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Benny flipped his griddle spatula in the air in time with the tamboura solo pumping from the small speaker next to the stove and executed a perfect hip swivel that was far too much excitement for such an early hour, but who was she to deny the man his indulgence? Had she had hips half as limber, she’d most likely salsa down the aisles of the grocery store just because she could.
Molly turned away from her view of the dining room’s bustling patrons and leaned back against the counter so she could admire not the fancy front-of-house glitz but the solitary kitchen and exuberant chef she’d helped rescue.
Or who had helped rescue her.
Once the bank turned over ownership of the property to her, it had taken a good three months to tear down the stains of Serendipity and plant the seeds of her future.
Suerte and Honeysuckles. Suerte meant luck in Spanish and was a nod to Benny and Marisol’s heritage, though luck, by conventional standards, had about as much to do with her success as kissing babies at a pep rally had to do with a politician winning an election. On the surface, her restaurant was pretty as punch, but beneath the glossy veneer lived years upon years of being told no, of being turned down and passed over for colleagues and applicants with nothing more to offer over her except for what hung between their legs.
Benny had been the sole exception in her culinary life, even though she’d only known him for two years, but damn did it feel good to see that man happy. When they first put their heads together to strategize about the restaurant, he’d remained true to his promise: whatever she wanted, he was on board with, provided he and Marisol were cared for and he got the freedom so often denied those who gave their lives to restaurant kitchens. The idea for it all slammed into her on a wave of gratitude and exuberance she hadn’t had time to question—nor did she want to. Suerte and Honeysuckles would be a banner to all those who made their own luck. Simple yet elevated fare available to everyone, regardless of wallet size or reservation-making assistants. Together, she and Benny would produce delicious food that would pour out of a place that Molly hoped would become as invasive to the touristy town as the regional flowers she’d named her restaurant for. It would be both unapologetically New England and unapologetically her.
Also, not allowing reservations meant not answering to others’ promises or expectations. An open-promptly-at-six and close-promptly-at-three establishment. No late nights. Plenty of family and friend time. With just enough left over to nurture a woman’s lifelong dream, piled high with the best damned vintage cheddar and sourdough grilled cheese sandwiches, if she did say so herself.
“Hey, I’m with you. We don’t need reservations.” Benny gestured toward the full tables out at the front, reminding Molly she had about another twenty seconds before she needed to get back out there and start refilling coffees. “What we need is a hand to take care of the dishes and clear tables. You can’t keep doing that all on your own, girl.”
The urgency to grab as many coffee pots as she could and turn tail in the opposite direction of the impending conversation caused Molly’s face to heat.
“I’m managing,” she huffed out with all the petulance of a kid being called on the carpet for offering to do the group assignment by herself so she’d be sure everyone would get a good grade.
“Yeah, managing to shave a few years off your life. And I promise you, if my arthritis is anything to go by, those years won’t be the junky ones at the end like you’re expecting.” He regripped his fingers around the spatula before brandishing the thing at her in accusation. “You had a brilliant idea paring down the place to just short-order breakfast-and-lunch service. Expenses are a quarter of what Serendipity had.”
She had been quite proud of that brilliant idea, now that he mentioned it. And if that coffee pot would stop dripping in the next quarter of a second, she’d grab the thing and it’d be a monumentally splendid way to end the conversation. She gripped the handle, staring down the final drips while expressing no small amount of need for it to wrap the heck up?—
“But you still need staff. Not in my kitchen, mind you.” Benny punctuated the fact with a knobby finger that expressed stubborn ownership she knew better than to question and, any other day, would be more than a little bit fond of. “For you. You can’t run this place, handle the menu, inventory, marketing, maintenance, cleaning, and everything else by yourself.”
Aaand there it was. The same point he’d been hammering her with ever since the new drywall went up and the signage was hung a month ago.
“I know.” She cringed at the supplication in her voice. In the entirety of her career, when had she ever resorted to whining? The third Tuesday of never, that’s when, and yet . . .
Benny flipped a row of sausage links and put down his spatula to lower the music. Crap. Not good.
The utensil was back in his hand a heartbeat later, and his words were everywhere she couldn’t escape.
“It’s early December. The tourists have hit Aurora hard. The holiday season is in full swing. We’re already starting to have a hard time filling takeout orders. I can cook the menu with my eyes closed, but that won’t wash these dishes any faster or clear those tables or, hell, even bag up some orders and answer the damn phone.” Benny said all this while never removing his eyes from the stove. His arms and hands moved despite the thorough dressing-down he’d delivered, once again reminding her how she wasn’t the only one who’d manufactured her own fortune to get where she was.
She wasn’t the only one who needed this place to thrive, needed it to deliver on borrowed promises her heart had made before her head had caught up with it.
Molly folded her arms over her chest and slid her gaze toward the dining room again. Two tables had been vacated, one by a family of four who had asked for extra plates for every entree and one by a party of six who, judging by the unpushed-in chairs and food under the table, were more than used to being picked up after. A trail of crumpled napkins littered the floor. She watched as a crowd of eager patrons milling around the door stepped aside, making room for those exiting.
Patrons she didn’t have enough tables for. More people she’d have to either say no to or ask to wait until she’d have time to bag up their takeout orders.
The traitorous coffee pot finally beeped, heralding the end of its brew cycle, and Molly sagged against the counter. Coffee had suddenly become the least of her concerns.
“I hadn’t been prepared to hire staff yet,” she said, knowing full well it was a weak-ass excuse. “I was hoping the restaurant would shore up its earnings a bit more first.” She’d wanted to hire people. Oh, how she wanted to, but there had always been that niggling thought of what if. What if the restaurant had a bad month, or three? Could she really hire someone at this stage of the game, with that type of uncertainty hanging over her head?
She caught Benny’s glare between ladles of cinnamon and cardamom-spiced pancake batter hitting the griddle. As she was fluent in all things Benny, there was no need for translation: Bull. Shit.
“Hope has nothing to do with it. If it did, you think you’d have done what you had to in order to purchase this place?”
He had her there.
Decidedly not, you infuriating man.
Benny scooped up a generous portion of corned beef hash, which had a very healthy week-long-cured corned-beef-to-potato ratio, and nestled it onto a plate next to the most perfect over-easy eggs dusted with smoked sweet Hungarian paprika. Another order to complete the five sitting on the counter, ready for her to take to the dining room. “The money will be there when it’s supposed to be. It always is. Until then, take this sucker by the horns and do what you need to do.” Molly loaded up the tray and hefted the thing to her shoulder, but not before Benny tossed a knowing wink in her direction. “Because Marisol would have my ass if she saw how much I’m letting you do around here.”
Molly hip-checked the door. “You’re not letting me do anything.”
“Make sure you tell her that!” His bark of protest was cut off by the swinging door and drowned out further by the bustling dining room. To Molly’s left, a crying three-year-old just spilled his apple cider under the table. To her right, three eager hands clutching empty coffee mugs all shot up into the air in a communal summons.
