Page 24 of Just Ten Seconds

“That was my Pop’s recipe,” Nick interrupts with a sideways glare.

“Or the New York cheddar grilled cheese.”

Nick hands me a new plate with a sandwich made with Hellmann’s and then wipes his hand on a rag rather voraciously. “He made sure to stop by and tell me it would have been better with American.”

“Isn’t that the way we all were raised?”

His thick black brows cringe as he threatens, “Watch it, Mara, or I’ll kick you out with old man Kenner.”

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.” I let out a sigh.

He waves me off with a grunt and gets back to work in the kitchen his father worked in and his grandfather before that.

I set the plate in front of Mr. Kenner and watch as he takes a bite.

His wrinkled frown lights up into a smile as he chews. “That’s the way a sandwich should be made.”

I pat him on his hunched back and walk around the room, clearing tables and giving out checks.

With light-colored cedar plank flooring and walnut tabletops, the Harvest Café has an earthy vibe mixed with the sleek and clean elements of metal chairs and industrial-style beams on the ceiling. There are black-and-white prints of the historic Hudson Valley town hung on the walls. The large window in the front gives it the feel of a true community establishment.

The breakfast rush had me on my toes all morning, and I haven’t had a chance to take a break. Now that the lunch hour has calmed down, I walk over to the counter to empty my tips into the locked drawer we keep in the counter.

“Gold lamé or fuchsia sequins?” Jackie bounces up next to me, holding up two printouts, each of her standing in her room, wearing a different party dress.

“Are these laminated?” I ask, not as surprised as one should be.

“I was bored, and we have the machine in the back office. Now, which should I wear to my party?”

I close the drawer and lock it. “No one’s throwing you a surprise party.”

She ignores me, holding the photos up in the air, pushing them back and forth in my direction with a smirk on her face. Instead of taking them, I turn and change the filter to the coffeemaker.

Jackie is planning her “surprise” birthday party. And by surprise, I mean, Nick is throwing it but only because she’s mentioned every day for the past three months that she’d like one. And if he were to throw her a party, it should be at Joe’s Pub with pomegranate mojitos as the signature drink and a cannoli cream cake from Smith’s Bakery—with sparklers instead of candles—and a dance-off because isn’t that what everyone has at their thirtieth birthday?

I fill the machine with water and hit the on button.

She rolls her shoulders into a circular motion, dancing the photos further into my peripheral. To appease her, I take them from her hands and appraise the two outfits.

The pink dress is strapless, short, and shines like it has mermaid scales. The gold one reveals less cleavage and has a longer hem. It’s far more appropriate for a thirtieth birthday party, which means it’s much less Jackie, so I pick the, “Fuchsia. It’s fun, flirty, and more you.”

She takes the picture of the gold dress and flings it into the trash like a Frisbee. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say. Okay, now, when I walk in, should I go for the Miss America?” She holds one hand up to her mouth as her eyes widen in surprise while her other hand pretends to fan her makeup. “Or the Academy Award?” She drops her jaw as she temporarily freezes from apparently being in complete shock, and then she starts looking around the room as a slow smile builds onto her face before laughing like she just can’t believe this is really happening to her.

I have to give her props for getting a little misty-eyed.

I roll my eyes at her performance. “And the Oscar goes to …”

“Me!” She spins around, as does her little black apron.

With a shake of my head, I laugh lightly as I take a rag and wipe down the counter. “You’re insane.”

She leans her back against the counter and props herself up with her feet dangling over the edge. “So,” she dramatically drawls out, “someone wasn’t picking her phone up last night.”

With her long, loose waves pulled back in a braid, she looks like the epitome of a sweet-as-pie waitress who has all day to sit and gossip. That’s fine, except I’m not used to her wanting to talk about my day.

“I was sleeping.”

“You ignored my phone call.”