Siren (9 page)

79

"I'm off silverware?" Paige asked.

Zara looked at her. "You let one thing hit the floor, your friend's gone, and you're back to Spoon Central."

Paige squealed once Zara left, then took my hand and led me through the kitchen doors.

"Paige," I said when we reached a closet in the back of the kitchen, "no offense, but if you're such a physical threat to Betty's, how are you still here? I mean, Zara kind of seems to have it in for you ... and if Betty's is so busy, and the reputation that important, then wouldn't they be a little hesitant to keep someone on who they think needs a lot in the way of--"

"Babysitting?" Smiling, she grabbed an apron from a shelf and held it up for my approval. "Z's the only one who thinks I need to be monitored like a toddler in a roomful of electrical outlets. And since she's my older, control-freakish sister, I forgive her for it."

I took the apron from her. "But you
do
break a lot of things, don't you?"

"Of course!" She handed me a pad and a pen. "And would it be better if my fingers weren't quite so slippery? Maybe ... we'd save some money, that's for sure, but there'd also be a huge entertainment gap among the staff."

I tied the apron around my waist and took the pad and pen.

"But what most people care about is that I'm here at all. And by most, I mean everyone but Z." She leaned toward me. "I don't know if you noticed, but my sister is not the easiest person to deal with."

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"Seriously?" I joked.

She tugged on the bottom of my apron until it hung evenly. "The staff isn't very fond of Zara, but the customers--
male
customers, especially--love her. Thanks to genetics and a certain charm, she can up-sell Coke drinkers to Corona, convince fathers to order something more expensive than grilled cheese for their picky kids, and get husbands to push their weight-conscious wives to take on brownie sundaes. All without making them believe they didn't think of any of it themselves." Her eyes met mine. "If Zara didn't bring in at least a thousand dollars in tips one night, then we were closed."

"And you're never closed."

"And
we pool the tips."

I nodded. "So the staff has to deal."

"Through me. I'm the buffer, the filter, the translator, whatever. If Z comes running in here screaming about a slow dish, I come running in after her to calm her down." She paused with one hand on the swinging door. "I'm great at my job--that part of it anyway--but even if I wasn't, they'd still have to deal."

"Why's that?"

She grinned. "Our family owns the restaurant. Betty's my grandmother."

Before I could ask any more questions, she was through the kitchen door.

Thankfully, the morning passed quickly. I followed Paige's lead the whole time, noting how efficiently she moved despite her slippery fingers. There were only two near misses: a coffee

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cup and bread dish, both of which I lunged for and saved from shattering.

"How is it noon already?" I asked four hours later as we stood behind the bar, folding napkins.

"Would you
please
go tend to your old-man friend?"

Zara flew up next to us. My head throbbed instantly, and I wondered if I could be so anxious around a person that my frazzled nerves caused such an immediate, painful physical reaction.

"Um, Z, kind of busy," Paige said.

"Um, P--no one's busier than me. And I don't have time or patience today for that guy's stupid games."

"You never have patience. And you just have to know how to talk to Oliver."

I could tell Zara struggled with which bothered her more--that there was a customer she couldn't win over, or that there was something Paige knew how to do better than her.

Zara frowned. "I'll try one more time. If he doesn't bite, I'm over it. For good."

Paige spread the napkin she'd been folding across the counter, rested her elbows on it, and grinned. "Ready for a break?"

I leaned against the counter next to her. "Who's Oliver?"

"Zara's archnemesis." She turned to me. "Sorry. I sounded pretty happy about that, didn't I?"

"Overjoyed, actually."

"I can't
help
it," she said, watching Zara zigzag through the room toward an older man with hair whiter and frizzier than

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Big Poppa's. She checked her watch. "Twelve oh two. Right on time."

Zara stopped a few feet away from the table. She tightened her ponytail and adjusted her apron. Her shoulders lifted and dropped as she took a deep breath.

"Oliver is the
one
customer she can't get," Paige said. "He comes in at the same time every day and always sits in her section. She's done everything--offered complimentary meals, discounts, a bigger table even though space is money and he's always by himself. Seriously, she's given it everything she has."

"Why doesn't he sit in someone else's section?"

She shook her head. "Don't know. We've offered, and he refuses. But the best part is his reaction. Look at what he does when she tries talking to him--it's classic."

We were too far away, and it was too noisy to hear--but there was no mistaking his reaction, which was to completely ignore her. She spoke, then waited. Spoke again, and waited again. On the third attempt she seemed to point out breakfast suggestions on the menu lying on the table, and when that didn't inspire conversation, she scowled at Paige over her shoulder.

"It's like she's not even there." Paige sighed happily.

It was true. Not only did Oliver not say anything, he also stared out the window like Zara was one of the tall potted plants displayed throughout the dining room.

I grabbed another napkin and resumed folding as Zara stormed toward us.

"Uh-oh," Paige said.

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Zara had stopped in the middle of the room. She leaned down and listened to one of her customers, whose frown and full plate of food indicated a problem.

"This isn't going to be good--she's already fired up." Paige turned toward me. "Congratulations, Vanessa! You're being promoted."

My hands froze mid-fold. I didn't want to be promoted. I didn't even really want to work there. I just wanted not to be me for a few hours.

"I need you to take Oliver's order. He'll want two slices of whole-wheat toast with grape jelly, a boiled egg, half a grapefruit, and a cup of Earl Grey. Super easy. Just smile and let him tell you himself."

"Louis!" Zara shouted. "Did you wake up this morning, smile at yourself in the mirror, and think how glad you were to work at IHOP?"

"Paige," I said as she walked backward toward the kitchen door that still swung back and forth from Zara shooting through. "I don't think--"

"Gotta go!" she called behind her as the shouting escalated in the kitchen.

My eyes stayed on the swinging door until it slowed to a stop. Knowing I had no choice, mostly because I liked Paige and didn't want to disappoint her, I turned and headed across the room; before long I stood where Zara had moments ago, clutching a notepad and pen.

"Oliver?" I said this so quietly he probably wouldn't have

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heard me had I leaned down and spoken two inches from his ear. And even that was doubtful, since I could see a small brown hearing aid peeking out from a patch of white fuzz.

It took about ten seconds for his eyes to find me. They landed first on the mermaid logo swimming along my apron and lingered there, expressionless, before traveling slowly up.

He didn't look happy, but at least he was acknowledging me. Bolstered by the progress, I smiled wider.

"Hi," I tried again, proud when I could actually hear myself.

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to consider how to respond.

I glanced once more toward the kitchen door. My heart lifted when the door swung open, but dropped again when another harried-looking waitress emerged. I turned back to Oliver just as he finished fiddling with his hearing aid. I was about to introduce myself as Paige's friend but refrained when his eyes grew from suspicious slits to stunned discs.

"Whole-wheat toast, right? With grape jelly? And a hard-boiled egg and a cup of tea?" I plowed ahead, determined to get out of there. "What kind was it again--chamomile? Lemon? How about I just bring you every flavor they have, and you can choose?"

He stared at me, and I willed his eyes to blink. When they didn't, I held his gaze and slowly reached down for the menu. My fingers hovered a half inch above Betty's lunch specials when he slapped one hand down.

I jumped back. The dining room buzz softened, and nearby diners watched us curiously.

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His eyes were as big as Frisbees as he lifted the menu from the table. He held it toward me and pointed to the small print at the bottom of the page. I hesitated before leaning forward to read what he wanted me to, trying not to notice that his pointer finger was gray, and peeling at the knuckle, and shaking.

"Earl Grey?"

His finger vibrated sharply, then tapped the menu once.

"Earl Grey," I repeated, backing away. "Great. I'll get that order in right away."

I spun around and bolted for the kitchen door.

"You don't seem to understand what your
mistakes
can
do
to us."

I grabbed my head as I pushed through the swinging door.

"The woman is allergic to cheese!" Zara yelled. "Pass-out, fall-to-the-floor, rush-me-by-ambulance-to-the-nearest-ER-before-I
-die
allergic. And what do you do? Fill her omelet with American and pour melted cheddar on top."

"That
is today's omelet special," Louis shouted back. "If the woman didn't
want
cheese, she shouldn't have ordered it. Or maybe her waitress didn't fully explain to her what was
in
today's omelet special?"

"Okay, people," Paige yelled above both of them, banging a wooden spoon against an empty pot. "We have neither the time nor the manpower to continue this stimulating debate. The woman saw the cheese before she ate it--no harm, no foul. Louis will whip up the omelet of her choice, and Zara will apologize and comp her meal."

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I hurried behind a counter as Zara charged through the kitchen, her dark ponytail flying behind her.

"I got Oliver's order," I said when Paige turned to me. "Where do I--"

"You got Oliver's order?"

I paused. "Yes?"

"You are a rock star." She grabbed a tray from a table behind her. "Others have tried, and no one has succeeded but me. And now, you."

I eyed the tray when she placed it on the counter in front of me. It was Oliver's order, right down to the steaming cup of tea.

"I wasn't positive he'd take to you--which says nothing about you, but loads about him--so I put in the order as soon as I came back here."

"Great," I said. "But are you sure you don't want to take it out?"

"I should stick around until Z comes back. Sometimes the aftershocks do more damage than the main event." She started after Louis, who was banging pots around the stove top. "Oh, and you might want to ask how his writing's going, or compliment his drawings."

I was about to ask what she meant when Zara burst through the door again.

"Okay, let's try this--it's
very
complicated," Zara yelled across the kitchen. "She wants a mushroom and spinach omelet. I'm no chef, but I'm pretty sure that means eggs, mushrooms, and spinach
without
American, cheddar, or Swiss."

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As Louis banged around even louder, I lifted the tray from the counter and moved toward the door. Keeping an eye on the water splashing in the teacup, I somehow made it through the dining room without knocking into anyone or dropping anything. I was so relieved to be almost done with the task I didn't notice the notebook and charcoal pencils spread across Oliver's table until I put down his plate of toast.

"How's the writing going?" I glanced at the open notebook. The pages were filled with small, messy script, but I managed to make out the bigger words across the top. "'A Complete History of Winter Harbor, Volume Five? I didn't know there was that much to know about such a small town.'"