Rebels & Romantics by Jeanmarie Anaya

Author:Jeanmarie Anaya [Jeanmarie Anaya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JM Books
Published: 2023-05-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

On the ride to Fox Inn, my father launches into a rousing speech involving how a few weeks of hard work and extra shifts will shape me up. I’m on kitchen cleanup duty, effective immediately. Whatever. This punishment has nothing to do with my behavior and everything to do with me remaining Fox Inn’s indentured servant. I’m only half-pissed, because I can deal with a few extra shifts. I don’t like it, but it’s more money in my pocket and more money means I’m out of here. Joke’s on him, really.

Fox Inn is mostly dark except for the small overhead pin lights illuminating the liquor bottles behind the bar. Carlo and Vincent are already red-faced and sweating over prep for tomorrow’s brunch crowd when I step through the kitchen doors. One of their phones is cranking out songs in Italian. They sing along, Carlo scrubbing the grill and Vincent pouring melted chocolate into a piping bag.

The second I walk through the doors, a barrage of questions hits me.

What happened?

Why’d you get locked up again?

Can’t you stay out of trouble, Effie?

I blow them off with a question of my own. "That man we talked about, the one with the daughter. Can I ask you—”

“Don’t remember him.” Carlo shrugs.

I slap the counter. “Yes, you do. We’ve already been through this.”

“Oh no! She’s mad!” Carlo says. “Hurry! Grab a mouthguard. She aims for the teeth.” He drags a damp cloth along the stainless steel countertop where I left fingerprints.

“Why does he say his name is Kevin Vaughn?”

Vincent's deep voice chimes in. “You still on him?”

Carlo mutters, “She is.”

They exchange a look and fall quiet.

“Come on, guys. Don’t hold out on me.”

Vincent drizzles chocolate sauce onto parchment paper. It’s a perfect alternating pattern of curlicues and dashes. I aim to kill him with kindness, stroke his ego a little.

“You should have been an artist, Vincent.”

“I am an artist,” he says flatly.

My father bursts through the kitchen doors then, clapping his hands. “Let’s get this place cleaned up, guys. Chop, chop.” He hovers over a small vat of hollandaise sauce sitting on a warming plate, and sniffs. “Stretch this another day.”

Vincent mutters something inaudible.

My father slips back into the restaurant.

Carlo sighs. “This guy, this guy,” he mumbles. “Stretch the hollandaise. How we gonna stretch that for the morning? The flavor’s all wrong. Felicia will have a fit.” He pulls a gallon-sized container of sour cream out of the refrigerator and whisks it into the sauce. The stretched rendition is more than a little on the white side. Vincent peeks over Carlo’s shoulder and dips a spoon into it. They taste it and start yapping in Italian. Carlo lifts a shoulder when he catches me watching them. “Don’t take it personal, but your father’s a cheap bastard.”

I have not taken a single negative comment about my father personally since the day I watched him rig a bet to trick some poor, unsuspecting tourist out of a hundred bucks. We locked eyes, and instead of offering an explanation—something, anything—he shrugged and said, “Never seen him before.

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