Treasure Me (39 page)

About the Author

Christine owned a small public relations firm in Cleveland, Ohio. Her articles and press releases have appeared regionally in northeast Ohio. Her short story, Night Hour, appeared in Working Mother magazine.

Christine closed the firm fifteen years ago after she traveled to the Philippines and adopted a sibling group of four children. She has been writing novels fulltime since 2004.

Please visit her at

www.christinenolfi.com

Follow her on Twitter at

@christinenolfi

Please turn the page for a sneak peek of
Second Chance Grill,
the next novel in the Liberty, Ohio series.

Second Chance Grill: Sneak Peek

Mary Chance feared she’d poison half of Liberty on her restaurant’s opening day.

Not that she was responsible. Ethel Lynn Percible’s cooking skills—or, more precisely, her lack of them—had Mary wishing she’d dumped antacids instead of mints in the crystal bowl beside the cash register. Perhaps the elderly cook hadn’t poisoned anyone, not yet. But the historic recipes Mary hoped to serve were soggy, lumpy, undercooked or scorched to a fine black sheen.

She flinched as Mayor Ryan, a trim woman with a helmet of orange curls, rose from a table and snapped, “I hope you were a better doctor than you are a business woman.” Storming past, she added, “You should’ve opened an emergency room instead of a restaurant—or better yet, both.
Then
you’d have a thriving business.”

For a shattering moment, Mary connected with the mayor’s frigid gaze. Like most of the town council, the mayor had ordered the opening day special—Martha Washington’s beef stew. She’d received a concoction that looked like glue and smelled worse.

Turning the Second Chance Grill into a prosperous enterprise would be difficult.

In the dining room, the young waitress Mary had rehired looked frantic. Delia Molek was arguing with a customer beneath antique pewter sconces.

In contrast, Ethel Lynn was hiding in the kitchen. Given her culinary calamities since the first customer had arrived promptly at seven a.m., it was for the best. Maybe she suffered from opening day jitters. Maybe she
would
serve up savory meals once she got into the swing of things. The restaurant had closed for six months. Was it any wonder if Ethel Lynn’s cooking skills were rusty? And, in the fervor of new ownership, Mary
had
overhauled the menu. She’d brought back recipes that hadn’t been served in over a century. Surely the historic cuisine was to blame for the elderly cook’s bad start.

Mary was wringing her hands when Delia marched up.

“He didn’t leave a tip.” The waitress nodded at the portly man fleeing out the door.

“And he’ll never come back.”

“Would you?” The waitress popped a stick of gum into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “So. Your first day is a train wreck. Guess what? We still have the dinner rush tonight.”

Mary surveyed the patriotic decorations festooned throughout the dining room, a treasure trove of Americana harking back to the restaurant’s inception during the Civil War. So many beautiful things, but they’d gone unappreciated. The customers had only noticed the glop on their plates.

Her heart sank. “There won’t be a dinner rush,” she said. “After the meals Ethel Lynn cooked for the breakfast and lunch crowds, we won’t see a soul.”

Delia approached the restaurant’s picture window. “I hope Mayor Ryan doesn’t burn up the phone lines scaring off our customers.” She squinted at the courthouse anchoring the north end of Liberty Square. “Then again, she has a soft spot for Miss Meg. It might stop her from passing legislation condemning this place.”

“Maybe I should ask Aunt Meg to give her a call.” Would long-distance lobbying work?

Delia slipped her order pad into the pocket of her apron. “Meg will fix everything,” she said, grinning. The mirth on her face died when she added, “The mayor was sorry to see her go. We all were.”

And sorry to see me arrive?
“My aunt promised to come back and visit.” With a brave smile, Mary ignored the curious look glittering in Delia’s blue eyes. “She called last night—from Tibet. She’s praying with the monks.”

“Meg sure is eccentric.”

Incorrigible was more like it. “She was planning to practice yoga then have a drink after the monks retired for the night.” A shot of whiskey didn’t sound too bad, at the moment.

“Makes her own rules, she does.” Delia folded her arms. “She’s also an open book, which you aren’t. You never talk about yourself.”

“I will, when I have something to say.”

What she
did
have were emotions sorely in need of CPR. Not to mention a bank account on death’s door after generous Aunt Meg handed over the restaurant then danced into retirement.

True, Meg’s largesse was perfectly timed. Mary was eager to leave Cincinnati for a yearlong sabbatical from medicine. Slogging through her residency and working long hours in the ER had left her exhausted. Worse still, her grief over the sudden death of her friend and confidant, Dr. Sadie Goldstein, hadn’t abated. She needed time to heal.

None of which was suitable to discuss with her employee, the gum-popping Delia. Excusing herself, she returned to the kitchen.

At the stove, Ethel Lynn fluttered. Her oversized apron swung in loose folds as she padded her fingers across the collar of her bluebell-patterned dress. The retro number was better suited for the Eisenhower era, much like Ethel Lynn herself.

“Is the lunch rush over?” she asked. “I’m ready if you need anything.”

Mary hesitated. “Should I take over for a few hours?” she finally asked. “You look frazzled.”

Ethel Lynn patted her wizened cheeks. “Oh, I’m fit as a fiddle.”

Right
. The woman was a bundle of nerves. Maybe she possessed the metabolism of a sparrow on amphetamines. Whatever the reason, she’d worried her way through the renovations after the historic restaurant changed hands. Ethel Lynn had perspired in her delicate way, lace handkerchief at the ready, as the dining room was repainted and the patriotic bunting hung on the picture window. Now they’d reopened to disastrous results and she seemed prepared to fret into a full-blown state of distress.

Which was never good for a woman on the far side of sixty.

Gently, Mary patted her back. “About your cooking… there’ve been a few complaints. Do you need another pair of hands in the kitchen?”

“Of course not. Didn’t you rehire the staff?”

“I rehired Delia,” Mary corrected. “When I called the other waitress, she refused my offer.” The mysterious Finney Smith had blistered Mary with a few choice words before slamming down the phone. Shocking, sure, but who cared if they were short a waitress? “We’ll find a replacement for Finney. Honestly, I can’t imagine a woman like that waiting tables.” Not unless the tables were in Sing Sing.

A squeak popped from Ethel Lynn’s throat. Which was when Mary noticed that her lips were quivering.

“It’s about Finney,” she whispered, and something in her voice sent goose bumps down Mary’s spine. “She wasn’t a waitress, dear. Her job was—heavens to Betsy—a tad more important.”

Mary’s pulse scuttled. “What exactly are you saying?”

* * *

Blossom’s dad thought a lot about dying.

She supposed it was natural given all the pain, blood tests, and hospital visits they’d endured. Going through it, years of it, had changed him. It put lines on his forehead and doubt in his eyes. She’d watched the changes color him, as if he’d been a pencil sketch before the ordeal and was now bolded in by the blues and grays of his experience with cancer.

She wanted to tear up that picture, throw it into a trash can of unwanted memories. She’d heard for herself the word Dr. Lash used.
Remission.

It was over. Finished. The word always made her happy. Then she’d think about her dad, stuck on his thoughts of death.

Which made her sad.

Pausing on Second Street, Blossom tugged the book bag’s straps tight across her shoulders. Feeling self-conscious, she hesitated beside the large picture window. A drapey curtain patterned like the American flag had been hung by the restaurant’s new owner.

She hooked a curl behind her ear and glanced down the street, like a spy afraid of being noticed. Which was stupid. She was a seventh grader at Liberty Middle School and knew everyone in town.

Before she might chicken out, she peeked in the window.

The place was empty. Blossom sighed. Then she swung her gaze to the long counter hemmed in by bar stools and her mood soared. Mary was there, all right.

Ducking out of sight, she leaned against the wall’s rough bricks as the fizzy elation ran down to her toes.

Then she dashed across the street.

She ran diagonally through the park-like center green of Liberty Square. Maple trees wagged leaves in the breeze. The scent of freshly mown grass mingled with the sweet aroma of summer flowers.

Moving faster, she narrowed her concentration with an adolescent blend of purpose and amusement. Sure, her dad thought about dying when he ought to try
living.
Grownups did all sorts of stupid things. They acted as if death lurked outside the door waiting to take them away. Blossom knew it was a silly idea. Death wasn’t a person dressed up like Darth Vader, cloaked in black and waiting to snatch you away.

Yet no matter how many times she reassured her father, he saw death as the enemy. He believed in it.

That was nonsense. Blossom knew with an eleven year old’s certainty that death was outsmarted by good doctors and positive thoughts. Wishing helped, too.

Buoyed by the warm May air and her foolproof plan, she ambled across the hot pavement of the Gas & Go. Inside the garage her father clattered around the pit, working beneath a late model Toyota.

“Hey, there.” She spotted the vintage oak office chair, her favorite, and dropped onto it. “How ya doin’?”

“Hi, kiddo,” Anthony Perini called from inside the pit. “How was school?”

“Just counting the days until my prison break.” She yawned theatrically. “Guess what? The restaurant reopened this morning. Been there yet?”

A rattling erupted beneath the car. “Too busy.” Several bolts clanked into a tray.

“Go over and meet the new owner, Dad. She’s nicer than Prissy Meade Williams.”

“Don’t start. All right?”

It was an old request. Meade Williams poised the biggest threat to Blossom’s emotional well being since she and her dad had hightailed it out of the hospital last year. Rich and as plastic as a platinum haired Barbie doll, Meade was now upping the ante. The cosmetics entrepreneur filled her Mercedes at the Gas & Go so frequently she was probably siphoning off gas outside town and dumping it in a cornfield to keep her fuel gauge on empty.

Ditching the thought, Blossom said, “Meade will have you doing the goosestep to the altar if you aren’t careful. You don’t know women like I do. I
am
a woman.”

“We aren’t having this conversation again.”

“Face it, Dad. If I don’t give you good advice, who will?” The chair was equipped with casters and she wheeled toward the garage door. Sunshine dappled the quaint shops and the restaurant on the other side of Liberty Square. “The lady at the restaurant is real pretty. You’ve got to meet her.”

Beneath the Toyota, a tool clanked then stilled. “Meet who?”

Blossom wheeled close, happy she’d caught his attention. “The lady—I think she’s Miss Meg’s niece. She’s a real looker.”

“If you say so.”

“Aren’t you interested?”

A grease-stained hand popped out from beneath the car and grabbed the air ratchet’s snaking black hose. The hand disappeared underneath, as an ear-splitting, motorized whirring rattled through the garage.

When the tool fell silent, Blossom continued. “She has brownish-red hair down to her shoulders and green eyes. She’s kinda shy. Like she’s scared or something. She even fixed up the boring old menu. I’ll bet the stuff she’s making is better than your cooking.”

“Hard to believe anyone cooks better than me.”

“A lady like that must be a great cook.”

“Whatever.”

Frustrated by his lack of interest, she kicked away the bolts he’d thrown from the pit. “She changed the restaurant’s name. It’s now called Second Chance Grill. Her name is Mary Chance, by the way.”

“Great.”

“She’s younger than you. Twenty-nine, thirty, maybe. She’s nowhere near the old fart stage.”
Like Meade
. “C’mon Dad—take me there for a sundae.” Her father muttered a curse before climbing out of the pit. Plastering on a smile, she added, “You’ve got to see her.”

When her father paused before her, she wrinkled her nose. He was grease monkey all the way. Droplets of motor oil dotted his curly brown hair. Oil glazed the side of his rather large nose. Beneath deep brown eyes, smudges of black made him resemble a boxer who’d seen too many fights. To top it off, he stank of eau de gasoline and perspiration.

“You’re a stink pot.” She pushed the office chair toward the garage door and the reprieve of springtime air. “And you’re ruining your clothes. Geez, we’ll never get the gunk out of your jeans. Not even with ten boxes of Tide.”

Looking mildly offended, Anthony ran his palms down his filthy tee-shirt. “Why are you always bugging me about my clothes?”

“You’re a good looking guy, that’s all. Clean up once in awhile. Strut your stuff.”

He gave her the quizzical look that meant she’d crossed the line of father-daughter relationships—a line she didn’t think existed.

“I hate to point out the obvious but you need a date. Meade stalking you doesn’t count.” She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “How long’s it been? Can you remember the last time you had a date?”

“Not really.”

“That’s
why
she’s got you in her sights. It’s about damn time you found a nice woman.”

“You shouldn’t swear.”