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“You’re here to help?”
“Sure am.” Bronze threw a thumb behind him in the direction of the kitchen. “You got any spare aprons?”
“I . . . um . . .”
“No need. I’ll find ‘em. May as well start up the coffee.”
That got her attention. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t had any coffee yet or that Brass would have skipped out after only one day of dish duty.”
After only one day of being with me, and after we?—
“Your boy just needs a day or two.”
“Oh, he’s not my?—”
“And as for the coffee, why bother filling up on boring old French press at home when you’ve got the single-origin pour-over set up here? Besides, how can I chat up the customers about the coffee if I don’t make every attempt to become a first-rate connoisseur of the good stuff?” Bronze yanked a half-apron from a hook in the hallway outside her office, replaced it with his shacket, and ventured off into the kitchen. “I’ll get the grind going. It’s a ten-minute pour on the coffee, right?” he asked over his shoulder.
A surge of emotions battled for dominance. Hurt, embarrassment, foolishness, they all had it out in a battle royale-style brawl that did more of a number on her sanity than anything that had kept her up last night.
He’s not coming back.
Before she let the realization take root and grow into something not even an industrial soil tiller could yank out, she gritted her teeth against the sting forming behind her eyelids and set to rights the one thing she could control.
“No more than six to eight minutes on the pour-over,” she called out.
There was already more than enough bitterness to start the morning. No need to make it worse with shitty coffee.
As the sun set up shop over the restaurant’s sleepy street, two things became abundantly clear. First, a proper pour-over went a long way to enhance Bronze’s charisma even further, turning him into every restaurant owner’s wet dream. The second, despite the draw and appreciation of such a stellar staff member, tables were emptier than they’d ever been. Molly suspected that news of the fire hadn’t quite settled yet, and her regulars were waiting to hear any potential outcomes before trusting her again with their butts in seats and credit cards on counters.
Molly turned over her phone on the desk and reached for another sip of coffee, her third cup of the morning, though at some point, Bronze had been astute enough to switch her out to decaf. Normally, at ten thirty on a Wednesday, she’d be knee-deep in neglected table tickets while Benny would bark out egg inventory numbers and complain that the bakery they ordered their bread from was late on their delivery again. Instead, she took a rare opportunity to steal a few precious moments for herself and work out her dishes for the Winter Whimsy Festival, which was only about two weeks away.
“Hey, boss!” Bronze peeked around her doorframe. “Got a customer who wants to talk to you.”
“Sure thing. Tell them I’ll be right there.”
Molly tucked her notebook in her drawer and followed Bronze out into the dining room. An older blonde woman stood just inside the front door with her arms folded across a form-over-function wool coat that had exactly zero chances of batting away a snowflake, let alone a sea gale. Judging by the hairspray-stiff bob and her eerie lack of age-appropriate facial lines, the woman likely had I’d like a word tattooed on her dimpled ass.
“May I help you? I’m Molly, the owner.” She smiled and extended her hand in greeting, but the woman retreated a step instead.
Oookay . . . so it’s going to be like that.
“I guess you’re the one I should speak with,” the woman remarked after waiting one more protracted second to no doubt see whether anyone else would step forward to address her.
Molly sighed. It was an act she knew all too well.
“If you’re looking to speak with the owner of this restaurant, then, yes, that’d be me.” Molly threw all the cheer the woman didn’t deserve into the words.
“I was here Saturday afternoon with two girlfriends of mine to discuss the plans for our bunco league’s holiday party. We are Aurora’s top-performing players of the dice game, and the town’s recreational committee will be honoring us with an award for our achievements at our annual gathering in a few weeks.”
“Congratulations.” It was the third thing Molly had thought to say, right behind, What the hell is bunco? and Was the award along the lines of the complimentary holiday chocolates given to all the businesses, committees, and clubs by the mayor’s office each year?
“Well, I’ll have you know that the date for our party has now been postponed.” With that, the woman pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket and shoved it at Molly.
“What’s this?” She unfolded the paper. Aurora Laboratories and Diagnostics Patient Report was displayed in bold letters across the top. As Molly tried to make sense of what she was reading, the woman—Roberta McCall, according to the document—gladly offered clarification.
“That is my toxicology report for blood work I had taken the day after I ate here.” She leaned forward, and Molly caught a glimpse of red lipstick on the woman’s eyetooth. “Shortly after I ingested the mahi-mahi tacos for lunch at your restaurant, I became severely ill and was hospitalized for the next twenty-four hours.” She tapped a lacquered nail at a row of numbers categorically higher than any other.
“Your histamine levels were high? I don’t understand.”
