Page 3 of First Love

Chapter Two

Jasper

“You got any more ofthat dee-licious cornbread?” Homer wiggled his empty plate at me.

“Sure do.” I picked up the tongs and selected the biggest piece I could find. I set it on his plate then tossed an extra slice of watermelon on there too. “Eat the watermelon first.”

“Sure thing, Dad.” Homer chuckled at his joke. The man was easily double my age, but he didn’t mind me fathering him every now and then. After all, that was what I did here at The Cavanaugh House. The homeless shelter had been in operation for about five years now, and it served the Moon Valley, Maplehaven, and Canville areas in Vermont. I started the place about a year after a homeless guy had been found frozen to death by Rodgers Lake during a particularly fierce January.

No one should die like that. Especially when there are people like me in the world who could fucking do something to stop it.

I refilled the macaroni and cheese, knowing that was a crowd fave on Wednesday nights at the shelter. I checked the time and braced for the influx of folks who visited The Cavanaugh House around dinner time.

“Jasper, can you approve next week’s food orders?” my director and primary chef, Carla, asked as she fit a pan of barbecued chicken wings in next to the mac and cheese.

“Sure.”

“I left the tablet on your desk.” She motioned to the kitchen behind us.

“You good out here for a few minutes?”

Carla squinted out at the main dining area then checked the clock. “Yeah. But get your ass out here before it gets crazy.”

I saluted her. Carla was pretty much the only person in the world who talked to me like that, and it made me laugh every single time.

I found the tablet and gave it a skim. I had no doubt Carla had ordered exactly what we needed. No more. No less. The woman was detailed oriented and always found a way to save a few bucks without sacrificing quality. We never had any complaints on the meals we served, and we never turned anyone away. Between the two of us and a handful of volunteers, The Cavanaugh House was accomplishing the goals I’d set out for it.

Now it was time for the next level. I had plans to start helping the people who visited the shelter find jobs in nearby communities. I’d already done so for a few frequent visitors, but I wanted to expand that service. Formalize it. Make a bigger difference.

People often said the phrase It was the least I could do. I was on the hunt for what was the most I could do. Not because I was looking for sainthood or anything like that. I’d just had a stream of good fortune, and I wanted to share it with those who’d experienced the exact opposite of that.

With a few clicks, I approved Carla’s food orders, adding several boxes of chocolate cake because whose crappy day out on the streets wasn’t improved with some chocolate cake, dammit? One of my volunteers, Jeremy, was from Moon Valley High School, and he loved baking. I’d get him to make the cakes the next time he was scheduled to come in. He’d be in his glory.

I cleared a few more to-do items off my desk then headed back out to help Carla serve what had turned out to be one hell of a southern barbecue dinner. Before donning a pair of gloves, I pulled up some bluegrass music on my phone and played it through the Bluetooth speakers in the shelter.

Homer let out a hearty guffaw and slapped his knee. “We gettin’ all honky-tonk in here tonight!” He gave me a toothy grin, a dab of barbecue sauce at the corner of his mouth.

“Come get a napkin, you nutty old geezer.” I plucked a napkin from the holder and waved it like a flag at him.

He shuffled over and swiped the napkin from me. After wiping his mouth, he bowed at Carla. “Oh, Miss Carla, you are a chicken magician.” He straightened and rubbed his belly. Not that the man had much of a belly. Homer was rail thin, a scrap of a man, but his personality sure was plump. I’d tried to get him a job, but nothing had stuck.

Yet.

“I’m glad you like the chicken wings, Homer,” Carla said. “I added a little extra kick to the sauce just for you.”

Homer let out a cackly laugh as he made his way back to the table where he always sat. We didn’t hear another word out of him as he dove into the feast on his plate.

Carla and I parceled out food to the people who came through the line, making conversation with the regulars. I couldn’t help giving each of them an extra look, trying to figure out what job might be good for them. I had a pretty good mental list going, but it was time to map it out and find employers willing to take a chance on my friends here.

“We’re out of coleslaw,” Carla said. “There’s more in the refrigerator. Can you grab it?”

“Yup.” I finished doling out mashed potatoes to the last person currently in line then ducked into the kitchen.

I pulled the refrigerator open and scanned the shelves. My gaze landed on the big container of coleslaw, but when I reached for it, I knocked a jar of mustard off the shelf next to it. Of course it had to be a glass jar and not a plastic bottle. Glass shattered all over the floor, and my feet, my boots, and pretty much everything else in range was splattered in yellow mustard. It resembled an abstract art exhibition.

Did I mention how much I hated abstract art?

Growling, I set the coleslaw on the counter beside the fridge then found a bucket so I could put the bigger glass shards into it. Paper towel, a broom, and finally a mop helped me restore the kitchen to its pre-mustard level of cleanliness. The trash was full now that I’d added so much paper towel to it though, so I lifted the bag out and tied it off. I opened the back door to toss the bag into the dumpster.