“Thank you,” I managed to say before Sherry crushed me into another hug, my arms flailing against her back.
I glanced down at the package in my hands. Mrs. Jameson had cooked for me. I didn’t even know if it was any good. But it was thrilling to have someone else cook something for me, not because she was trying to impress me or drill me for information but for no other reason than that I was a friend of her daughter’s and she thought I needed it.
Hungover or not, I was going to go home and eat every bite.
Somewhere in the back of my pickled brain, a switch labeled “Sherry Jameson” flipped into place. Now I knew why Sherry’s name sounded so familiar.
I smiled brightly, though it sort of hurt my cheeks. “Aren’t you the Realtor selling Howlin’ Hank’s?”
—
Two hours later, I was in love with the Howlin’ Hank’s building.
Miss Sherry was honest with me. Hometown Realtors had assigned her this building to test her newly official salesman skills. The agency had been trying to offload the place for years and hadn’t had so much as a nibble. The idea that she could be the one finally to sell it had thrown Sherry into warp speed, as Jane put it.
Chef Gamling accompanied us as my “anti-life-ruining-decision lifeguard.” Before she let me in the front door, Sherry went in to turn on all of the old beer signs and the jukebox. The current selection was a Hank Williams Jr. song made overtly off-key by the warped 45. That’s right. The jukebox was so old it played actual records. Still, the electric display gave me a better idea of what the place had looked like in its heyday.
Chef Gamling didn’t comment on the dilapidated condition of the building or the sheer amount of beer and/or NASCAR memorabilia on the walls. He simply wandered around the kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back, while he chewed on his lip. The kitchen was in surprisingly good shape, albeit seriously outdated. I would need to replace all of the appliances, but the traffic flow of the room was pitch-perfect for maximum efficiency from the stove to the pass to the dishwashing area.
The dining room’s open floor plan, the old oak bar worn satiny smooth by countless hands, the wide, spacious booths—it was the perfect setup for a small, informal restaurant. Before I’d even put down my purse, I’d started making plans in my head. I’d keep some of the more retro beer signs, but I would paint the walls a soft denim blue. I would have to replace the tables. But I might be able to preserve the carved tabletops and use them as wall panels.
I would keep the view to the kitchen open, so the customers would get the feeling that they were just hanging out at a friend’s place, waiting for their meals to be finished. I would replace the battered dartboards with photos of the original Hank’s and maybe a few of the remodel—something to show that I appreciated the history of this place and wanted to be part of it.
Oh, how I wanted to be part of it.
I rubbed at my sternum, praying for the acidic roll in my stomach to die down. Could I really do this? Could I stay in the Hollow and open up my own restaurant? Chef Gamling was here. My friends were here. What did I have waiting for me in Chicago?
I had acquaintances and colleagues in the city but nobody who would take me out for drinks and mechanical-bull rides. I had Phillip, who was waiting for his marriage-license paperwork, not for me. I had my reputation, but that wasn’t exactly keeping me warm at night. It couldn’t even give me the warm sense of fulfillment that it used to.
I sat down at one of the booths, leaning over to put my head between my knees. Across the table, I could hear the sound of old leatherette crackling. I looked up to squint at Chef, grimacing. “Am I completely insane?”
“Why would this be insane?”
“Because I’ve only cooked. I’ve never managed a restaurant. Because of the risks involved. Because these are disastrous economic times to strike out on my own.”
“This is all true,” he conceded. “But do you want this?”
I chewed on my lip, nodding. It scared me how much I wanted this. I didn’t think I’d ever wanted something so badly in my life. Sure, I’d wanted to leave my hometown. I’d wanted to graduate. I’d wanted the job at Coda. But this was a different level of desire. I had to have this place. I could feel the desperation down in my bones, crushing my stomach with the anxiety that I might not be able to make it happen.
I had a place in the city. I had a routine. But I could have a life here. I didn’t exactly fit in, but I could love people here. I was well on my way to loving a few already. And those people could love me if I let them.
I could do this. I could make a life here. Hell, I already had a life here.
I wanted to feed people, not just because they had showed up for a business meeting or to be seen. I wanted them to leave my dining room happy. I wanted to cook and not think about whether the ingredients were exotic enough to please the customers. I wanted to serve food that nourished people, that made them feel comfort, whether it meant using Velveeta or ungodly expensive Jarlsberg cheese.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I really want this.”
“Then you are insane,” Chef said, shrugging. “But it could be just the kind of insane needed to run this place.”
“Not helpful.” I groaned, dropping my head back to the table.
I felt a cool, damp cloth pressed to the back of my neck and heard a fond tsking sound just in front of me.
Sherry pressed her handkerchief to my temples and smiled gently. “Jane felt the same way just before she decided to renovate her shop. She was so afraid of making a change, so afraid that she would fail. But she couldn’t stand not to try to make a go of it. She’s always been my brave one, you know. Though if you tell her that, I’ll deny it just to keep her on her toes. The bottom line is, life is for living, sweetie. It’s for taking chances and trying to grab up every little piece of happiness you can latch on to. And I say that as a mama and a friend and not someone who stands to make a very healthy commission if you agree to take this place on.”
I laughed and handed the damp handkerchief back to Sherry.
I stood and took another look around the restaurant. While my savings were not enough for the real estate market in Chicago, I had more than enough for the down payment on the building. Heck, given Hank’s kids’ desire to unload the building, I might be able to buy it outright, if Sherry and I were clever enough. The problem would be the cost of renovating; I would have to figure out a way to pay for that.
I needed to make this change. I needed this town. I needed the slower pace, the quiet. I needed the people here. This was my place now.
I edged toward the dusty old chalkboard behind the bar, advertising the specials and “pie du jour” in place when Hank’s had closed. I took the eraser and carefully swiped off the old chalk marks. The brittle white chalk nearly crumbled under my touch, but I was able to scratch out what I wanted. “Honey-smoked pork with apples,” I wrote. “Corn fritters with spicy relish. Dessert of the day: raisin brioche bread pudding.”
I stood back and admired my handiwork.
“I would have served a chutney with the fritters,” Chef said, sniffing.
My lips twitched. “Well, it’s not your restaurant.”
He sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Sassy-mouthing again.”
Sherry grinned at my very first selection of specials. “I take it you’ve made a decision?”
I turned and threw my arms around her and squealed, a very un-Tess-like squeal. She laughed again and patted my back. “Is it OK to hug your Realtor?” I asked.
Sherry gave me a very momlike little squeeze. “I’ll allow it this once.”
Poaching Territory
7
I sat on the front porch, under a purpling sky, mulling over the paperwork for Howlin’ Hank’s. I teetered between giddy joy and abject horror over signing a letter of intent to buy the building. What was I thinking? What had I done? What would I serve? What would I call the place?
I should have considered that before I signed the papers.
I made calls to Chicago as I drove, shell-shocked, back to the house. Phillip was very gracious about accepting my resignation and agreed that it would be too awkward to work with me while planning his wedding to someone else.
As expected, Coda’s owners jumped at the chance to buy me out and promised to deliver a cashier’s check within forty-eight hours. While their offer was generous, considering the economy, it left me with two options: Take out a mortgage for the building and a second loan to cover the costs of renovating, or pay cash for the building and leave myself with a practically nonexistent budget for the facelift. Neither seemed like the ideal situation. While the building was structurally sound—with the exception of some storm damage to the roof—it would need some serious cosmetic work. Key changes usually translated to “expensive” in construction-speak. The whole prospect made me nervous. Thanks to some youthful indiscretions with a Visa card, my credit wasn’t stellar. Damn my addiction to fancy Belgian knives.
Giving up my apartment would be shockingly easy. I’d barely spent enough time there over the years to make it a home. I hadn’t decorated or added any personal touches. Everything was beige, for cripe’s sake. But the thought of giving up the Lassiter place was singularly depressing.
Sherry had shown me the apartment above Howlin’ Hank’s and it was perfectly adequate. Or would be, after the renovations that would jack up my construction budget even further. But ultimately, I had enough on my plate taking on the restaurant. I wouldn’t have the time, money, or energy to take on a fixer-upper house.
If I could find a way to stretch my budget another twenty thousand dollars or so, I’d have enough breathing room to do what I hoped to with the restaurant. But I did not, in fact, have na**d pictures with which to blackmail Bill Gates, and I didn’t have anything else to sell, unless you counted my car or a kidney—and I would need both.
The sun slipped over the horizon, leaving long lavender shadows in its wake. I buried my face in my hands and groaned. I leaned against the porch railing and looked out over the velvety green lawn. I would miss this place. I would miss having my own quiet space. I would miss waking up every morning to plot revenge against Sam for his pranks, even if I did sort of regret dosing his blood with essence of third-degree tongue burn. Then again, that had led to receiving the hottest kiss of my life, in every sense of the word, so it couldn’t have been a terrible plan.