David Grunwell - author

Chapter 3: Catherine's

The streets curved to follow the contours of the island. It did have the feel of an upscale, clean, and modern version of a Charles Dickens novel. Quaint, clean, snooty.

I am emotionally exhausted. The streets had the feel of privilege, and I have the distressed look of a homeless peasant.

My internal whining stopped when a young blonde woman stormed out of the front of a small café. Her bearing was of roiling fury.

"—and stuff it, Charles!" There were other, more colorful and physically impossible suggestions.

The man I assumed was Charles was coming out of the shop, following behind her. "I need my apron back." He wasn't yelling. He held out his thick hand with his palm up.

The young woman stopped and looked at him with an anger that should be reserved for war crimes. Vibrating with ferocity, her fingers fumbled with the front tie. Grasping an end, she yanked on the cotton string and, with more effort than required, pulled the apron neck string over her golden-blonde hair.

She swore with impressive volume and tossed the wadded material at Charles. As clothing is wont to do, it opened and spun away from the man and flew right at me. I caught it effortlessly with my left hand. Had we tried to do that, we would have failed with 100 attempts.

The blonde tornado of hate stared at the apron, then at me. Hopping mad, she spewed inappropriate suggestions at me. She attempted to stomp her feet on the brick street. Wincing in pain, she left like an old steam engine billowing out a cloud of black curses.

I glanced at the apron and then at the man. With a smirk, I said, "You must be Charles."

He was stocky, not fat, with a solid heft to him. He may have been handsome a few years back. Glancing down, I opened hand to look at the apron. He had a puzzled look.

I said, "Despite her colorful suggestion, I have no interest in an intimate relationship with an apron."

Charles was tall, in his mid-thirties, and his eyes twinkled. "I don't recommend it either. I have been stuck in an abusive relationship with an apron and a restaurant for three years. She is a harsh mistress. I would leave if I weren't in love with her."

He pointed a thumb at a sign that said Catherine's.

It was a small coffee shop and restaurant, exuding an upscale atmosphere. Quaint, clean, and welcoming.

"Mistress?" I said, "So, you aren't married to it?"

Charles stopped and, catching on to my joke, let a laugh slip. "Catherine's? No, trust me, it is a completely one-sided love affair. I do the restaurant's bidding."

"Love can be like that." Or so I have heard.

Charles held out his hand for the apron, and I pulled my hand holding it back. "What if I offer to keep it?"

Charles paused and said, "And do what with it?"

"Work for you. Clearly, the blonde with anger issues is not coming back. And if she did, the position is already taken by a young woman who is ready and willing to work."

"Does this young woman have experience and a name?"

I laughed. "I have many experiences, not all pertinent, but suitable for learning how to wait tables. My name is Merrideath Blackthorn. I am working towards becoming a student at St. Barts, but I must live within five miles of campus for four months to be considered for admission."

The man was reading me. "Unlike many students in town, your parents are not billionaires or CEOs."

"That was not a question, but you are correct. I am from a small town that people only find when they are lost or passing through to some other larger towns. Even those who die in our town try to get buried in one of the larger towns."

Charles was squinting. "Why?"

I huffed. "Because of the embarrassment."

Charles laughed. "This is the most unique job interview I have ever held." He watched my face for a moment. "Alright. Let's see how you do for the late lunch crowd, and we can see if it is a potential match."

"Now?"

"You are holding the apron like you don't want to give it back. Does this work for you? I will pay you out at the end of the day."

I nodded, giving him what I hoped was a sly smile. "It will be great. I will do my best!"

Charles grinned, welcoming me into the charming restaurant. "I have no doubt."

I followed the blocky man towards the back, carrying my bags. He said, "I will have you shadow Claire. She knows the ropes."

I considered asking what had so set off the blonde woman to make her leave in such a huff. I doubted it would be kept quiet for long. Someone would talk.

A tall, thin woman of about twenty-two looked up from wiping the counter with a damp towel. "Deanandra quit?" Charles nodded. She beamed for some unclear reason.

Charles turned to me and said, "Claire, this is Merrideath Black—"

"Blackthorn."

"Right. She is replacing Deanandra. Please kindly show her the job." He emphasized the word kindly. "Be nice. Miss Blackthorn is new to town and to serving."

Claire's face fell. "We need seasoned staff, Charles."

Charles chortled. "Deanandra was supposedly seasoned."

I said, "She was. I think it was with habaneros."

Claire snorted, and her eyes laughed. "Okay. I think this one may work out after all."

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