Page 75 of Those Two Words

Please don’t be beans. Please don’t be beans. Please don’t be beans.

“Um, Jo, I got you something,” he says, standing in front of me, with the tray wobbling in his hands. “I got Gloria to make you your favorite, plus I swiped us a couple of cookies.”

He places the tray next to the puzzle, and my tummy grumbles when I see the gooey grilled cheese on the plate. It looks really yummy, but I need to say sorry first.

“I’m sorry for shouting at you, I just really like playing with you. Do you want half?”

Sitting down in his seat, with half a cookie already in his mouth, he nods his head and swallows. “I’m sorry for breaking your puzzle. I got some money for doing my chores and my dad said he’d take us to the store. I’ll get you a new one.”

I hand him the puzzle piece my mom freed, and smile at him, laughing when he smiles back with chocolate-coated teeth. “It’s fixed. I don’t care what game we play. So long as it’s with you, I’m happy.”

Life was so much easier at that age. When the worst of your worries were broken puzzles, and not hearts.

As I scan the tables of customers, my heart warms when I spy that exact table in the corner of the room. We spent hours in that spot, doing our homework after school or arguing over where the puzzle pieces should go.

My eyes wander around the room some more, but when I spot Mrs. Stewart, the grumbly councilwoman, sitting at table thirteen, my mood sours. She’s been very difficult since my return, from putting in an “anonymous” complaint about the makeover we did on the outside of the restaurant and trying to block our application for the fair. Booth assures me this type of behavior is very on trend.

I swivel around at lightning speed, hoping she hasn’t spotted me, and find Patrick already watching me. My mind immediately goes to the afternoon in his truck, and suddenly I don’t care about the tables of families behind me, or Mrs. Stewart. I care more about dragging him into the stockroom to feel his hands on me again, to hear the dirty things he knows I love, to feel the bite of pain and pleasure as he enters me.

When I sense Harriet return to the bar, I’m about to excuse myself, however, when I turn, I let out a cry at who is actually standing there.

The older woman stares at me without an ounce of emotion on her face. Her face is pinched as usual, inky hair pulled so tight it looks like she’s had a botched face-lift. Are her grandchildren as scared of her as I am?

“Oh, Mrs. Stewart, I didn’t see you there. Can I help you?”

“No, thank you. I didn’t see you at the fair this weekend?”

“Oh, did you come by?” I know she did, because I hid behind the chest freezer when I saw her approaching. “We must have missed each other, what a shame. How’s your meal this evening?”

“That’s what I came over to tell you.”

And here we go.

One of the first things Booth warned me about, was that she comes in twice a week with her husband, and every time, she finds something to complain about. The plate being too hot. The hollandaise being too thick or too thin. The clam chowder being too “clammy.”

“My husband had the beef burger; he’s never been one for seafood. Honestly, we live in Maine, I’ll never know. I had one of the specials. The bean-hole beans. I was shocked to read that it was a twist on the classic, something my own grandmother made for me growing up.”

Oh fuck. I almost gag at hearing the name of that dish, and also panic, because the bean-hole beans are one of our experimental specials, an ode to Maine traditions. Something we want to put on future menus, if Booth is allowed to make the changes he’s been desperate to make. I suggested we test it out with the customers first. I regret that decision now, especially when my ass cheeks start to sweat as I wait for her onslaught of criticism.

Booth is going to blow a gasket when he finds out who ordered one.

“Imagine my surprise when it arrives, and I take my first bite…” Here it comes. “And it reminds me of my childhood, despite it looking nothing like the original, and the smokiness…” She smacks her lips together, as if trying to relive the flavors. “Peculiar, yet it worked so well. Give my compliments to the chef.”

I think I’m drunk or dreaming. Maybe both. There’s no way she is saying nice things, and there’s no way…she’s smiling. I didn’t know her face could do that.

“Oh wow, that’s so great to hear.” I’m surprised I can form sentences. “I’ll be sure to let Booth and the team know. Thank you.”

“Good. My table is sticky though, please send someone over to clean it.” And with that, she walks away.

Well, we can’t win them all.

Almost robotically, I stand from my stool, calmly ask one of the bussers to wipe down Mrs. Stewart’s table, and push my way through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

I keep my face neutral, despite the excitement bubbling inside. Booth spots me from across thestainless-steel pass and pauses when he sees my face.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asks, placing down the sizzling pan in his hand.

“Mrs. Stewart was at table thirteen,” I say.

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