Second Hearts (The Wishes Series) (6 page)

It was easier to get to know the regular patrons than the people I worked with. Other than retrieving plates off the servery, the kitchen was a no-go zone. It was mayhem in there, and if Paolo was lurking, it was worse. The dining area had a much more pleasant atmosphere.

A lot of the patrons were regulars and I had my favourites. Merle and Betty Swanston were a sweet old couple who came in every morning for brunch. Betty loved regaling me with stories of their life together. They’d been married for over fifty years. I knew that because she’d made a point of telling me every day in the week since I’d first met them.

Phoebe was another interesting character. She was the most elegant woman I’d ever seen, easily capable of giving Gabrielle a run for her money. Her jet-black hair was always styled in victory rolls and her lips were ruby red, reminding me of a movie star from a bygone era. Phoebe had her quirks. She never cared which table she was seated at, but was pedantic about how it was set. From a distance I’d watch her rearrange the cutlery, refold her napkin and buff her glass with a cloth she kept in her handbag.

“Get back to work, kid. This is not a freak show,” Paolo would hiss, every time I slowed down to watch her.

“Oh, but it is, Paolo. I love this city.”

And I did. If I couldn’t put the pieces of my life back together and start afresh in New York, it couldn’t be done.

Not all the customers were sweet like the Swanstons or glamorous like Phoebe. Some were just jerks. A repeat offender was an investment banker called Bryce. When he dined alone he was tolerable. But when he was sharing a meal with a couple of work colleagues, he was a pig.

My heart sank when he walked through the door at the beginning of my shift that morning. It practically fell through the bottom of my feet when I saw two of his friends trailing behind him. Being polite to customers, regardless of how gross they were to you, was one of Paolo’s many rules. I doubt being chatted up was something he had to deal with very often.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bryce told me, leering as I approached his table to take their orders. “Let me take you out for a drink.”

“No,” I hissed, with forced restraint.

“Burned, Bryce,” quipped one of his friends, making the other laugh.

Bryce tried harder. “Okay, cutie, how about you ask me out?”

As repulsed as I was, I managed to look him straight in the eye as I pointed to the door. “Sure. Get out.”

The table erupted into laughter. I asked them one final time if they were ready to order.

“Not yet,” replied Bryce, leering at me.

I walked away muttering obscenities under my breath. Paolo was standing near the kitchen door as I approached, and by the look on his face I was almost certain he’d seen what had just gone down at table nine.

“Pay attention,” he grumbled, pointing to something behind me.

I turned around to see a man at table three trying to catch my eye by waving. I’d seen him a few times that week but hadn’t been the one to serve him. Tables for one were quick to turn, so other waitresses tended to claim them quickly.

I drew in a calming breath and walked toward him, smiling so artificially that my cheeks hurt. “May I help you?”

“I hope so, I’m hungry,” he replied.

I smiled more genuinely. “Would you like to hear the specials?”

“Why don’t you sit down and tell me? You look like you could take a load off.”

Here we go again
, I thought. But I had to admit this guy was nowhere near as repulsive as Bryce and his chums. He was very good looking – in a snobby, holier-than-thou kind of way. He wasn’t boyishly handsome. He was kind of dark and broody, but his brown eyes were warm and bright.

“I don’t need to sit down. I’ve only been at work for half an hour,” I said, icily.

He stared blankly at me for a second, making me uncomfortable enough to look away. “You think I’m hitting on you,” he finally exclaimed, looking as if the notion was ridiculous. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’m waiting for my date to arrive.”

It didn’t make me feel any better. I was even more humiliated.

“Would you like to hear the specials?” I repeated.

He ignored me. “What’s your name?” He leaned forward, peering at the badge pinned to my chest.

“Priscilla,” I announced.

A bright grin swept his face. “Well that’s a huge coincidence, because my name is Elvis.”

Elvis was clearly lying.

“It’s nice to meet you, Elvis,” I said dryly.

He nodded politely. “You too, Priscilla.” I picked a menu off the table and thrust it at him. He pretended to read it for a moment, snapped it shut and hit me with his next question. “Where are you from?”

He didn’t recognise my accent. It was licence to give Priscilla a whole new ancestry. “Africa. I arrived two weeks ago.” It was only half a lie and I felt no unease in telling it.

Elvis didn’t get a chance to ask me anything else. His date arrived. A pretty blonde rushed over to the table, apologised for being late and crushed her lips to his the second he stood up.

I didn’t need an excuse to leave. Bryce whistled from across the room.

“We’re ready to order,” he yelled.

Fan-bloody-tastic.

5. Smash Cake

Winter was starting to get to me. I hated having to bundle up like an Eskimo just to go outside. It reminded me of being back in Pipers Cove. The weather was the only thing that reminded me of home. New York City was about as far removed as I could get from the tiny town I’d grown up in. It was fast paced, busy and exciting. I left my apartment every morning just to walk, making sure I ventured one street further than I had the day before. My confidence was building, my knowledge was expanding and most importantly, my grief was subsiding.

To say I never thought of Adam any more would be a lie. I thought of him all the time. Many things in New York reminded me of him. This was his place. But I was no glutton for punishment. Since my disastrous stakeout at his building, I’d never been back. New York was a huge city – plenty big enough for the both of us.

As hard a taskmaster as Paolo was, going to work was still the highlight of my day. I walked to the cloakroom, hung my coat and spent the next minute or so covertly scanning the dining room from the kitchen side of the mirrored window in the door.

Betty and Merle sat at their favourite table, all loved up and tucking in to their eggs. Phoebe was polishing her glass in preparation for her breakfast and thankfully, mercifully, Bryce was nowhere to be seen. The rest of the dining room was relatively quiet. All the tables near the windows were taken, but the centre section and mezzanine level were empty, lifting my mood instantly. I hated carrying food up the stairs. I had enough trouble doing it on level ground.

Betty called out to me the minute I walked out of the kitchen, waving her napkin as if I was hard of hearing.

“Good morning,” I beamed.

“Do you know how long we’ve been married, Priscilla?” asked Betty, for the millionth time.

“Fifty years?” I asked, hoping I sounded unsure.

Merle covered his mouth with his napkin and chuckled. It was a rumbly sound that no one under the age of eighty could replicate.

“No,” she said, confusing me. “We’ve been married fifty-one years today.”

I leaned down and gently hugged her frail, diminutive frame. “Congratulations to you both. I hope you’re doing something nice today.”

Merle answered, waving his shaky finger at me. “When you get to be our age, every day is nice.”

I agreed, smiling.

I wanted to do something special for the Swanstons. When I saw them standing to leave, I rushed to the counter near the door so I could be the one to take care of their bill. Rushing was unnecessary. It took them ages to walk across the room, arm in arm to steady each other.

Merle reached for his wallet. “Not today, Merle,” I told him, glancing around for any sign of Paolo. “Your breakfast today is on the house. Happy anniversary.”

A certain amount of guilt must have accompanied the gesture because when someone called my name – well, Priscilla’s name – I almost jumped out of my skin.

“Oh, it’s only you,” I said, spinning to see Elvis at the tiniest table we had, nestled near the door.

He smirked roguishly. “You could get fired for that, you know. Comping meals is considered stealing.”

I strolled toward his table. “Are you going to dob on me, Elvis?”

His dark laugh led me to think he was contemplating it. “If I knew what dob meant, I might.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“What do most people do here, Priscilla?”

I cringed. Having a pseudonym bothered me only when he said it.

“They eat. Would you like to hear the specials?”

He laughed. “No. The specials are always the same.”

“Yeah, but today they’re
really
special.”

“Sit for a minute,” he ordered, pointing to the chair opposite him.

I glanced around the room to see Paolo standing at the podium near the front door, watching me like a short, fat hawk.

“I can’t.” I discreetly moved my head in an upward nod, gesturing toward Paolo.

Discretion wasn’t Elvis’s forte. He twisted in his seat and stared straight at him. Realising he’d been caught, Paolo started thumbing through the reservation book. “Pretend you’re reading me the specials,” said Elvis, giving me a wink.

I pulled out a chair and sat down.

I enjoyed stealing a few minutes with Elvis now and then. He was funny, smart and handsome. He also knew he was funny, smart and handsome so he was cocky too. In the few weeks since I’d first met him, he’d dined at Nellie’s with at least four different women, showering each one of them with enough attention to make them think they were the only one. Elvis was clearly trouble, but I took heart in the fact that I was at least clued up enough to realise it.

***

Waiting tables is not for the fainthearted. That morning I dealt with a screaming baby who threw her food around, two adult babies screaming at me because their orders were wrong… and Bryce and his pals.

“What’s a smash cake?” he asked, pointing to the item on the menu.

“It’s a favourite of all the little children who come in here,” I said acidly.

I wasn’t lying. The white cake piled high with sickly sweet frosting was a must-have for any toddler who dined at Nellie’s. Little ones who weren’t coordinated enough to eat it with a fork would pick it up and smash it against their mouths.

“We’ll take three of those.”

Something about Bryce made his friends think he was hilarious and witty. I’d tried to figure out what it was but come up blank each time. To me he was one of the most repugnant people I’d ever met.

“Would you like sprinkles on your smash cakes?” I spoke in the same slow tone that I used when asking two year olds that question.

“Sure, why not?”

I turned to walk away but Bryce grabbed my elbow. “Don’t touch me,” I snapped, shrugging free.

“You’re not very friendly today, beautiful.”

“I’m never friendly to you.”

His friends began to snigger, spurring him on to be even more offensive. But he didn’t get a chance to say anything else cringe-worthy.

Elvis walked in.

“Can I sit here?” he asked, pointing to the table next to Bryce’s.

“Yes, of course,” I replied.

The party of chubby investment bankers didn’t seem to appreciate company. The table fell silent.

I walked the short distance to Elvis’s table. “Good morning, Elvis,” I crooned.

He looked up at me and smiled. “Hey.”

“I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Did you miss me?”

“Not one bit,” I quipped, handing him a menu.

He laughed. “I didn’t think so.”

It had been nearly a week since Elvis had been to the restaurant. I had missed him but would never admit it. Pathetically, besides Marvin, Elvis was the closest thing I had to a friend in New York.

Once I’d served the fat bankers their cake and coffee, I didn’t expect to have to deal with them again that day. When Bryce called me over to complain about his food, I was furious.

“Is there a problem?”

“There might be,” he hinted, turning the plate in a full circle. “I’m trying to figure out where the smash is. I see the cake and you remembered the sprinkles but there’s no smash.”

His horrid friends snickered into their closed fists. I was a hundred percent certain I was about to lose my job because of them, and at that moment I wasn’t concerned in the slightest.

“It’s just called a smash cake, moron.”

“I know that, honey. I’m just wondering what the smash looks like, just so I can keep an eye out for it. I wouldn’t want to break my teeth on a hard piece of smash.”

His friends chortled louder and I was totally at a loss why. Schoolboys wouldn’t have found him the slightest bit amusing.