a joy.” I recognized Steven’s deep, rumbly voice.
This wasn’t the first time I’d overheard the staff talking about me. Just like last time, their words stabbed me in the heart, forcing tears to spring to my eyes.
And they wondered why I didn’t want them talking.
“That’s enough,” Kevin, my senior chef, said. “Holly is the boss. Treat her with some respect.”
Thank you, Kevin. At least someone liked me.
I fled to the restroom, passing the black-paneled bar on my way, and locked myself in the first stall. The tall wood door loomed depressingly in front of me. I closed my eyes, pretending I was lying on a couch snuggled in front of a cozy fire reading a book instead of swiping my tears away.
I’d tried being a friend to everyone when I first came to The Boardwalk. Staff members had quickly taken advantage of my easy-going management style by showing up late—or not at all. When they had come to work, they didn’t listen to my instructions. Their breaks always lasted longer than they should have, and we took forever getting tables served. I hadn’t known how to remedy the situation except to switch tactics and control every aspect of my kitchen. In some ways, it had worked. We ran like a well-oiled machine when it came to performing our jobs, but there was no camaraderie.
It seemed like the only way I earned respect was by embracing the “Ice Queen” persona Josh complained about. I might not be the most-loved boss, or even the kindest, but no one could say I didn’t slay in effectiveness.
Exhaustion settled over me, causing a fresh wave of tears. Being a female in a male-dominated career was hard enough. Earning respect from my staff, being executive chef, and being the primary caregiver to Mom overwhelmed me. How was I supposed to do it all? Where was the balance I craved? Where was the fun side of me? I hadn’t seen her since before Mom got sick, and I missed her. I missed the me I used to be before life beat me down.
I allowed the stress of the morning to run its course through my tear ducts. Wiping my nose on the two-ply tissue (no see-through toilet paper at this fine establishment), I exited the stall, washed my hands, then made my way to the kitchen, where half the people loathed me.
Every step I took made me want to return to yesterday, when I’d spent the day pushing Mom in her wheelchair around the nature preserve not too far from our house. Green leaves had blown gently in the wind. The earthy scent of dirt, sea salt, and flowers had provided the perfect aroma. The warm sun had beaten the right amount of heat on our backs.
All in all, Monday had been a fabulous day. Today, though? I was ready to stuff it like a turkey and burn it to a withering, black crisp.
As I turned around the dining room corner, I froze. My boss’s tall frame and wide width made it impossible to skirt past him.
“When we find Holly, I’ll make introductions,” he said.
My stomach fell to the floor. There was no mistaking the hard edge to his tone. Anthony Ivy was a formidable man. He was never satisfied with the state of the restaurant. He’d terminated the previous general manager and cautioned me on numerous occasions that my job was always on the line. Who was he talking to?
I cleared my throat so he wouldn’t think I was spying on him. “Hello, Mr. Ivy.”
