The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club (25 page)

“Whatever this thing is you're dealing with, Lacy, you can tell me.”

She sighed. Then she explained for the first time how badly in debt she was and why.

“My pay from the
Gazette
doesn't amount to much. It's all I can do to make ends meet with what I bring home. I've been eating up the last of my savings to make the payments to the O'Learys.” She sighed. “And just this week, I hit the bottom of that particular barrel.”

“Lacy, let me help you.”

“No way,” she said, “Even if you had a hundred thousand dollars, I wouldn't take a penny from you.”

Jake chuckled. “Well, I don't have a hundred grand, so no worries on that score. But I do own the grill and the building it's in free and clear. I'm sure Mr. Dutton over at the bank would give me a loan against that property, and at a much lower interest rate than you're paying those hoods in Boston.”

“No, Jake. I love you for offering, but I can't let you risk your livelihood for me.”

“You love me, huh?”

She swatted his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, he did. She didn't love him. Not that way.

Hadn't his dad always said a woman's “maybe” was what kept a wolf wolfing? He'd do anything for Lacy. He'd be willing to take the debt over entirely if she came along with it. He wanted her to trust him to solve this and make everything all right. It's what a man did for the ones he loved. “Getting a loan is no problem. Why don't you let me decide what I do with what's mine?”

“No. I mean it. I won't take money from you,” she said. “I only told you because . . . well, I don't want it on the prayer chain, but . . . maybe
you
could pray for me.”

He stopped and kissed her again. “I already do.”

Miss Holloway's drama students are looking for
donations to fund their first annual field trip to
a theater festival in Hot Springs. The freshman
class is celebrating its final presentation of
Macbeth.
If you want to support the end of high
school drama, please contact the school office.

 

—from the Fighting Marmots Notes section of the
Coldwater Gazette

 

 

 

“H
ave you got that chili together yet, Lester?” Jake asked as he flipped a dozen burgers for the hungry lunch crowd that had gathered in the Green Apple.

“Almost,” the old man said. It was Lester's first day out of the county lockup. More importantly, it was his first day on a job in decades. He was a little slow to complete the tasks Jake assigned him, but he tackled everything willingly enough. “I just need to stir in the jalapeños and then it'll be ready to simmer for a while.”

School was nearly out for summer, but the folks in Coldwater Cove were huddling through an unusual cold snap. Thermometers struggled to reach the low 60s during the day and dipped into the 40s at night. Mr. Mayhew was worried sick about his “knockout” roses being shocked by the unseasonal temperatures. He wondered loudly to anyone who expressed the slightest interest, and even some who didn't, if the whole daylight savings time conspiracy wasn't responsible for the problem.

As if anyone can do anything about the weather,
Jake bit back when Mayhew accosted him at the market. Mr. Mayhew would wish for a bit of this coolness once the dog days of August rolled around. But for now, a brisk wind swept mostly fussy customers through the Green Apple's door.

Jake decided to put his Lazy Man Chili back on the supper menu. It was sure to warm up their insides and it was an easy enough recipe for even a novice cook to throw together.

Lester Scott certainly qualified. He wouldn't know a pair of tongs from a ladle if they pinched him on the butt.

Having a parolee in his kitchen was more work for Jake than help at the moment, but he reminded himself a dozen times that morning that this arrangement was supposed to be for Lester's benefit, not his. The Warm Hearts Club experiment was the old vet's ticket from homelessness and alcoholism back to a more normal life. Jake was determined to do what he could to make sure Lester had a chance.

But it was still up to Lester to make the journey.

“Order up!” Jake rang the bell to alert Ethel to the Green Plate burgers lining the pony wall counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area. The harried waitress hurried to retrieve them.

There had been another snafu during the lunch rush. The Green Apple rib plate was always a little messy, but Lester had been extra heavy-handed when Jake allowed him to spread on the barbecue sauce. The ribs might taste great, but they were a serious danger to a diner's wardrobe. Ethel had trotted between the tables, making sure everyone who'd ordered ribs had a couple of napkins tucked under their chins and another draped over their laps.

“Aprons wouldn't be amiss,” she'd muttered and then ordered customers to remove their ties or scarves and thoroughly cover anything they didn't want ruined. No doubt about it. The ribs were risky.

Jake made his way over to the stove where Lester was stirring the batch of bubbling chili in an industrial-sized stockpot. Along with premium ground beef and four kinds of beans, Jake's chili recipe called for sliced mushrooms, bell peppers in assorted colors, stewed tomatoes, and chopped onions along with a secret mix of spices.

“Looks good.”
But the proof is in the tasting.
Jake dipped in a wooden spoon to sample the broth. When he barely touched it to his lips, they burned. “Whew! That'll open up your sinuses.” If he'd swallowed a bite, he'd have singed his whole gullet. “Man, could you have used any more jalapeños?”

“Nope. I dumped in the whole can.”

“The whole can?” Jake swallowed hard. “Lester, why didn't you follow the recipe?”

“I did.” He picked up the directions and ran his finger along the appropriate line. “See here. It says ‘Jalapeños, one C.' One can, right?”

“One C means one cup. You put in half a gallon.” This chili was eight times hotter than Jake's usual batch. “Unless you've got a cast-iron stomach, it's inedible.”

Lester's shoulders drooped. “First the ribs, now this. I screwed the pooch again, didn't I?”

“Big time,” Jake said, not troubling to mask his frustration. There were several pounds of ground chuck in that chili, not to mention all the other ingredients. Fresh veggies were pretty spendy this early in the season. He hated to see it all go to waste.

“Want me to take it out to the alley and dump it?” Lester asked gloomily.

Chili this corrosive was likely to burn its way through the metal Dumpster.

It was also Lester's first attempt to cook anything by himself. Jake shouldn't have left him to his own devices. Now he couldn't let him fail just because he hadn't been able to give Lester the supervision he needed.

“No, let's not give up yet,” Jake said, his mind churning furiously. “Maybe we can fix it.”

“You think so?” A tentative smile stretched Lester's weathered face. “An army grunt and a jarhead, ain't nothing we can't do if we put our backs to it, eh, boss?”

Their backs wouldn't help this chili one bit. Jake had to put on his chef hat pronto. But before he could form a plan, he was interrupted by another round of orders from Ethel—two Reubens, a chicken club, and a chef's salad. He started working on them while he gave Lester instructions, starting with something simple. “Leave that chili on to simmer and start another batch. There are a couple more stockpots in the storeroom. But this time, leave out all the spicy things.”

Lester scratched his head as he studied the recipe again. “Jake, um, which ones are the spicy things exactly?”

Jake took a Green Apple Grill pen out of his shirt pocket and crossed out onions, cayenne pepper, cumin, and freshly ground chili powder. “Instead of that, put in some ground-up cloves.” The spice was known to numb the mouth a bit. “No, on second thought, I'll add that myself later.”

If Lester had a hand in it, this new batch would be swimming with cloves. He'd probably end up with something numbing enough to prepare someone for dental work. Lester disappeared into the storeroom and reappeared with a second stockpot.

Jake layered corned beef on pumpernickel for the Reubens, cut them in halves, and arranged the sandwiches with chips and a dill pickle on a green plate. “Once you get a second batch of chili made, we'll combine the two and then freeze half of it.”

The light of understanding dawned in the old man's eyes. “Oh, I get it. That way, each batch will be half as hot as this is right now.”

And still four times hotter than Jake's usual Lazy Man Chili. How could he tone it down more?

“Put a can of condensed milk into both batches.” Jake had read somewhere that dairy took some of the heat out of spicy foods. The milk would turn the base broth into something resembling creamy tomato soup. When they dished up the chili later, Jake decided he'd have to garnish it with a little freshly grated Parmesan for good measure. “How about adding a few dollops of sour cream to both stockpots, too?”

“Will do.” Lester gave him a snappy salute and went back to work, whistling tunelessly.

Jake watched him from the corner of his eye while he filled the rest of the lunch orders Ethel had dropped off. By the time Lester had the second batch simmering, Jake had thought of another way to tone down the spiciness.

“Add a bag of frozen corn to both pots,” Jake said as he rang the bell for Ethel to pick up another order. The grill was really humming, almost every table and booth full. At times like this, Jake wished he had six hands. Once Lester was trained, maybe it would be like having a couple more. For now, Jake was glad the old man at least did as he was told.

“Well, would you look at that? The corn makes the chili even prettier, too, what with all them golden kernels floating amongst the beans and meat.” Lester seemed inordinately pleased with his patched-up concoction. “Looks like a party in a bowl, don't it?”

A party that'll peel off the lining of your stomach,
Jake thought. He nodded to give Lester encouragement anyway. Extra color was a plus in any dish, but his real goal was to add more starch. The corn should temper the hotness. He'd have to bake some bread that afternoon to go along with the chili. The supper crowd would need the extra carbs.

Lester began dividing both batches in half, ladling them into a third stockpot. Good thing Jake had an industrial six-burner in the grill's kitchen.

“Get a couple of limes and squeeze the juice into the chili,” Jake said. The acid in citrus was supposed to tone down spiciness. Sugar was another cutting agent. “Chop up a couple of carrots into each pot.”

The root vegetable was laden with natural sugars and would add another pop of color. If they somehow managed to make anything of Lester's mistake, the finished product was going to have lots of layers of flavor tracked through it.

Jake came over and sampled a spoonful. This time he swallowed. His eyes watered and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead.

“Well?” Lester asked.

“It's mighty hot,” Jake said, “but I'm still standing.”

“You know, when I was in Nam, the locals served up some pretty spicy stuff,” Lester said, “only they ate it with rice.”

“Lester, you're a genius.” Jake slapped him on the back.

“We'll keep this simmering all afternoon to thicken up the liquid. Then, instead of bread on the side, we'll ladle it over a bed of brown and wild rice for the supper crowd. If we pair it with a nice cool side salad, it can be the evening special.”

“How 'bout that? I done made a new special.” The old man clapped his hands together. “What'll we call it?”

“How about Lester's Take-No-Prisoners Chili and Rice?”

“Hot damn! That'll do, jarhead.” Lester practically ran out to the chalkboard in the dining room to post the new dish that would be available on the supper menu that evening. “Yessirree, that'll do.”

As Jake watched him, it seemed as if Lester grew a couple of inches taller. His shoulders no longer slumped. There was a sprightliness in his walk instead of a shuffle. It was the first step in a long journey. As victories went, Lester's unexpected creation of a new dish was a small one, but hopefully, it would lead to more.

It occurred to Jake that Lester was like that chili—almost irredeemable at first. But with a tweak here and a second chance there, he might just be able to make something of himself, after all.

* * *

Only rural residents around Coldwater Cove had curbside mail delivery. Almost everyone in town had a post office box. The rest picked up their mail at the general delivery window. Lacy was fairly dancing on the inside after she picked up hers.

She was eager to tell Jake about her good fortune, but it was the middle of the lunch rush. She couldn't interrupt him now and she was only on a short break from the
Gazette
herself. She decided her folks would be most happy about her news, so she drove over to their place.

There was also every chance she'd be able to shop in her folks' refrigerator for a sandwich. Her bank account was looking lean at the moment.

Seated on his Husqvarna, her dad was mowing his front lawn, turning tight, precise circles around the oak trunks. There was nothing unusual about that.

But wearing a football helmet while he mowed was.

As soon as Lacy pulled into the driveway, he cut the motor, climbed off the mower, and came to meet her.

“What's with the helmet, Dad?” she asked as he enfolded her in one of his bear hugs. “Planning on doing some racing with the Husky?”

“No, that'd be silly. I'm just trying to protect the old noggin from those rats with fluffy tails.” He removed the helmet and shook his fist in the direction of the upper branches. “The darn things pelted me with acorns this morning.”

Lacy looked up. The “rats” in question seemed not to be paying them any mind, scurrying from one branch to the next. They were more intent on scolding each other than giving any attention to the humans below.

“Dad, I've never seen your squirrels do anything like that.”

“Well, they did. Oh, I know they look innocent enough now, but . . . hey! What do you mean by ‘your squirrels'?”

“Nothing. I don't mean a thing.” She didn't know anyone who gave the rodents as much thought, time, and effort as her dad. It wouldn't be surprising if he felt like they were his, at least a little bit.

“Where's Mom?” she asked to change the subject.

“In the house,” he said, still glaring up at the squirrels as if daring them to try something. “She's putting ‘for sale' tags on some of her treasures.”

“You mean the yard sale to end all yard sales is still on?”

Her dad nodded. Mom had set a date for the sale three times since Lacy had come home and each time, she discovered a conflict at the last minute that allowed her to cancel.

“I'd better get in there and help,” Lacy said.

“Go easy, daughter. This is hard for her, you know.”

“Yeah, I sort of do.” She'd had a sit-down with Virgil Cooper over at the hardware store. Initially, she'd intended the interview to be about how he, as a member of the Coldwater Warm Hearts Club, planned to train Lester to work for him. But Lacy also had another agenda that had nothing to do with the
Gazette
article.