Page 8 of Those Two Words

The red notebook sitting on the table.

The distraction does exactly what it’s intended to do—to help my mind focus on something else, other than the rising panic. I understand why he’s reacting this way. I really do. It doesn’t lessen the blow, though.

Only once the buzz of anxiety settles does Patrick’s question hit me.

“I’m here about the restaurant manager job…” My voice trails off as I take in the confused expressions from Booth and Patrick. Do they not know? I look to my dad, who is finding the grooves in the table very interesting all of a sudden.

“Well, you’ll need to apply and send in your resume, like all the other applicants.” Patrick’s tone is cool and his face void of emotion.

“What other applicants?” Booth asks, but he promptly clamps his mouth shut when Patrick snaps his head toward him. Busted.

Before Booth has the chance to say the wrong thing again, Claire cuts in. “Nonsense, we haven’t had any applications in months. Johanna would be perfect for the restaurant manager position. It was her job before she?—”

“Left. Before she left,” Patrick interrupts. “Do I not get a say in this?”

“Of course you do,” Claire says. “But we need someone experienced and available now. Johanna is both of those things.”

“What’s the rush?” Patrick asks.

“Well, that’s the other thing we wanted to discuss with you all today,” my dad continues. He isn’t a shy man and has always been careful with his words. From the unease in his voice, I don’t think we’re going to like what he has to say. “The restaurant is struggling.”

My stomach drops and I allow my eyes to drift to Patrick. He doesn’t look surprised by this news, but from the rigidness in his shoulders, it’s not welcomed, and neither am I.

Claire must sense the hurt in his gaze. “There are lots of reasons why this is happening. Costs are rising but we’ve always been adamant we don’t want that to affect the fair wage we pay our employees. Plus, a lot of larger neighboring towns are opening up restaurants. It’s competitive, and the market is very saturated right now.”

I’m not sure if her words comfort Patrick, but he nods his head slowly anyway.

“Either way,” my dad says. “We need to do something fast, and this is why we called this meeting. We need to get people back into the restaurant, and you both need to work together to do that.”

“Together?” I say, just as Patrick asks in a shocked tone. “What do you mean both?”

“Together,” my dad confirms with a nod. “We have until May to see some big changes or…”

“Or?” Patrick asks, leaning in closer to my dad, waiting for his response.

Call it daughterly instinct, but I know exactly what my dad is going to say as he glances at Claire. They share a look of discomfort, before my dad looks back toward Patrick and me.

“Or we’ll have to look at selling the restaurant.”

four

JOHANNA

When I was in third grade, Tommy Gillespie told me that Santa Claus wasn’t real. I was devastated and spent the rest of the day at school and the bus ride home crying my little heart out. Once my parents calmed me down and had the “talk”—not that one—I was in a state of shock for about a week.

The shock of that news feels minuscule compared to the bombshell my dad just dropped.

“What do you mean sell?” Patrick asks, panic seeping from his tone.

“We mean, it’s been almost a year since we’ve had a profitable month. The cost of produce is rising and with competitors opening their doors every week and large chains in the city, we don’t see this being a viable business for much longer,” Claire explains.

So many questions zip around in my brain, but I can’t seem to find my voice to ask them. I knew things hadn’t been great from what Dad told me over the phone, but from the worry etched into his face now, it’s clear things are much worse than he let on. Guilt hits me hard at that realization, and I wish I asked him what was happening sooner, because while I haven’t worked here in almost six years, this place means the world to me.

My dad and Patrick’s dad, Ted, put so much passion, love, time, and money into Our Place. To hear they’re thinking of selling after nearly twenty-eight years feels like my childhood is disappearing before my eyes. It’s a different type of loss I didn’t expect to face when returning to town. I won’t deny that this place is a painful reminder of my mom and Ted no longer being with us—something I struggled to acknowledge at first—but I would never want the restaurant to stop being a part of my life.

Every surface of this place reminds me of my mom. If you look closely at the parquet floor, you can spot a crimson-red stain from where my dad dropped a crate of wine after she jumped out and scared him one Halloween. Or the paneled wall by the bar, you will find about twenty poorly patched-up holes from where she tried and failed to hang up picture frames. It’s a bittersweet pillar to her memory.

Every corner, surface, and crevice reminds me of her absence. It may have been almost two decades since she died, though sometimes I feel like that lost and shattered seventeen-year-old when I think too hard about it. Which is why I don’t talk about her often.

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