Livvie's Song (7 page)

“Well, I don’t know. You’ve caught me off guard. There is the matter of that job at Service Motors. I imagine the pay’s pretty good.”

Her spirits dipped further. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I certainly would not be able to pay you what you’d make there.”

“You can’t get Joe to stay on, huh?”

She shook her head. “His daughter and grandchildren live in Chicago. They’ve been after him to move there, so I knew it was just a matter of time before he’d leave. He stepped in to help me out when my—well, that’s beside the point.”

“I already know your husband died, ma’am. Sorry for your loss.”

“Oh.” She gave a short sniff. “Thank you. One learns how to go on in matters such as these.” She could come off with vim and vigor when she had a mind to. “So, are you going to give me a straight answer or not?”

“Are you going to tell me what you’d pay me?”

“I…I’m afraid it wouldn’t be much. But there are benefits.”

The faint twinkle in the depths of his eyes as they made a quick sweep of her body unnerved her. “Mind telling me what those might be?”

She scavenged her brain for a response. “Well, I assume you’d be doing something you enjoy. That’s one benefit.”

“What about that pay?” he asked, skipping right over her remark.

She tilted her head back to look up at him, ire building in her blood, and dared to stare into his mesmerizing eyes. “So help me, Mr. Taylor, if I hire you and find you to be an unscrupulous goon, I’ll hit you over the head with my heaviest frying pan.”

He tossed his head back and laughed. Back rigid, she stared at him, unsmiling, as the jovial sound rippled through the air. “I didn’t intend that as a joke.”

He put his hands behind him. “I can see that. I don’t think I’m a goon. To my knowledge, no one’s ever called me that.” His whiskers twitched at the corners of his mouth.

“What about unscrupulous?”

“Doubt anyone would call me that, either—anymore, that is.”

“Anymore?”

He shrugged. “Forget it.”

She shook her head in dismay. “Just how
would
folks describe you, Mr. Taylor? I’m not going to hire you without a single clue as to your work ethic or your history, for goodness’ sake. You’d best tell me something good.”

“Something good? Hmm…. I went to church this morning. Does that count? Matter of fact, I haven’t missed a Sunday for the past six months or so.”

“You went—?” She couldn’t believe it. No one looked less like the churchgoing type. Instant shame overtook her at her quickness to judge, as well as the reminder of her own sporadic attendance. For years, she and Frank had gone to church faithfully, until—

“You can close your mouth anytime now, ma’am.” He gave her a knowing smile.

“Oh.” She clamped her lips.

“So, what makes you think I’d want this cook job?”

“Well, Joe seems to have some sort of feeling about you. He has an innate ability to discern good character from bad, and, for reasons I have yet to figure out, he thinks I ought to give you a chance.”

His left eyebrow rose a fraction as he stretched to his full height. “Well, you sure know how to make a guy want to work for you. Are you always this cheerful? I might consider taking the job just to get the occasional rise out of you. You’re downright cute when you’re mad, you know that?”

“Aargh!” She pushed a wayward lock of hair out of her face, but the breeze drove it back again. “I can see I’m wasting my time.” She turned, intending to take her leave, but he caught her by the elbow.

“All right, all right. Listen. Let’s see if we can strike up some sort of a deal, here.”

She swallowed and gazed out at the street, watching a farmer maneuver his horse and wagon through the heavy automobile traffic. These days, more cars and trucks than horses occupied the roadways. Times were changing faster than the weather. “What sort of deal?”

“I understand you have some living quarters above your restaurant.”

“A small apartment, yes.”

“Well, what say you pay me just enough for a few monthly necessities, let me take my meals at the restaurant, and give me the space upstairs to stay in?”

She stared up at him. “You want free room and board, in other words.”

“In exchange for working full-time, I’d say that’s a pretty good deal. Joe tells me the business is struggling.”

“He shouldn’t have told you that.”

“So, it’s true, then. Well, if we put our heads together, maybe we could come up with some ways to turn a better profit.”

She couldn’t imagine putting her head anywhere near his. “I don’t abide smoking,” she blurted out.

“Well, I suppose that’ll help keep me on the straight and narrow. I quit the nasty habit, in case you were wondering. Until a couple of days ago, that is. But, don’t you worry. I’ve quit again.”

His blue eyes flashed with unmasked humor, and, suddenly, her thick wall of wariness started to crumble.

“The Lord preserveth the simple: I was brought low, and he helped me.”—Psalm 116:6

On Monday morning, rather than trekking down to the Service Motor Truck Company, Will gathered up his meager belongings, paid a curious-eyed Myrtle Moore the balance of his bill, and whistled on his way out the door. Just before he left, he turned and invited her to visit Livvie’s Kitchen someday soon and partake of one of his many secret recipes.

She stared at him, gape-mouthed. “That woman actually hired you?”

He grinned back at her, then let the screen door shut with a bang behind him. Soon, he was on his way up Market Street, heading for his new job and his first paycheck.

Joe Stewart had already fired up the stove and oven when Will arrived at seven o’clock, and the smells of coffee, fresh-baked bread, fried bacon, eggs, and potatoes soon began to permeate the little café. A few men sat at the bar and bantered with Joe while they sipped their mugs of coffee. Several other men, looking like bankers in their business suits, were engrossed in conversation at a table near the front window.

At another table in the center of the room, Olivia Beckman glanced up from her task—refilling the salt and pepper shakers, from the looks of it—and granted him a smile that seemed genuine. Her greeting of “Good morning, Mr. Taylor” passed for halfway pleasant. Dressed in the same knee-length yellow dress she’d had on yesterday, but now with an apron secured around her slender middle, she was about the prettiest female he’d ever laid eyes on. Not that he intended to dwell on that notion. He didn’t know which would require more effort—slaving over a hot stove in an effort to please the customers, or catching the occasional smile from his lovely boss. Probably the latter.

The waitress named Cora Mae had her back to him as she waited on a couple of customers.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said to Olivia as he passed, noticing her faint floral scent.

Joe turned, revealing his slightly sagging belly, and sent him a wide grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hey there, young man. I got some pancake batter here for you. How good are you at flippin’?”

“Probably nowhere near as good as you, sir. The griddle ready?”

“Water’s dancin’ on it.”

“Good sign,” he said, walking behind the counter. The mere notion that this kitchen would one day be his ushered in a round of nervous jitters.

“Ain’t many who can flip a pancake like ol’ Joe, here,” said one of the cook’s cronies.

“I’m of the opinion it’s not so much the flipping that makes a good pancake but the secret ingredients,” Will replied. “Shoot, I can flip a rock, but would you care to eat one?”

Joe laughed. “He got you there, Quinn. You ain’t dealin’ with any pushover, I tell ya. This here feller’s gonna give y’all a good run for your money. You watch.”

Will appreciated the vote of confidence, but, right now, he felt about as bold as a tortoise crossing Market Street. He would be testing his memory to the limit to recall Harry’s recipe for pancakes. In fact, when he sat down tonight to write him a letter and share the news about his new job, he just might ask him to send the recipe. And, while he was at it, he’d ask for a bunch of his other recipes—as many as he was willing to share. Thanks to Harry, meals in the prison dining hall hadn’t been half bad. Heck, mealtimes were what the inmates at Welfare Island State Pen most looked forward to each day.

Harry wasn’t the only cook there, of course, but he was everyone’s favorite. The warden used to get after him for feeding the jailbirds such tasty food, but Harry refused to change his ways. He called the pen his “mission field,” a place where he fed the mouths of hungry convicts, and then, as God led him, fed their hungry souls with the truth of His love. It’d worked on Will and a number of others, and they’d started a Bible study some months prior to his release. Whenever the Lord brought that group of men to his mind, he prayed they’d have the strength and stamina to continue meeting together. Living a Christian life behind bars meant enduring ridicule, even though most of the other inmates had never thought to mess with Will Taylor, what with his size and reputation.

“Just so long as he can fry me up a good hamburger, nice ’n’ pink in the middle, he’ll be fine in my book,” said an old codger, who looked fit for the grave but had somehow managed to perch himself on a bar stool between two others.

Joe laughed and looked at Will, who then poured several spoonfuls of batter onto the griddle. Grease sparks popped in all directions. He kept his eyes trained on the pancakes, watching for the sides to brown to perfection before he flipped them over.

“You’ll find Coot here is pretty particular about ’is hamburgers,” Joe said, nudging Will playfully with his elbow.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The banter at the bar continued, and customers came and went, as Joe showed him around the kitchen, telling him where he’d find every utensil and tool he might need, then introduced him to everybody and his cousin. Will was amazed how Joe kept his cool amid each rush of orders. He himself sweat bullets, wishing to the high heavens he’d worn a short-sleeved shirt instead of this long-sleeved affair he’d bought at the Salvation Army secondhand store. Joe wore only a T-shirt and a worn pair of dungarees.
Live and learn.
The last time Will had worked in a kitchen, he’d had no choice but to sport black-and-white stripes.

Around ten o’clock, there was a lull, enabling them to take a break from cooking like fiends and start cleaning up. “The lunch crowd’ll start filterin’ in ’round eleven thirty, so now’s when we start gatherin’ stuff together for that,” Joe explained. “Usually, Livvie ’n’ Cora Mae help out, dependin’ on what’s on the menu. I normally do a daily special and have a kettle o’ soup on hand, but you and Livvie can discuss that goin’ forward. You did real good in that breakfast rush. I kept an eye on you, and you really got a knack for stayin’ calm and handlin’ yourself under pressure.”

Will laughed. “I was just thinking the opposite. I guess you didn’t see the sweat rolling off my brow.”

“And into that forest on your face, I suppose,” Livvie muttered as she came around the corner, carrying a stack of dirty dishes. It was the first time she’d spoken to him all morning, not counting her initial greeting. “I hope you didn’t shed whiskers on anybody’s breakfast.” She set down the plates and topped them with a collection of silverware she pulled from her apron pocket. Then, she wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face him. “You didn’t, did you?”

Man, she could be a killjoy. “Not that I know of, ma’am. I suspect they’d blend in pretty well, though.” Those pursed, plump lips produced a shallow dimple in each cheek. Rather cute, actually. If he ever managed to get a good smile out of her, he might even see them at their peak.

The front door opened, and Will and Livvie both looked over to see a lone customer walk in. Cora Mae greeted the man and got him situated at a small table, where she stood and chatted with him. Hardly missing a beat, Joe went to the icebox and started shuffling things around, while Livvie stood over the trash bin and began scraping off what remained on the dirty dishes.

Will stepped closer to her and lowered his face within inches of her petite ear. “Do I detect some disgust at my facial hair?”

She scoured the plate in her hand even harder. “It doesn’t do anything for me, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, I’m not out to impress you, madam.”

“Humph. I gathered that. Besides, I don’t impress easily.”

“You’re just itching to see what I look like, aren’t you? Admit it.”

She paused and glared up at him. “I should say not. I don’t care if you have the face of a toad. At this establishment, we uphold the highest standard of sanitation, and the idea of your—your whiskers falling into somebody’s soup makes me shudder. That, Mr. Taylor, is the only reason I’d like you to shave. Or, at the very least, give some shape to that carpet.”

He tugged on his beard, which had grown well below the second button of his dress shirt. “Shaggy” probably didn’t come close to describing it. Heck, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen his clean-shaven face. He probably wouldn’t recognize himself. And he would have been lying to say he wasn’t curious to see how much he’d visibly aged in the past ten years.

But this woman’s telling him what to do ignited a spark of rebellion, never mind that she was his boss. “Now, see, that would require me to visit a barber, and, since I haven’t received my first paycheck, well, I’m rather strapped for cash.” Of course, he had more than enough money for a shave and a haircut, now that he could expect some pay soon, but he preferred to make her think otherwise. “If you’ll recall, we did agree on a small stipend.”

“Which you will receive in two weeks, provided you prove yourself a capable cook.”

“Ah. Well then, I guess you’ll have to put up with my shaggy appearance for a while longer.”

“Livvie cuts her boys’ hair,” offered Joe, who had finally emerged from the icebox with a couple of defeathered chickens in hand. “Bet she could make quick work o’ that beard o’ yours.”

Will folded his arms. “I bet you’re right, Joe.” He looked at Livvie and arched his eyebrows. “I’m just not sure I’d trust her with a razor.”