Glimmers (2 page)

“I like them all. I can’t choose. Why don’t you pick one?”

“Hailey, you’re the bride, and the wedding is only two months away! Speaking of which, have you sent out the invitations?”

“I’ve been so busy with my designs for Julian . . . my new client. Maybe you and I can work together on the invitations tomorrow night?”

“Sure! It will give me an excuse to wear my new jeans and boots!”

“Paige, it’s just me. Don’t dress up on my account.”

“Hailey, I need to dress up on your account. In fact, if I don’t make up reasons to wear my new cloths then they’ll just sit at the bottom of my closet, collecting dust. Actually, I’m wearing my new boots today—just for the grocery store.”

“Have you been hitting the consignment shops, again?” questions Hailey, and I know she’s smiling on the other end.

“I did a couple weeks ago. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to shop much. I miss the old days when I was able to shop
and
have a social life. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Elliott and the kids. It's just sometimes, I wish I could escape for a little while, explore different places, and meet new and interesting people. Just once, I’d like to spend a few hours in someone else's shoes,” I say dreamily.

“Paige, that’s what books are for. In fact, I have a fantastic one at home; remind me to give it to you.”

“Right,” I sigh. “Listen, I have to go. These groceries aren’t going to unload themselves.”

“Talk to you later!”

“Later,” I say, and toss my phone back into my purse.

After flinging my bags of groceries onto a counter, I begin to shuffle and sort them. Hmm, where did this shrimp come from? I never buy shrimp! I shrug my shoulders and throw the bag into the sink. I come across another strange item, paprika. Did I end up with someone else’s cart? I search and find something I recognize, frozen mini-pancakes—these are definitely my bags. I reach for the paprika and stare. What sort of dish would call for paprika? Hmm . . . and just like that, I am inspired! Tonight, I am going to be creative!

I grab an onion and dice it! After wiping the tears from my eyes, I wander over to my prep area, both arms overflowing with ingredients.

"What the . . . " I groan. Something has just popped under my “new” suede boot. Without even looking down, I know what has just squished and smeared across the floor. It’s something small and round; a little burst of liquid has broken free of its skin. I bend down and check. A veritable army of purple grapes cover my wooden floor; most are still whole, but one is squished flat.

“Nice!” I lament and sit on one of the high-top stools. I lean over and clean off the purple-red goo. Thank goodness the stain’s limited to the sole of my boot and hasn’t ruined the upper portion. I rub a rag over the messy substance, and the back of my finger grazes my boot’s surface. It’s both smooth and soft.

All of a sudden, something strange occurs. My vision is clearer. I look around my kitchen and everything appears sharp. I’m immersed in high definition! This is kind of cool! Wait, what’s going on here?

I stand, and the room starts to shift. My hand clutches the counter, and the area around me begins to swirl. Its circulating motion revolves faster and faster, making me dizzy. I squeeze my eyes shut. This isn’t right, something is terribly wrong! In an effort to steady myself, I concentrate on my breathing…one, two, three…all right, this isn’t working! Finally, when the room feels like it may have stopped spinning, I reopen my eyes.

I’m in the kitchen, but not in
my
kitchen anymore. Where am I? The cabinets are replaced by dark Formica. The walls are plastered with beige wallpaper overflowing with images of fruit and birds. And . . . is that an avocado green stove? I haven’t seen one of those in decades. I’m standing on gray linoleum.
My
boots, now those I recognize.

Hmm, what’s that? Something smells yummy in here. I wonder what’s simmering on that green stove. I inhale deeply and pick apart the scrumptious fragrance. Ooh, I can smell a sautéed onion, along with stewed tomatoes and bell peppers. Strange, this isn’t
my
nose; it belongs to someone else.

All right, I must have slipped and hit my head. Surely, I’m hallucinating and this is just an illusion. Strange, I am aware of someone else’s thoughts and feel the motion of her body. Yes, it must be a female. I can hear her boots crossing the floor. No, I mean
my
boots! This has to be a dream.

Frantically, I search for a reflective surface. This is difficult, because I have little control. I can’t move! Thank goodness, she’s looking for a mirror . . . hold on. How do I know this?

Long delicate fingers reach for a cabinet door. It opens and attached inside is a round mirror. Wow. I’m not me. I mean, this is not me. I don’t have strawberry-blonde hair, light freckles, and a soft pouty mouth . . . and I’m definitely not a teenager.

Delilah’s Story, June 1988

Lewisburg, West Virginia

“I’m not sure what you’re makin’, but it sure does smell good.”

“Dad, when are you gonna learn to stop sneaking up on people?” I admonish, turning away from the mirror.

My dad smiles, and his weathered face tells a tale all on its own—he has spent his entire life working hard outdoors, while raising a daughter all on his own. His salt and pepper hair is matted to his forehead, beads of sweat cling to his skin, and his white t-shirt and jeans are smudged with dirt from the day.

He peers down into the bubbling pot. “I can’t wait to have a bowl of whatever you’re cookin’.”

“It’s called crawfish etouffee. I found it in the gourmet cookbook you just gave me,” I explain excitedly. “I had trouble finding crawfish, so I substituted them for shrimp.”

“Well, I’m lookin’ forward to tryin’ something new from my little girl. One thing I just don’t get; why is it when everyone else around these parts makes mashed potatoes and gravy, my Delilah comes up with a strange new dish?”

“I suppose I take after the man who raised me . . . always ready to try something new. In fact, I noticed there’s a recipe in here named for you, ‘Sheppard’s Pie.’ I’m assuming that’s why you bought this cookbook for me.”

“Hmm, that’s funny. I didn’t realize that was in there,” he says, but I can tell he’s fibbing. “I suppose since it’s in there, you’re just gonna have to practice makin’ it. I expect it will be a huge success at your future restaurant.”

“I expect
all
my meals will be a huge success,” I tease. “I’ll have the shrimp etouffee ready for your supper.”

“I feel bad eatin’ a meal you’ve put together, when you aren’t here enjoying it with me,” he says, looking me sincerely in the eyes.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll just have to taste this meal for myself before I run off to work. Since it’s my first day at The Greenbrier Resort, I want to make a good impression. Besides, you know I plan on earning lots of money this summer to help pay for culinary school.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Now go, get back to work.”

“Yeah, I suppose the cows won’t feed themselves. I best be gettin’ off.” He heads toward the door and places his cowboy hat on his head. “Now, I’m serious, when you get to work I want you to march straight over to your boss and tell him what you’re all about. Why, you’re the best cook south of the Mason Dixon Line.”

“Thanks Dad, but the truth is I’m just lucky to have a job.”

“Now Delilah, what you have there’s a God given talent. The only person who doesn’t believe in you is you,” he says, his voice stern.

“I’ll talk to my boss about working towards a position in the kitchen. But, can I at least start the job before I go blabbing my mouth off to him?”

“Well, alrighty then. I’ll see ya later.” He tips his hat and walks out the door.

I fill the saucepan with ingredients from my shrimp etouffee recipe. It’s spicy and bold, yet celery adds crisp and refreshing coolness. After tasting it, I’m pleased with the outcome.

I look over at the clock . . . . Oh for heaven’s sake, I need to get ready for work!

I finish cleaning the dishes and rush to my bedroom. My uniform hangs in my closet, pressed and ready for wear: a black skirt, white dress shirt, and black vest. I sit on the edge of my bed and remove my tan ankle boots. I stare adoringly at them for a brief moment, remembering how I had saved up all last summer just to pay for them. It was the first time in my life I splurged on something after seeing it in a magazine.

I search under the bed for my uncomfortable, black, work pumps. After hitting my head on the white bed frame, I sit and stare around my room. I am surrounded by faces from my favorite bands: U2, Madonna, and REM. My pink phone sits on my wicker nightstand and tape cassettes are sprawled out over the shaggy carpet.

Just then, I hear my friend’s car horn, blaring through my open window. I literally fly around my bed, knocking my quilt to the floor. After leaping over piles of clothes, I stop in front of the tall whicker mirror. Quickly, I dab on more petal-pink lipstick and plaster my hair with Aqua Net spray. I spritz on some perfume, reminding me of fresh orange blossoms.

I’m finally ready and head out the door.

My friend Lydia waves to me from behind the driver’s seat, “Hey sugar, are ya ready to roll?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Thanks again for helping me get this summer job. I’ll work real hard at it,” I say, hopping into her car. My foot nudges something balled up on the floor. It’s Lydia’s “Class of 1988” t-shirt, in a heaping mess. “You oughta show more respect to our senior class,” I say and toss the shirt onto the backseat.

“Aw, who cares about that grubby old shirt? I’m ready to leave high school behind and hit the big time!” Lydia says enthusiastically.

I smile in agreement, feeling lighthearted just thinking about all the fun we’re gonna have this summer. After all, Lydia’s my best friend and we always have a great time together. We grew up knowing each other our whole lives and feel more like sisters than friends.

Lydia reaches over and turns up the music. The radio’s playing
The Loco-Motion
by Kylie Minogue. We pay little attention to the beauty around us, as we sing and bob our heads from side-to-side. The drive’s familiar, since we both grew up here. The road cuts right through the small town of Lewisburg before weaving around mountains.

After we round the corner, Lydia parks her car in the employee lot. My stomach flips and flops. I must remind myself this isn’t the first job I’ve had. In fact, I worked all year at the local diner, but The Greenbrier is entirely different. I’m intimidated by the grandeur of the resort. Lydia told me all about her experience working there last summer. She isn’t the sort to leave out any details, either. She raked in a lot of cash. And that’s just one reason why I’m here. Truthfully, I can’t wait to watch and learn from the resort’s award winning chefs.

“You’ll do fine. Just smile at the guests and they’ll smile back. They’re only human, just the same as you and me, remember that,” Lydia says.

“They aren’t the same as you and me. They’re bigger than we are. They come here from big cities. I’ve never even left this area of West Virginia. The only big city I’ve ever seen was on TV.” I look down at my plain old work pumps.

“Sugar, you’ll do just fine. Why, you’re flawless at anything you set your mind to doin’. And don’t you forget what Mr. Frank told ya about workin’ hard. I believe him when he said you’d end up helping in the kitchen. Now stop this nonsense, will ya?” Lydia laces her arm through mine and together we take our first steps of summer.

We enter the resort through a back entrance and walk down a large tunnel. It leads us into the kitchen, where we’re greeted by our boss, Mr. Frank.

“Good evening ladies, welcome,” he says, and his mustache stretches distractingly into a thin line. “You’re just in time for my little speech.” We join the rest of the wait staff and try to appear interested in whatever Mr. Frank has to say. “
Remember, The Greenbrier Resort is an established vacation destination for influential families. We are fortunate to have such an important historical attraction so close to our homes. Never forget, while you work to make a living, you also represent our hometown.”
He then proceeds to brief us on how the
night ought to run. “Tonight’s probably the most important of them all. You can only make a first impression one time.” He raises a finger, as if we don’t clearly understand.