Two interesting glimmers of potential remained, however: The possibility of playing an opening set for The Baby Owls. And the fact that a hot, if older, actor wanted to take her out to dinner and possibly do her. So she held on to those things and managed to massage her mood into something a little more optimistic.
Which required her not to think about what Eli might have done with Bethany after they’d vanished out the door last night.
The Misty Cat’s doors were still locked so she knocked. They were opened by a brisk, be-aproned Sherrie, her hair as bright as the fall-colored leaves in the early light.
Sherrie and Glenn had raised four kids into respectable adults. One son was even a surgeon. They were no strangers to drama or upheaval or even bar fights.
Sherrie was a balm, the very personification of equanimity. “You had quite the lively night last night, didn’t you, Glory hon? Let’s see if we can have a more soothing, or at least less eventful, day. Why don’t you follow me around a bit and you can pick up, well, let’s call ’em littlenuancesof service.” She paused to peer critically at Glory. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
“John-Mark drank the last of ours.”
“Young men that age are like termites. They’ll eat and drink you out of house and home if you let ’em. Go pour yourself a cup. I have a few little things to take care of in the office and then I’ll bring our order pads out and we’ll unlock the doors and let in the madding crowd. Tomorrow I’ll haveyoudo the morning prep,” she said brightly, as though Glory was in store for a treat.
Sherrie vanished into the back of the restaurant, where a little windowless lockable room served as an office.
Glory liked the Misty Cat first thing in the morning. The slight damp brought out its wonderfully old smell, redolent with history, and the dusty tree-filtered light threw pine branch patterns on the floor. The blinds were all the way open, a nod to the fact that that brutal summer heat was already ebbing. She poured herself a cup of coffee and watched Giorgio fire up the shining grill, set up little bins of diced ham and peppers and mushrooms and various cheeses, and inventory his various supplies and utensils, making rattling and clanking and jingling sounds.
“Morning, Sprinklers,” she finally said to him.
“Great set last night,” he said.
She was shocked. Given that he rationed words like a miser. No one really knew what Giorgio’s daily word quota was.
“Gosh! Um, thanks.”
“I meant Mick’s.”
“Ha,” she amended blackly.
He hid a small smile and continued with his setup.
She sipped at her coffee, then spotted the counter stool Mick had almost beaned Eli with. It was old and plump and upholstered in red vinyl. On impulse and instinct, she thumped it with her fist, and it yielded a surprisingly satisfying sound. Boy, it would have done some damage if Mick had managed to connect, though Eli’s skull was pretty thick.
She thought about Eli and the sweet, golden-haired Bethany trailing him out the door last night. And like exhaust from a car, what emerged were the first few lines of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.” And she accompanied herself on the stool because she freakinglovedhow the drums came into that song.
Before she realized it, she was rounding on the second verse and really jamming on the red vinyl with her hands.
So it was a moment or two before she realized that the noises from the grill had stopped.
She looked up.
Giorgio was glaring at her in blackest amazement.
He held her gaze for a moment. Just to let his censure settle in.
“Don’t,” he pronounced tautly, enunciating every letter. He was clearly incredulous he would have to say that at all.
She obeyed. There really was no question who the more valuable employee was.
Sherrie returned with their order pads, a damp towel, and a broom and assigned Glory the task of giving the floor one last sweep and the tables one last wipe. This was part of “morning prep.”
Glory caught a glimpse of her puffy hairdo and martyred expression in the reflection of the table she was cleaning and almost laughed. She looked a bit like Cinderella. Which perversely cheered her up. Because in the end, even when her dress was in tatters and she’d lost one of her completely impractical shoes, even Cinderella caught a break. And after the week she’d had, she was due for one, she figured.
“It’spornography!” Carlotta Kilgore was incensed.
“Wellll...” Eli said. “I’m not sure I’d call it that, precisely.”
Revengeis what he would call it. For walking a beagle in the wrong place, over and over. And he’d also call it hilarious. But he wasn’t going to say that.
