“Would you mind checking the ketchup bottles in the walk-in?”
“Not at all.” April had only been waitressing here for a few months, taking the job after she and her husband had moved to Quincy. He was a truck driver and gone more often than not, which meant April was always up for an additional shift because home was a lonely place.
“I’ll be back in a few. If Skip comes in before then, would you tell him to start on the list I left on the table?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks.” My footsteps thudded in the empty room.
The restaurant was my favorite like this, when it was quiet and still. Soon there’d be people at the tables, conversation mixing with the clink of silverware on plates. But seeing the tables set and ready for customers was about the only time I could really appreciate what this space had become. Later, when it was busy, I’d be too focused on the food.
For most of the building’s life, this had been a ballroom with gaudy wallpaper, worn carpet tiles and no intimacy. Now it was utterly different, save the tall ceilings.
Knuckles.
The vibe was as moody and smooth as the food. I’d carved pockets out of the large space, shrinking the number of tables.
Along the back wall, I’d built a room for the waitstaff to fill water and soda. Beside it was a cooler for wine and beer.
There were no available liquor licenses in Quincy, but I’d left space to add a bar one day should one open up.
The tables were a rich walnut. A row of caramel-leather booths hugged one wall. A black grid separated a corner for large dining parties. One of the original, exterior brick walls that had been hidden beneath sheetrock had been exposed. The hanging pendant lights and sconces cast a golden glow onto the tables. The windows along the far wall let in light during the day and added to the mood at night.
This was my dream realized. And part of why I loved it so much was because I could push through the glass doors and walk into the hotel lobby.
As a kid, I’d spent a lot of hours here with Mom. While Dad had been busy running the ranch, Mom had taken charge of the hotel. How many coloring books had I filled sitting beneath her feet at the lobby’s mahogany reception counter?
How many toy cars had I sent flying across the floor? How many Lego sets had I built on the fireplace’s stone ledge?
This was the scene of my youth. Griffin had preferred to ride shotgun with Dad on the ranch. I’d tagged along with Mom. When I’d moved home after finishing culinary school and working for years in San Francisco, it hadn’t even been a question of where I’d wanted to start a restaurant.
Mom and Dad had been renovating and updating the hotel for the past five years. Knuckles was the last major project for a while. Eloise had some ideas of her own, but those would have to wait.
At least they would if I took over.
She was talking to a guest at the reception counter. I turned the opposite direction and headed for the laundry room. One of the washing machines was churning while two dryers hummed as the sheets inside tumbled. There was a cleaning cart outside the break room so I moved to the doorway, finding Memphis at the coffee pot.
Her shoulders were slumped forward as she filled a ceramic mug. The phone in her pocket rang and she dug it out, checking the screen. Then as she’d done in my kitchen, she silenced it and shoved it away.
“Thirty-nine,” she mumbled.
Thirty-nine what? Who was calling her? And why didn’t she answer?
Those questions were not my business. And not why I was here.
“Memphis.”
She gasped and jumped, the pot in her hand shaking. “Oh, hi.”
“Sorry to startle you.”
“It’s okay.” She stared at my clean T-shirt. “Sorry about your other shirt.”
“It’s fine.” I eyed the mug. “You didn’t get a coffee from the shop?”
“No, I, um . . . just changed my mind. This coffee is good.”
That was a damn lie. It was bitter and boring, hence why I went to Lyla’s each morning for espresso.
When we’d collided, I’d been focused on my cup, wishing I had put a lid on it. Wishing I hadn’t been texting Talia. I’d sent her a note this morning asking if it was normal for a two-month-old baby to cry so fucking much. She’d replied with yes and an eye-roll emoji.
Memphis’s head must have been down too. And there’d been the distinct sound of coins clattering on cement.
She’d been digging for change. That was why she hadn’t seen me walk through the door. She’d planned to pay for a coffee with loose change. Change that I’d knocked out of her hand.