Page 58 of Naughty Santa Daddy

I guess if you have money like he does, tossing a twenty-dollar bill down every morning for a two-dollar cup of coffee might be easy.

I wouldn’t know.

I’ve never had anything extra.

There’s only one glitch in the matrix.

Saturday and Sunday mornings, though, he’s here with his son, who orders chocolate chip pancakes with a side of seasonal fruit. (Which, if I’m being honest, is nothing more than strawberries, blueberries, and bananas, bought at the grocery store. There isn’t any seasonal special to it. I don’t make the rules; I serve the customers.) Massimo doesn’t eat; he still drinks his coffee. Instead of being engulfed in a newspaper, though, he engages his son in conversation and even smiles from time to time.

The innocence of childhood. His son is young, maybe six or seven, and so polite. He’s always happy, and I can’t stop myself from smiling when I bring him his pancakes. When he says, “thank you,” his father always smiles at him with pride—a smile that doesn’t show up any other time I bring Massimo coffee. With Christmas approaching, I decorated for his son. We don’t get regulars with kids often, and I thought it would be fun tomake things festive. Gilbert gave me some cash and to the dollar store I went. Even on the long shifts, the twinkling lights weaved in the cheap garland and silver streams called icicles make me smile.

Christmas only comes one time a year, even Scrooge learned to love it.

The first time Massimo smiled, I had to make sure the clock still ticked and time hadn’t stopped. Seriously, I don’t understand why he doesn’t simply stay home and have coffee there. He brings in his own paper, leaving me wondering day in and day out why he comes here.

Third, we are obviously not ever going to be friends. Not that I need friends. I learned as a child that less is more. In fact, I keep my circle so small one could say it’s a dot.

Scars run deep, and people are, well, people. They will fail you, and you will fail yourself. It’s just a fact of life.

I’m thankful to be where I am today. I may not have the best of everything, but I have what I need to survive: a job, a car, a place to live, food, and finally, for the first time in my life, a small (and I do mean small) savings account. It isn’t a full month’s emergency fund yet, but if Massimo Costa keeps tipping me like he does, then it won’t be long.

Gilbert dings the bell: order up for table two. Not that we are so crowded I need to know where it goes. Mr. Morton is in his usual breakfast spot. His wife died a few months ago. Since then, he comes in for every meal. Apparently, after fifty-four years of marriage, he never cooked because she always did. Now, he eats alone here three times a day. I grab the plate and take it to his table.

“Here you go, Mr. Morton,” I say, setting his plate of corned beef hash with rye toast and cheese grits in front of him. “Hot sauce today?”

“It’s Charlie, and yes please,” he replies with the same soft smile he always has.

“You got it.” I move to the bar, grabbing the bottle of sauce and going back to him. “Here you go, Charlie.”

“I hope you get fifty-plus years of meals with someone special, Hadley,” he tells me kindly.

I smile, “I get to have all these meals with you and everyone else who comes in. I think I’m pretty lucky for that.”

“She cooks, she cleans up, and she’s sweet. You’re a catch, Hadley girl, don’t ever forget it.”

I give his hand a squeeze. “Thanks, Charlie, you are pretty special yourself.”

That’s what I love about my job. I meet all these locals who come in regularly. Sure, some days my feet hurt and swell so bad I leave here fighting back tears. Then there are days I have to cook because Gilbert has to take his wife for her treatment. Those days are longer because as much as I don’t mind cooking, I hate feeling like I have a grease facial from the fryer oil. The hours pass by quickly when I’m the cook. Between prep for each shift and cleaning, I always have something to do.

It's a double-edged sword. When I have to cook, I don’t get the tips like serving, but Gilbert usually slips me some extra at the end of the week. It all works out in the end.

I hope I can get back to school for the next semester. Even though it’s community college, I can get my cosmetology certificate. I tried two years ago but couldn’t commit to the program and work. My job then didn’t have evening shifts, and that particular course requires me to be at the school full days three days per week. Since coming to work for Gilbert at Clyde’s, I can rotate to evenings on the days I have to be at school.

The future looks bright. I can’t say I’ve ever had this much hope before. I feel it in my gut.

Everything is about to change for me in the best possible ways.

Chapter 2

Ryan Michele

Ryan Michele

Massimo

Pulling into the parking lot of the diner, my eyes search for anything out of sorts. Hadley’s beat-up car sits near the dumpster underneath the streetlamp. She has a good head on her shoulders in protecting herself. It is something I have learned that she has: resilience.

Unfortunately, parking under a light isn’t going to save her from the possibilities of the dangers that wrap around her in the shadows.

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