Page 7 of Joy
I stopped in front of a brightly lit window that read Eatery.
Looking around, I spotted a pizza place and café farther down, but I figured I might as well start here.
I opened the door, an overhead bell chiming as I entered. Not sure what I’d been expecting from a restaurant way out here in the boonies—something cheap? A larger version of a grandma’s kitchen? I don’t know, but I felt like a shit for it, because Eatery was actually lovely inside.
The walls opposite the large windows were decorated in gorgeous stills of what seemed to be the surrounding woodland during the four seasons. Colorful fairy lights were draped near the ceiling, the tables all had candles, the counter with stools and a register was lined with regular-looking people, and I realized I had been expecting… lumberjacks? God, I was in a piss-poor mood.
A pretty woman approached me, carrying a handful of menus. “Hello there. Table for one?”
I tugged nervously on the cuffs of my shirt. “Hi. Actually I was hoping to speak with the owner. Is that you?”
“Nope, but why don’t you take a seat at the counter and I’ll go get him.”
I nodded and made my way across the large room to take a seat at an empty stool. The woman went through a swinging door, the sounds of a busy kitchen briefly drifting through. A moment later a big guy came out, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Looking for me?” he asked, sliding behind the counter.
I stood. “Yes, sir.”
“George Bright,” he said, holding a hand out.
I shook his huge paw of a hand, wincing from the strength of his grip. “Gideon Joy.”
“How can I be of service, Gideon?”
“I actually came to inquire about any jobs you might have. I realize me just walking in off the street isn’t that professional….”
George shrugged. “Fairly typical around these parts. Not a local boy, are you?”
“No.”
“Where you from?”
“LA.”
George whistled. “Long way from home, Mr. Gideon Joy.”
“I hit a moose,” I answered. “I was heading to Maine, but now I have two repair bills to pay—”
“So you’re the fella who hit Silas’s car?”
I made a face. “Jesus. Word gets out fast. Do you guys have a Bat-Signal in town?”
George snickered and crossed his huge, muscular arms. He looked like a soldier or outdoor survivalist—not a chef. “You’re going to stick around Lancaster, is that it?”
“I’m staying at the B&B.”
“Ah, with the Bartholomews.”
“Yes.”
George nodded. “You don’t have a job or home to get back to in LA?”
I shifted. “Not—exactly. I quit my job. My apartment is being subleased.”
“Got any restaurant experience?”
I perked up. “Sure. I’ve bused and waited tables.”
