One Last Time (2 page)

Clutching my backpack, I cautiously make my way through the foyer, only to end up at an impasse at the bottom of a massive staircase. I am sure the kitchen is not upstairs, so my choices are to go right or left. For some reason, right seems like the best option. Pushing open an oversize door, I step into an elegant dining room. My heart stampedes against my chest. Death looms inside this room. I can sense it, and for a moment, I think I can hear the shrieks of the departed. The walls are watching me, and the air inside the room turns thin.

I force my size seven sneakers along the threadbare carpet of no man’s land where the faint of heart dare not tread. The floor squeaks and gives me a subtle warning. I am trespassing, walking on the graves of the deceased. I try not to let my mind go there, but I can’t help but imagine the horror. Legend says the blood pooled over three feet deep inside the dining room. I’m ready to bolt for the door when I hear something moving behind me.

“Eeek! Eeek! Eeek! Eeek!”

I whirl around and scream at a silver butter knife slashing through the air. My legs turn to wet noodles, and I would’ve fallen if Mike hadn’t caught me. His toothy grin fades fast when he realizes I am on the verge of tears.

“Damn it, Mike! Why would you do something like that?”

His eyes dance, and he bites his lip to keep from laughing in my face. As terrified as I am, I can’t be mad at him. He is adorable and sweet and the best thing in my life.

“I’m sorry, Averie.” He’s quick to apologize. “I just couldn’t resist. I did it to mom, too. She slapped me hard.”

“Think you would’ve learned your lesson.” I smile at the thought of petite little Steffi backhanding him out of fear.

The kitchen is enormous, and the moment I step inside, I go into work mode. The first course, roasted red pepper bisque, is simmering on the stove. I inhale deeply, taking in the delicious smell. My mouth waters, and my stomach growls. I haven’t eaten a decent meal in who knows how long. I hope there are leftovers. Mike always sends them home with me, and I deeply appreciate it. I am rather tired of eating Top Ramen.

“Here ya go, Averie.” Steffi kisses my cheek while she hands me a tightly crocheted hair net. “Make sure you tuck all those pretty ringlets inside. We can’t risk having someone find a stray on their plate.”

I reluctantly take the hideous piece of mesh. It’s bad enough I have to wear an oversized white shirt, long enough to be a dress. Steffi insist we be presentable, so I shove the extra yardage into the waistband of my black double-knit pants. My shirttail balloons out the fabric. I look like I am five months pregnant. And now, the old-lady hairnet I’m forced to wear completes the ensemble, making it all the more atrocious. I sigh. It doesn’t matter anyway. I will be staying inside the kitchen with Mike filling the serving bowls while Daniel and Brent, our two most seasoned waiters, work the table. I tuck my chestnut curls underneath the net while Steffi digs through her black, sequined clutch. She is beautiful and perfect and could rock a hairnet if she wore one.

“I’m leaving Mike in charge,” she announces, as she snaps her clutch closed. “You’re in good hands. I have another event tonight I must attend, and since I can’t be in two places at once, I am leaving my adorable offspring behind to do what I usually do.”

Mike rolls his eyes and grins. He is cute and blond, like his mother, and has perfectly straight teeth because he wore braces in the seventh grade. I like the way he wears his hair, long and messy like a California surfer dude, except we live in a small town in South Carolina. Still, he rocks the look. Mike has a different girlfriend every month. It’s not that he’s a player, but he is picky. He will be madly in love with a girl, and within a couple of weeks, he’ll find something wrong with her. It’s safe to say he’s broken a lot of hearts. I’m just glad I’ve never had those kinds of feelings for him. I wouldn’t want my heart broken on top of all my other problems. Besides, I don’t think he’s ever been into me that way. At least, he never lets on like he is. I think he sees me more like a sister, and it’s okay with me, because I would never want anything to come between our friendship.

“Mike will drop you at home tonight, sweetie,” Steffi tells me as she places a folded one hundred dollar bill in my hand. I gasp. A hundred dollars? I was only expecting fifty. Before I can say anything, her eyes dance. “The client tonight is a big spender. He paid double for the service.”

I am elated. I will have extra money to buy some groceries. I can actually get peanut butter and strawberry jam. I might even splurge and buy orange juice and some eggs. My anxiety about this place vanishes and, all of a sudden, I am thrilled to be here.

“My client, Mr. Brackett, will be here in thirty minutes, and his guests should arrive at the top of the hour.” Steffi gives her final instruction as she gazes at her reflection in the silver kettle and adds another layer of lipstick. “It’s a simple three-course meal and dessert for fourteen people. Keep the food hot and the wine flowing. Daniel and Brent are serving. Everyone else stays inside the kitchen and out of sight.” With a wave of her hand, she marches her stilettos out the kitchen door.

Part of me panics. Why, tonight of all night’s, does she have to schedule another event? “I wish your mom was staying,” I confess. “It’s not as depressing when she’s around. Something about her always lifts my spirits.”

“She lifts parts of me, too.” Daniel is crass. “Except it ain’t my spirit, that’s for sure.”

I roll my eyes and change the subject before Daniel crosses the line. “Who is the chick in the hoop skirt?” I ask Mike while I put the first seven salad plates in the freezer to chill. “Is she the hostess your mom hired?” Mike turns to me, his brows furrowed in confusion as if I was speaking in another language.

“The redhead, in gothic Southern-belle fashion.” I describe the girl I saw. “She was rushing upstairs when I came in earlier.” Mike tilts his head the same way he does in math class, deciphering numbers in his head instead of scratching the problem out on paper like the rest of us. A sly grin spreads across his face. He shakes his head.

“You’re not tricking me with that one, Averie.” He laughs. “You’re just trying to spook me ’cause I got you in the dining room.”

Now, I’m confused. “What are you talking about?”

He hands me another stack of plates. “You want me to think you saw Emily Faulkner’s ghost, but I’m not buying it.”

I nearly drop the dishes. My arms go weak, but somehow I slide the stack onto the rack. “You mean to tell me there is no one else here other than us?”

Mike just laughs and shakes his head.

I think I might faint, and now I want to leave again. “Seriously, Mike, I saw a girl going upstairs.”

Mike’s grin turns somber when he realizes I am serious. Daniel and Brent both pale. Brent tugs at his bow tie. “Are you for real or just pranking us?”

I hear fear in his voice. “I’m for real,” I say quietly.

At that very moment, a gust of wind blows the back door wide open, revealing a well-dressed gentleman watching us from the doorway. We all scream at the sight of him.

The only time I ever saw a suit as nice as the one Mr. Brackett is wearing was when my momma made me watch a video of Prince Charles and Lady Diana’s wedding. She was obsessed with Princess Di, mourned her death for over a year, as if she were a personal friend. Whenever anyone came to the salon unsure of the hairstyle they wanted, Momma’s default was always the Princess Di cut. Over half the town wore the style, men included.

Mr. Brackett is one of those distinguished, older gentlemen. He’s tall, and his hair is jet-black with silver showing in the corners. I’m pretty sure he colors it himself. I’m good at noticing things like that ’cause of the time I spend at the salon. It doesn’t appear to be a professional job, more like he bought a case of Just for Men
hair color. He has thick brows, a big mustache and a finely trimmed goatee. He’s frowning and pulling at the lapels of his dinner jacket, as if he’s apprehensive about tonight. He is over in the corner talking with Mike. I guess the way the entire crew screamed when we saw him didn’t give him great confidence in our ability to serve his guests. Mike’s wearing his serious face. By the look of it, they are in deep conversation. I hope he can pull this off without having to call Steffi. I busy myself stirring the bisque, but I notice Mike and Mr. Brackett are both looking my way. Nervously, I tuck my hair deeper inside the net, just in case a curl has slipped past its barricade and Mr. Brackett is complaining about it.

“Averie.” Mike motions me over. What could he possibly want? I place the lid back on the pot, careful not to lick the spoon. God, I am starving. Mike introduces me to Mr. Brackett in such a polished, professional way that I do everything I can to keep from laughing.

“Nice to meet you,” I lie. It really isn’t great to meet him. Honestly, I could care less except that he’s Steffi’s client. Not to mention, she has paid me handsomely for helping tonight.

Mr. Brackett smiles. “She’ll do. I’ll introduce her as my niece, Makayla.” He leaves us and heads for the dining room, leaving me standing there confused as hell.

“What’s he talking about?” I ask Mike. The look on his face tells me I am in some serious trouble.

“He needs an extra guest for dinner, and you’re it.”

“What?”

“Just hear me out, Ave.” When he shortens my name, I know I am in trouble. “I guess Mr. Brackett is superstitious and refuses to have thirteen for dinner. One of the guests just canceled. He needs another one to make it an even fourteen.”

“Mike,” I whine, “I cannot sit in that room and eat where thirteen people were butchered to death. Not to mention I won’t know anyone at the table. How awkward is that? Besides”—I lower my voice to a whisper—“I already saw Miss Emily herself. You know how fearful I am. I just can’t be in that room!”

Mike puts a hand on my shoulder, his voice calm and reassuring. “Ave”—he uses his pet name for me again—“I would never let anything happen to you. I will be right here in the kitchen. If you want, I will trade places with Brent and serve the table. And don’t forget,” he continues, “you get to eat filet mignon, plus Mr. Brackett said he’ll pay you an extra hundred bucks on top of whatever you’re making tonight.”

Two hundred dollars for one night! My heart leaps at the chance, so I am not sure why I continue coming up with excuses. “I don’t have anything to wear. I can’t attend a swanky dinner party wearing double-knit pants and an oversized polo.”

“Mom always keeps an extra dress and heels inside the catering van just in case she spills something on her clothes.” Mike leaves me no outs. “You and mom are the same size, so it isn’t a problem.”

I sigh.

It’s sweltering inside the back of the catering van. I could change in the house, but I don’t dare. I pull at the hem. Steffi and I are the same dress size, but I am at least four inches taller. I yank the hairnet off and try fluffing out my curls. My efforts are futile because I’m perspiring like crazy. The sweat is causing my hair to stick to my neck. Not able to stand the stifling heat any longer, I push open the back doors and jump from the van. A light breeze gives some relief. The wind is picking up. Dark clouds are boiling up on the horizon. Looks like we are in for a storm. Slipping on the stilettos, I hobble up the stone path toward the kitchen door. How in the world does Steffi wear these things?

One look from Mike, and I know I am presentable. He grins and takes my hands. “Why Miss Averie, you are a ravishing
quatorzième.”
I give Mike my sideways smile. Not only is he adorable, but he’s smart as heck and, as usual, is throwing out a word I’ve never heard before. I wonder if he is complimenting me or making fun.

“What’s a
quatorzième
?” I ask. “And please tell me it’s not some type of ghostly phantom or something.”

He grins at my uncontrollable fear. “A
quatorzième
, or a fourteener, is a French socialite who fills in as the fourteenth dinner guest. Their purpose is to rescue the other thirteen guests from bad luck. And in my opinion, you’re a gorgeous good luck charm, not to mention you look very French.” He delivers his last few words with an accent. I smirk. His compliments are sweet, but I’m still not sure about the whole thing. On the other hand, two hundred dollars and a good meal pushes away most of my apprehensions.

“Bon appétit, my lovely
quatorzième
.” He keeps his French accent as he escorts me out of the kitchen. “Dinner is served.”

I’m starving, but Mr. Brackett refuses to begin dinner until all the guests arrive. There are twelve of us, ready to eat, but we’re waiting on one last couple. Seems their attendance tonight is pretty important to Mr. Brackett. Their names are Mr. and Mrs. Kendrick. I hear they are extremely wealthy, as is everyone at this dinner, everyone except me. I guess I have them fooled, though. Mr. Brackett introduced me as his niece Makayla. He told them I will be moving to Ithaca, New York soon to attend Cornell University. According to my eccentric uncle, I will be taking hotel-management courses. Sounds good to me since I have no idea what I want to do with my life anyway. What I do know is I don’t want to stay in this one-horse town and work at the hair salon with my mother. So for now, I am wealthy and headed to a university that will oblige me, inheriting a fortune to attend.

I imagine Mike is in the kitchen stressing over the bisque about now. It has been simmering far too long. I wish I was in there with him instead of standing here wearing these uncomfortable heels, making small talk with people much older than me. There’s a flashy redhead monopolizing the conversation. Thanks to her, I don’t have to talk much. She is Mrs. Regina Montoya, and she has the biggest set of fake hooters I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing a low-cut, tight-fitting, lavender dress, and a push-up bra that has her chin nearly resting on her boobs. She’s openly flirting with the men. Her husband stands there with a deadpan look on his pockmarked face. He’s quiet, unassuming, and appears bored, as if he’s heard her self-indulging stories many times before.