Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-10 (44) (139 page)

“Okay. Go slow, but hurry.”

When I hung up, the ghost was gone.

I started the Jeep and carefully made my way out of the lot, knowing that it was only a matter of time before I would see Charles Modine again.

CHAPTER 3

When they promoted Ty to manager back in November, our weekends pretty much went out the window since he usually didn’t get home until almost three. But we made the best of it, eating at a table in the back of the kitchen.

“There you are,” Ty said.

“Here I am.”

He pulled out a chair, handed me a napkin, and pointed down to the pesto pizza.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” I said.

I could hear people arguing a few feet away above the clash of pots and pans about the daily schedule. Between bites I told him about my backseat visitor.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.

“Me, too. It was just bad timing, maybe a little careless, but I don’t think it was intentional on his part.”

“Still, it was poor behavior.”

“Yeah, I told him as much,” I said.

“Did he tell you how his wife was killed?” Ty grabbed another slice. “Or what happened to him?”

“No, we didn’t get into that. He looked to be in one piece, so I don’t think he died violently or in an accident.”

Ty nodded.

“Do they always appear the way they looked just before they died? Does an old man ever have the ghost of a younger self?”

“No, I don’t think that’s how it works. At least not the ones that come my way.”

An employee I’d never seen before came over and smiled nervously. The name on her badge read Trixie.

“Sorry, Ty. But we just ran out of the new stout,” she said, pushing hair behind her ear. “What should we do?”

“I’ll take care of it in a minute,” Ty said. “Thanks.”

“What about the fire pit? Should we burn some more wood? There’s only two people out there right now.”

“Yeah, keep it going strong.”

She nodded and backed away.

“They’re eager and hard workers but I swear, sometimes the questions, the endless questions…” he said. “I really have to force myself from saying something I know I’ll regret.”

“It’s not so hard,” I said. “Just count to 10. Didn’t they teach you anything in Montana?”

“I guess I was absent that day. Hey, how was the rest of your day, besides the backseat driver?”

“It was super busy but strangely relaxing,” I said. “Oh, and I found out I have Sunday off.
Mike had scheduled too many of us, so I volunteered to stay home.”

“I have to add that to the list.”

“What list?”

“The list of things I love about you. Let’s see, so far I have beautiful, smart, fun to be around, epic cooking skills, and kind to ghosts. Now I can put down selfless beyond all reason.”

I gave him a little laugh.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes you have to take one for the team. Hey, if I fall asleep wake me when you get home tonight.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You need your sleep.”

Another new face came over and apologized for the interruption. At least they were polite.

“Ty,” he said. “We have a situation at the bar. There’s a guy being unruly. I think he’s had one too many. He’s calling people names.”

“Not that,” Ty said, getting up. “If there’s something I can’t abide, it’s a name caller. I’ll be right there.”

He shook his head and pounded his fist into his hand, scrunching his face in a mock scowl. Then he looked at me and smiled the kind of smile that could turn diamonds into jelly beans, or the other way around.

“Don’t forget about counting to 10,” I said. “And don’t forget to wake me. Hey, wait.”

Before he went out to fight the good fight against general unruliness and name calling, I gave him a long pizza kiss.

CHAPTER 4

“Why are you harassing me?”

“Oh, dear me,” Lyle said in a soft voice. “Ma’am, I assure you, that was never my intention.”

“Just give me my money back,” the gray-haired woman said, sliding the half-eaten brownie on the counter and then crossing her arms over her chest.

“Of course, ma’am. But first I need to write something down for our records so we can address the issue. Can you tell me what the problem was?”

“The problem was that it tastes like it came out of the wrong end of a horse. Write that down. Do you need me to spell it for you? It tastes like H-O-R-S-E-S-H—”

“Got it,” Lyle said, holding up his hand.

He shook his head, wrote something, apologized, handed her the money, and then glanced over at me. The woman seemed a little high on caffeine or something else, her hair and eyes wild, but she wasn’t alone in her opinion. Two other customers had returned muffins from the same supplier earlier in the day.

“What’s with that bakery?” David said as he moonwalked behind me. “I say we get
our money back. I’m going to find Mike and see if he wants to do that. Abby Craig, can you take over for me?”

“You mean just talk and laugh and watch other people work?”

He formed his hand into a claw and made a hissing sound.

“I’m just messing around,” I said and smiled. “I’ll step in if Mo needs me. But I’m coming to find you in five if you don’t come back. Remember, I know where you live.”

“Now, see here,” he said, sliding off his apron and switching accents in mid-sentence. “Gurl, yo mind is polluted if you think I woo leaf you hanging like dat.”

Ever since his agent called and told him he was up for a mob role in a new series, David punctuated most conversations with some sort of gangster speak, sounding like Edward G. Robinson’s and Tony Montana’s love child.

“I’m still only giving you five minutes. I thought I saw Mike drive off a little while ago anyway. I’m not waiting around while you go in the back to do who knows what.”

“Okay, okay, little dictator.”

He winked before disappearing into the storage room.

Back Street had been packed since I started my shift at eleven, and even with five of us working non-stop, we couldn’t downsize the line that snaked out to the exit. People liked hot drinks on their way to the mountain and then on their way back and the lingering non-alpine types kept the place busy the rest of the time.

The music for January was heavy on “relaxation and rebirth,” all in on flute and soft guitars, but I didn’t mind it so much. At least it was a change from those mind-numbing Christmas songs. Mo, however, was of a different opinion and told Mike that she was going to quit the next time she heard Yanni. In the end they compromised. The flutes would rule the day but at night Mo would have full DJ control.

I rang up the next order and then turned back to Lyle.

“It sounds like you guys had a great time,” I said.

He had been telling me about his honeymoon in Mexico for the last half hour in short sentences between orders.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “With my beautiful bride by my side and that exquisite sea in front of us, it was pure paradise.”

“I’m so glad. And that wedding and reception were something else. It was so much fun. I mean, I’m no expert, but it was the best. We had a great time.”

He smiled gently.

I marked a cup and sent it down to Mo.

“I’ve never seen an ocean so blue, Abby. Our casita was right there on the beach and Paloma and I swam every day and watched the stars come out every night.”

“Hey, I knew a Paloma once,” an older man near the front of the line said to no one in particular, a creepy smile playing on his lips. “That girl could shake it. Yeah, dancing up in that cage, that girl could shake it
all night long
.”

“That’s my wife you’re talking about, sir,” Lyle said, his smile fading. “You need to check yourself.”

He went into a Clint Eastwood squint, his eyes growing small and serious.

“Your what?” the guy said. “That babe who used to dance at Club 6? She married
you
? No way. Well, I guess there’s hope for me then. I mean that as a compliment. You’re my new hero.”

Lyle nodded at him, still a little suspicious. But it wasn’t long until he was smiling again.

He was the happiest I had ever seen him. He told me how Paloma was trying to talk him into moving down to Mexico for a year, renting a little shack on the beach and selling his specialty hot chocolate drinks. As I looked out at the snow, it seemed like a good idea. A real good idea.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the sun dancing on the water, baking the sand, turning my skin shades of gold and brown and other colors I hadn’t seen in a long time…

“Damn it, Craig!” Mo shouted from behind the machines, her voice cutting through my daydream and the elevator music. “What the hell did you write on this cup?”

I moved to the back and took it from her hand. Mo was just being Mo, but as I looked at the inky scrawl I couldn’t put it on her this time.

“Straight espresso, three shots,” I said. “Here, I’ll get it.”

I made the drink and handed it to the man with the raccoon eyes.

“School getting to you?” Mo said. “Or have you donated what’s left of your brain to science?”

“Both, I guess.”

I looked at her tattooed arm, rippling and flexing as she steamed milk. It didn’t matter whether it was snowing or sunny out, Mo always wore a tank top. 

“Just say the word,” she said, noticing my stare. “I’ll hook you up with my guy. There’s not much blood if you’ve got a problem with that sort of thing but, you know, there will be pain. You have to be able to bite the bullet. Anyway, he’ll give you a deal if you mention my name.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You could start small,” she said, smirking. “Like a little Casper with a red slash through it, you know, right above your crack. Of course you can’t go wrong with ‘I see dead people.’”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

The day went on like that, busy but with everyone in good spirits. I was glad to have this job. Along with Ty, it was one of the few constants in my life.

More and more, the crew at Back Street felt like family.

CHAPTER 5

“Be brave, Abby,” Miguel’s voice whispered from behind. “Don’t forget to hand her the tasting spoon. And whatever you do, don’t let her see you sweat.”

That was easy for him to say. Miguel was the teacher’s pet. Not that he didn’t deserve it, because he did. He had more passion and skill in one chubby little finger than the rest of us put together.

Miguel Berasategui and I had developed an instant bond on the first day of school when we were thrown together during an icebreaking game and I mentioned that I was a Barcelona fan and that one of my dreams was to watch Messi play in the Camp Nou. He told me his parents came from a small town in Andalusia and that he had visited Spain several times.

“Yeah, Barcelona’s cool and their soccer team is pretty good, but the south is where it’s at,” he had said. “I mean, if you want to get an authentic Spanish experience.”

I forced my face into what I hoped would pass for a smile, trying to give off an air of confidence as Chef Dubois’ stiletto heels clicked over to my station. But it wasn’t working. I was sure she could see my shaking hands and the shallow and jagged intake of my lungs, not to mention the beads of moisture forming on my forehead. She could probably even hear my heart thundering under my chef coat.

Chef Marie Dubois was the strictest teacher I had ever had, and when she did her critiques the entire class shook like the leaves of an aspen in the middle of a windstorm. In some ways it was unfair that she was even in my life. At least so soon. Technically, we weren’t supposed to be in the French cooking class until next year, but because of a conflict in her schedule, the school moved up the timeline. The program director told us he didn’t want us to miss out on her incredible talent.

That might have been true, but it was also like throwing someone who had just learned how to swim out into the middle of a shark-infested ocean. I spent most of my time terrified and swallowed a lot of water.

Time slowed down and then came to a full stop as I waited and watched her dip the spoon into the
bouillabaisse
, bring it to her lips, and then pause for what seemed like an eternity.

“
Mademoiselle
Craig,” she finally said in an impatient French accent, her dark eyes drilling into mine. “Did you taste this before you served it?”

She had framed it as a question but my brain, cut off from oxygen now, could still understand that she meant it as a statement. I stammered out an answer anyway.

“No. I mean, I did a few times as it was cooking. But, no, not right before.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “But why in
le monde
would you not taste your dish before presenting it?”

Of course I knew why. I had run out of time. I was focused on the presentation and trying to make sure I had remembered everything and barely got the dish plated when she walked into the kitchen.

She continued her death stare and I felt my knees buckle and the room begin to spin. It took all my concentration to stay upright and not keel over into the fish stew.

“Your herbs are out of balance. Not enough saffron, too many fennel fronds. Not enough salt. Also, this
rouille
is off, resulting in a tired and dingy dish. Do you understand?”

I looked down at the bowl and thought I could hear the fish laughing. I nodded.

“At least that. I am pleased that you are in agreement with my assessment, but are you getting this? Will you remember if you continue to choose to not write down these suggestions?”

I felt my forehead and cheeks grow warm and then catch fire. Right there, in the middle of class, my head had turned into a hot air balloon. If there was a bright side, it might be that it could help hold up my body for a few more seconds.

I clumsily grabbed a pen and scribbled in my notebook as she wrote in her own large black book.

“A disappointment through and through.
Non
,
Mademoiselle
.
Je suis désolé
. This
bouillabaisse
could not be served in my restaurant. I would not give it to an alley cat.”