an office cleared out for her. He’d also
lined up some mundane management tasks to keep her busy. Scheduling employees.
Interviewing summer help. Regular mechanical and service maintenance. Things
too boring to imagine and nearly too daunting to do.
He flashed her a grin. “Just as soon as you’re done eating
my toast.”
* * * * *
Grant leaned against the wall of the kitchen of the lodge
watching Ivy wash dishes, elbow-deep in hot, soapy water. Sweat from the steam
and heat glistened on her skin. Hot air and unpleasant smells always found the
way to the back of the kitchen where the odors remained trapped. If he wasn’t
mistaken, a piece of food had lodged itself in her hair, which was held up in
an unflattering hairnet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
She smiled over her shoulder at him. “I’m falling behind the
demand for clean dishes. Dishwasher called in sick.”
And pigs can fly . More likely, Tom the dishwasher was
hung over or playing hooky. Some folks in town lacked the focus to fight their
inner impulses and lead productive lives. Although Grant guessed it was like
that everywhere. He wouldn’t know, having lived in Mystic all his days except
for a short stint at a nearby college.
“Washing dishes is not the manager’s job, Ivy.” He rolled up
his sleeves one at a time as he slowly came closer.
“Everything is the manager’s job. I even did some bussing
and stood in for the hostess while she went on break. For the health and safety
of everyone within eating range, I draw the line at cooking.”
He began scraping the dirty plates into the garbage, a job
he’d held when he was fifteen. Grant had worked his way through the kitchen
stations and more. Busboy, dishwasher, waiter, lifeguard, he did it all,
including the front desk. “The manager’s job is to find someone else to wash
the dishes.”
She shrugged. “I like to know how to do all the jobs. I
can’t very well ask someone else to do a job I wouldn’t do myself, can I?”
Handing her a stack of plates, he asked, “What about the
management tasks I left for you to complete?”
“Done,” she said.
He picked some wilted lettuce off her shoulder. “Done?”
“By noon.” She grinned proudly at him across a stack of
dirty dishes. “I mean, some of the interviews and service appointments are
scheduled for later in the week, but done. I perused the employee files. I took
a look at the financial statements, created some spreadsheets. I even popped
over to the gift shop and sold a couple of those bumper stickers.”
Grant couldn’t help but laugh. “What about the postcards?”
She loaded some plates in the sanitizer. “I’m not a
magician, Mr. Mayor.”
Brushing a stray wisp of hair from her face, he asked,
“What’s gotten into you?”
“I feel…” She tensed up, balling her hands into fists.
“Energized. I’m so jazzed about the job. When can we get together and
brainstorm?”
His plan had been to avoid her, not brainstorm with her.
Brainstorming could lead to boning in record time. Grant had found he couldn’t
stay away from her. First he’d tried her cottage. When he hadn’t found her
there, he’d checked her office. The last place he expected to find her was up
to her elbows in dirty dishwater.
“How about a swim later?” He couldn’t believe the words
coming out of his mouth. “The rush should be over soon.”
Wrinkling her nose, she said, “I can’t.”
“No?”
“Some guy named Bobby Joe invited me to The Magic Room with
him and his beer buddies—or dear buddies—to, and I quote, ‘drink our quota of
barley pops and get all kinds of drunk and stupid.’ I got the impression he
didn’t have far to go to get stupid drunk. Am I right? Do you know him? Please
tell me The Magic Room is a pub and not his garage converted into some sort of
man cave.” She was going a mile a minute.
The Magic Room was a deer hangout, also catering to deer
lovers and wannabes. Young adults often
lined up some mundane management tasks to keep her busy. Scheduling employees.
Interviewing summer help. Regular mechanical and service maintenance. Things
too boring to imagine and nearly too daunting to do.
He flashed her a grin. “Just as soon as you’re done eating
my toast.”
* * * * *
Grant leaned against the wall of the kitchen of the lodge
watching Ivy wash dishes, elbow-deep in hot, soapy water. Sweat from the steam
and heat glistened on her skin. Hot air and unpleasant smells always found the
way to the back of the kitchen where the odors remained trapped. If he wasn’t
mistaken, a piece of food had lodged itself in her hair, which was held up in
an unflattering hairnet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
She smiled over her shoulder at him. “I’m falling behind the
demand for clean dishes. Dishwasher called in sick.”
And pigs can fly . More likely, Tom the dishwasher was
hung over or playing hooky. Some folks in town lacked the focus to fight their
inner impulses and lead productive lives. Although Grant guessed it was like
that everywhere. He wouldn’t know, having lived in Mystic all his days except
for a short stint at a nearby college.
“Washing dishes is not the manager’s job, Ivy.” He rolled up
his sleeves one at a time as he slowly came closer.
“Everything is the manager’s job. I even did some bussing
and stood in for the hostess while she went on break. For the health and safety
of everyone within eating range, I draw the line at cooking.”
He began scraping the dirty plates into the garbage, a job
he’d held when he was fifteen. Grant had worked his way through the kitchen
stations and more. Busboy, dishwasher, waiter, lifeguard, he did it all,
including the front desk. “The manager’s job is to find someone else to wash
the dishes.”
She shrugged. “I like to know how to do all the jobs. I
can’t very well ask someone else to do a job I wouldn’t do myself, can I?”
Handing her a stack of plates, he asked, “What about the
management tasks I left for you to complete?”
“Done,” she said.
He picked some wilted lettuce off her shoulder. “Done?”
“By noon.” She grinned proudly at him across a stack of
dirty dishes. “I mean, some of the interviews and service appointments are
scheduled for later in the week, but done. I perused the employee files. I took
a look at the financial statements, created some spreadsheets. I even popped
over to the gift shop and sold a couple of those bumper stickers.”
Grant couldn’t help but laugh. “What about the postcards?”
She loaded some plates in the sanitizer. “I’m not a
magician, Mr. Mayor.”
Brushing a stray wisp of hair from her face, he asked,
“What’s gotten into you?”
“I feel…” She tensed up, balling her hands into fists.
“Energized. I’m so jazzed about the job. When can we get together and
brainstorm?”
His plan had been to avoid her, not brainstorm with her.
Brainstorming could lead to boning in record time. Grant had found he couldn’t
stay away from her. First he’d tried her cottage. When he hadn’t found her
there, he’d checked her office. The last place he expected to find her was up
to her elbows in dirty dishwater.
“How about a swim later?” He couldn’t believe the words
coming out of his mouth. “The rush should be over soon.”
Wrinkling her nose, she said, “I can’t.”
“No?”
“Some guy named Bobby Joe invited me to The Magic Room with
him and his beer buddies—or dear buddies—to, and I quote, ‘drink our quota of
barley pops and get all kinds of drunk and stupid.’ I got the impression he
didn’t have far to go to get stupid drunk. Am I right? Do you know him? Please
tell me The Magic Room is a pub and not his garage converted into some sort of
man cave.” She was going a mile a minute.
The Magic Room was a deer hangout, also catering to deer
lovers and wannabes. Young adults often
Similar Books
