But right now the old jeans and old shoes and long hair that hadn’t seen a trim since who knew when fit his mental state. He was getting the sinking feeling it didn’t much matter if they solved the mystery of the missing chairs. Point was, they didn’t have chairs. And he had a grand opening in less than twenty-four hours.
“Well, go on Nancy Drew.”
Lenny slapped his clipboard to his chest. “If that’s a crack about my red hair . . .”
Seth shook his head. “No, but you said ‘Mystery solved,’ and that was the first detective to come to mind.”
“Could’ve at least picked a male one. Sam Spade. The Hardy Boys. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Lenny—”
“Shoot, Columbo would’ve worked. I’ve even got the mustache.”
“Chairs, Lenny?”
Lenny held the clipboard out for Seth to see. “Here it is. I gave you the pricing breakdown for the tables and chairs last November. You signed the first page of the order form, which had the tables listed. Second page had the chairs and bar stools. No signature or date.” He tapped the clipboard surface. “Which means, you never ordered your eighty-four chairs.”
“Or my sixteen bar stools.”
“Or your sixteen bar stools.”
He was going to be sick. Right here in the middle of his chair-less diner, he was going to lose the breakfast he’d scarfed down at his uncle’s house only hours ago.
What was it he’d written in that email to Ava a couple nights ago? She’d asked him in her last email if he felt ready for the big opening. And like the cocky college kid he used to be, he’d gone all self-assured on her.
Been ready for this forever. There is something ridiculously satisfying about taking a business plan and a blueprint and turning them into tangible reality. Maybe it’s how Shan Hart—she’s my head cook—feels when she takes a recipe and a collection of ingredients and ends up with a mouth-watering dish. Or how you feel when you see your team run a play on the field.
Yeah, I’m ready. So. Ready.
p.s. Do you think I should wear a tie on opening day?
The smell of something burning drifted in from the kitchen. Apparently Shan was still working out the kinks with that expensive oven she’d insisted on. He heard her groan of frustration and then the sudden growl of a southern rock band. Always could tell Shan’s state of mind by whatever radio station she blasted from the kitchen.
She did know she’d have to lay off the mood music once they opened, right?
“You all right, Walker? Not going to pass out or anything—are you?”
“I’m fine, Lenny.” If fine included chest pains and very possibly the first panic attack of his life. He lowered to the floor, legs bent, elbows on his knees, back against the cobblestone base of the order counter.
Lenny looked down at him. “Sorry about the mix-up. But you know how it is. When business is booming, it’s all a person can do to keep up with orders. No time for questioning why a kid would order twenty-two tables and no chairs.”
A kid. If that’s how Lenny saw him, chances were, it’s how the rest of Maple Valley viewed him. Guess it didn’t matter that he was thirty and fairly settled and about to open his own business. Maybe a person had to be married with kids and a house and minivan instead of a motorcycle and a depleted savings account to be taken seriously.
The bells over the diner’s entrance jingled, and his cousin waltzed through the door. Raegan Walker—blond hair streaked with blue and pink, flip-flops slapping against the polished floor, and an oversized box in her arms. “Package for you, Seth.” She stopped in front of him. “Whatcha doing down there?”
“Oh, you know, just checking out the view my customers are gonna have.”
Raegan lifted one pierced brow and looked to Lenny. The older man only shrugged. “Sorry again, Walker. Guess I’ll be going.”
As the bells chimed once more, Raegan set the taped-up box on a table and looked around the room, slow whistle echoing. “Wow, haven’t been in here since last week. It looks amazing, Cuz.”
He’d been living in his uncle’s house, sleeping in the basement bedroom, for over a year now—ever since he’d decided to go for it. Take out the loan, move back home once and for all. Open the restaurant.
He’d spent too many years floating from job to job in Chicago. Maddie was there, yes. But he couldn’t just keep drifting, waiting for her to stop moving up her own career ladder long enough to get married.
Thankfully, she’d supported his decision—even encouraged it. She’d miss him, she said. But she could long-distance it if he could.
And of course he could. Last thing he’d ever do was flake out on a relationship. Not after his front-row seat to the disaster that was his parents’ relational history.
“I can’t believe we’re really opening tomorrow,” he said now. “I feel like I’ve been eating, sleeping, and breathing the restaurant for months. Now it’s finally happening.”
“People are going to be blown away.” Raegan perched on a table top.
He hoped she was right. He’d preserved the building’s historic exterior—gray cement accented by the bright red door with the ornate handles. He’d even kept the etched bank lettering over the entrance, though he’d added a sign dangling from a jutting brass pole with THE RED DOOR in block letters.
But inside . . . inside he’d let his amateur architectural-layout-and-design side have at it. Which is how he’d ended up with a fireplace in one corner, cobblestone around the base of the order counter, amber-hued walls, and eclectic light fixtures.
He’d done his best to keep the interior under wraps, thinking the mystery of the renovation might help build hype on opening day.
“Oh, here, this came for you.” Raegan tapped the top of the package she’d carried in.
He stood and reached for the package, seeing his name in Ava’s handwriting—and a note underneath the address. Don’t open until the restaurant’s grand opening. He grinned as he pulled off the tape.
Raegan tsked. “Didn’t you see the note?”
“Rae, I guarantee you when Ava wrote that she knew I’d ignore it.”
His grin spread when he reached into the pile of packing peanuts and pulled out a metallic gray tie with a Post-it note attached. For opening day.
And somehow that’s all it took to revive his resolve. So he didn’t have chairs. So he’d find some.
He looked up. “You got your phone on you, Rae?”
“It’s practically an appendage.”
He nodded. “Good. We’ve got calls to make.”
3
He’d really thought Maddie might show up.
Or at least call.
“You’re a miracle worker. You know that, don’t you, Seth?” Shan Hart came up next to him, brunette hair pulled into braids that made her look younger than her forty-something years.
He stood in the entryway between The Red Door’s eating area and the kitchen, the buzz of the packed restaurant music to his ears—and almost enough to ease the sting of Maddie’s lack of communication.
Maybe she forgot tonight’s the night.
Hard to know whether that would make him feel better or worse. It would explain why she hadn’t made the effort to acknowledge his big day, but what did it say if the date didn’t even register with her? He’d been talking about this night for weeks . . . months.
Shan wiped her hands on the apron tied at her waist, then handed him two plates. “Complete miracle worker.”
She was talking, of course, about the chairs—nearly every one filled at the moment—surrounding each table. Different shapes and sizes, but all spray-painted black and covered with custom cushions in shades of rusty orange, burgundy, and yellow to match the rest of the restaurant.
“I’m not the miracle worker, Hart. If anyone is, it’s the thrift store and the church and the dozens of friends who all donated chairs.” He balanced the plates in his hands. “And Sunny at the hardware store, too. When she heard what happened wi
th the chair order, she offered to donate all the spray paint.”
“Well, considering she’s married to Lenny, she probably felt she owed you.”
He grinned and slipped from the kitchen. No, he wasn’t supposed to be waiting tables tonight, but in addition to his missing chairs, yesterday one of his waitresses had backed out at the last minute. Something about her work schedule interfering with cheerleading camp.
Maybe hiring high schoolers hadn’t been the best idea.
He traced a maze through full tables, stopping to deliver identical plates to the Jamisons—burgers practically still sizzling from the grill and mounds of sweet potato fries. The smell pulled a rumble from Seth’s stomach. In all the business of final preparations, had he eaten anything at all since breakfast?
He stopped at the table where his uncle and Raegan sat. “Hey guys, everything good here?”
Case Walker’s grin was bracketed by lines that said more about his penchant for laughter than his age. Same with the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Seth would never forget the first time he’d seen John Wayne walk onto the screen in some old western flick. He’d turned to Mom and busted out, “Whoa, it’s Uncle Case.”
“You outdid yourself, son,” his uncle said now.
Seth smoothed one palm over the front of his white button-down and straightened the tie Raegan had knotted around his neck hours ago. His cousin had pretended she hadn’t noticed his shaking hands when she’d happened upon him standing in front of the mirror in Case’s entryway, attempting to make use of Ava’s gift.
“Well, we’re short on waitstaff and we’ve got a few kinks to work through. But all in all, it’s going smoother than I expected. How’s the food?”
Case poked his fork into a piece of grilled asparagus. “I may never cook at home again.”
Seth pulled out a chair, twisted it around and straddled its back. He could take a minute to sit, right? “Listen, now that the restaurant’s actually open, I should hopefully have time to get to work on the apartment upstairs. Then I can finally get out of your hair.”
Case chewed and swallowed. “You’re not in our hair, Seth. With Raegan being the only one home—and barely, considering she’s got four jobs—”
“You’re exaggerating, Dad.”
“Fine, three. Anyway, with the others out of the house, you know I’ve got more space than I know what to do with. Stay as long as you need.”
He had no idea what he would’ve done without his uncle’s help this past year. It wasn’t only giving him a place to land but encouraging his dream. Even going so far as to cosign the business loan he’d taken out. And all of Case’s kids—even the ones who didn’t live at home anymore, Logan, Kate, and Beckett—had found different ways to help out.
None of them voiced their reasons why, but he knew it was their way of filling in the gaps, proving that not all Walkers walked out.
“Thanks, Case. For everything. You, too, Rae. This wouldn’t be possible without you guys.”
He stood, turned the chair back to the table and scanned the restaurant. He caught sight of Shan standing in the kitchen doorway again. Only this time, concern pulled her features into a frown. Uh-oh.
“Enjoy the rest of the meal, all right? Make sure to get dessert. It’s on me.”
He made his way through the labyrinth of tables, doling out smiles and greetings to community members he recognized and some he didn’t.
The sound of a guitar tuning hovered in the background of the restaurant’s chatter. Live music had always been part of his plan for The Red Door. He caught Bear McKinley’s eye as he passed where his friend perched on a stool by the fireplace, plucking at his Martin. Major chord, major, major, minor, minor . . .
He met Shan at the kitchen doorway. “What’s wrong?”
“Dishwasher’s making some sketchy noises.”
“Sketchy as in we can wait until tomorrow to worry about it or as in it’s gonna blow up?”
“Sketchy as in I’ve already called my husband to make sure he and the kids are on standby if I end up needing human dishwashers.”
Yikes. “That bad?”
“That bad.”
How tacky would it be to ask his uncle to take a look at it? Case had a magic touch. Mom used to call him over at least once a month with one fix-it request or another. And in all those times, Seth could only remember once when his uncle couldn’t actually fix whatever appliance had gone bad.
Pretty sure that time, Case had just gone and replaced the appliance. Because that was Case.
“I’ll check it out.” Maybe he’d be able to figure out what was wrong without pulling Case away from his meal.
He followed Shan into the kitchen and over to the industrial-size dishwasher. The clanking sound came from inside, as if the tray of dishes inside had jammed against the spinning water spout.
He leaned over the counter and grasped the door handle, behind which the sound of gushing water slammed against the walls of the dishwasher. He jiggled. Shoot, definitely jammed. He pulled harder. If he could just open it a slit and stick his hand inside, he might be able to knock the rack free and—
Suddenly the door jerked free. And water—sudsy and hot—rushed at him, spurting every direction and slapping over his shirt.
“Oh man, seriously?” He sputtered through the onslaught. “Turn it off, Shan!”
“Where’s the button?”
“You don’t know where the button is?” When he looked over his shoulder, water showered into his hair and down his neck.
Shan cowered against the opposite wall. “I’m the cook, Seth. I could take a stove apart and put it back together, but dishwashers aren’t my thing.”
He pushed away from the counter and reached for the red button at the base of the dishwasher. The burst of water slowed the second he pressed it down, within seconds only a trickle dribbling over the tray packed with glasses.
He turned, slow, wet hair matted to his face and drips trekking down his cheeks. “This. Right here. The power button.”
Shan scooted backward, muted chuckles slipping out from the assistant cook behind her. And then the creak of the swinging door. The sound of footsteps.
“Seth?”
He whirled, sending a stream of water splaying from his hair and tie . . .
Ava?
She hadn’t dropped a plate yet. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t dropped a plate yet.
“Blueberry pie goes to table sixteen and the two cobblers to the kid with the mohawk and his date up at the front counter.” Seth gave instructions as he helped Ava balance two plates in one hand, one in the other. “You sure you’ve got it?”
“Yep, blueberry to sixteen, cobbler to Mohawk and friend. Aren’t you glad I convinced you to number the tables? I can’t believe you weren’t going to number the tables.”
“Yes, I owe you everything, Ava Jane Kinsgley.” Seth smirked with the words. “But hurry up with the plates before the ice cream melts.”
“Wow, this pie looks good. Your chef’s a keeper.”
And she was nice, too. Showed Ava how to hold two plates in one hand, loaned her an apron, called her a lifesaver about a hundred times. Seth grabbed a couple glasses, filled them with ice, and stuck them under the soda machine.
But he turned back to Ava before she slipped out the kitchen door. “Ava.”
She opened the kitchen door with her foot. “Yeah?”
The tips of his longish hair were still damp from his earlier wrangling with the dishwasher, and the tie she’d mailed him before she ever considered that she might actually end up here had seen better days. But his smile beamed. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She moved out to the dining area, pretty sure she might be beaming herself.
It hadn’t been a fun twenty-four hours since finding out her coaching hope was out of reach. She’d let herself wallow half a day before finally texting Mom—no, she hadn’t gotten the job—then calling her sister.
And i
t’d been Autumn who urged her to take Seth up on his offer.
“Ava, how many times in the past few months have you told me you’re not sure about taking on more classes this fall? That the only reason you’ve stuck around the college this long is the team. Why stay if that’s off the plate?”
“But I don’t know if Seth was actually serious.”
“Ask him in one of your bazillion emails. Sheesh.”
That was the point at which she’d started to regret bringing up Seth’s invitation to her sister. And yet . . . not. Because, well, his emails always had a way of cheering her up. Maybe seeing him in person would pull her out of the post-disappointment funk.
What if she took him up on his offer—stayed a few days or a couple weeks—and took time to do what Coach Mac had urged her to: Figure out what came next.
On a whim, she’d packed a suitcase and hit the road this morning. And now? It felt a hundred kinds of right, if for no other reason than she’d been able to jump in and help poor short-staffed Seth. He’d tried to argue when she offered to help, but her own stubbornness prevailed.
She delivered the blueberry pie to table sixteen, spotted the kid with the mohawk up front, and dropped off both cobblers.
After being full the past couple hours, The Red Door had finally begun to hollow out. Through the lanky windows in front of the restaurant, she watched community members amble down the sidewalk toward cars lined at the curb, sunset dropping over the town square in lights and shadows. It painted brushstrokes of yellow and orange over the band shell and the brick buildings across the street.
Seth’s description of his little hometown had been spot-on. Quaint, charming, and—she could already tell—quirky.
She returned to the kitchen, grabbed a pot of coffee and then returned to the dining area to fill empty cups for the few folks who listened to the musician in the corner—Bear, Seth had called him—play his last song.
Thirty minutes later the final patron passed through the front door. Ava slid a washrag down the long counter that fronted the eating area, gazing outside where stars now peeked through the blue of dusk.
Her feet hurt, and she was pretty sure half her hair had fallen out of the bun she’d thrown it into when she first arrived. But this was a good kind of tired. Like after a long football practice, when the boys flopped onto grass—content in their exhaustion.