Problem, right? Like, at some point, when it was always you people had to understand about? Definitely a problem.
I didn’t know what I could do about it. I couldn’t think. My brain felt fuzzy from lack of sleep the night before. Lack of sleep and surplusof gin at the Addison Rose, that is, and of course from the confusion of recent events and revelations and grief for Joey and Heather and—for all of this ending with the sale of the pub.
I was so tired. But there was no getting around it. Alex needed me. Ned was late, Pascal not scheduled for another hour.
Alex worked to get the beer taps, now sparkly clean, put back together. We’d already taken out the trash and I’d finally swept the floors. Now I stocked the cooler and counted inventory—
I stared at the bottles on the back bar, as though they had something to tell me. I lifted the nearest bottle and shook it, opened it, smelled it. Tipped back my head and had a gulp, then wiped my mouth with my wrist.
The kids who’d broken in hadn’t taken any booze? Hadn’t drunk any? Hadn’t even had a little party and filled the bottles up with water?
Maybe ithadbeen someone on aGooniesadventure, looking for land-pirate gold.
In the ladies’ john, I tidied up as quickly as I could. Wiped the mirror and the counters, checked the toilet paper in the stalls.
There were shortcuts, okay? Get over it.
When I came out, Ned had slipped into the kitchen. I tried to give him the stink eye, but he never looked my way.
But Pascal was early, bless his heart a million times, taking the last of the chairs down from off the tables. When he saw me, he buzzed across the room. “Doll, I gotta tell you something.”
“I know, Ned was late again. Alex will talk with him later.” After I told Alex he should, of course, and what to say.
“It’s not that,” Pascal said quietly.
“Okay?”
He looked at the floor. “I don’t want to get him in trouble, but… it’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” I glanced toward the pass-through. “He’s stealing? From the cash register?”
“Not like that,” he said, his eyes wide and dark. “Food.”
“Oh. But he gets a meal every shift. And so do you, right?”
“It’s more than that,” Pascal said.
I tried to picture Ned carrying industrial-sized cans of tomato sauce out under his arms. “From the pantry? The walk-in?”
“All those canceled orders,” Pascal said reluctantly. “That’s him. He puts in the orders through the apps on his phone and then cancels them. He makes the food anyway, packs it up. Shouldn’t go to waste, he says.”
I saw how it could work. I remembered taking the order next door, finding no one. And then handing the bag over to Ned. I was an idiot.
“I didn’t want to say anything but… do you think something’s wrong?”
I’d been gearing up to be angry about it, but that fell away. Pascal was right. “I’d rather he got the food if he’s going hungry,” I said. “If he needs it.”
“If heneedsit,” Pascal said, his forehead rippled.
“You think it’s something else?” I said.
Pascal shrugged. “He’s actingweird.”
“Weird how? Like he’s doing us all a favor showing up? He’s always—”
“No, like he’s a short-timer, you know?”
“Well, Ned’s allowed to quit if he wants to.” I just hoped he wouldn’t leave us in a lurch. He most definitely would try. “That actually might solve the problem. If he quits, maybe you want to learn how to cook?”
