Page 31 of Six Nights in Paradise

My hands shook with nerves as I climbed out of my car. I’d only ever had two other jobs in my life. In high school, I worked at the local dairy bar in the summer serving ice cream and hot dogs. I didn’t even need to interview for that job since the owners were friends with my parents and had known me since kindergarten. My second job was a cashier at a hardware store my freshman and sophomore years of college. I only got that job because the manager stared at my tits during the entire interview. I ended up being a shitty cashier since I wasn’t very good at standing in one place for very long. When it was slow, I’d get bored and wander off, leaving my lane unattended. I got in trouble more times than should have been allowed, but surprisingly never got fired. Guess I was lucky the manager was so fond of my rack.

When my class load became too much and my GPA started to suffer, my parents allowed me to quit and focus solely on school. I was given an allowance for gas and other necessities that my paychecks had covered, and they continued to pay for my insurance as they always had.

Even though they were well off, my parents expected my brother and me to earn what we had, and since I wouldn’t be taking classes this summer, I was entering the workforce again. There was no laying around the house, being a lazy freeloader in the Wesley household. Not that I could do that anyway. I didn’t do well with idle time. I never understood how my friend Avery could stand it. She went to school during the fall and spring semesters, then spent her summers hanging around her parents’ house binge watching Netflix and lounging by their pool. Don’t get me wrong, I partook of the poolside relaxation time every now and then, but she made a career out of it. She would be in for a rude awakening when she had to start supporting herself.

It was eighteen minutes past ten when I walked into the restaurant. There were a few workers scurrying around, serving brunch items and collecting orders. It took a few minutes for someone to notice me standing there and come to the desk.

“How many?” the young waitress asked breathlessly, pulling menus from beneath the counter.

“Oh, I’m not here to eat,” I said as she consulted her computer screen. She paused and her eyes flicked to me. “I have an interview,” I informed her quickly. She seemed very busy and I didn’t want to waste any of her time.

“Oh!” she chirped, perking up a bit. Her back straightened and she smiled. “Follow me,” she instructed, turning on her heel and leading me toward the back of the restaurant. We turned down a hallway with a couple doors on each side and she poked her head inside one, informing the occupant I was here.

“Go on in, hun.” She gave me another friendly smile and waved me inside.

“Ms. Wesley,” the lady behind the desk greeted me, standing from her chair. She reached out and I took her hand for a shake. “I’m Caroline, the manager here at Francesca’s.”

“Hi, Caroline. It’s nice to meet you.”Start with a friendly greeting.Check.

“Nice to meet you, too. Let’s get started.” She motioned for me to take the seat across from her. I lowered myself into the chair, keeping my back straight but my posture relaxed.Stay calm and confident, but don’t act like you have it in the bag.Check. “Your brother said you were looking to start right away,” she began. “That is, if this job is the right fit for you and you for it,” she added.

“Yes.” I fought against the habit of sayingumanduhand cleared my throat. “I won’t be taking any classes this summer, so my schedule is very flexible and I’m available to start at any time.”

“Great! Let’s talk about the position, then I’ll give you a tour.” Caroline gave me the rundown on the job before peppering me with questions regarding my work history and experience. She explained that I would start out as hostess, my shift varying depending on the schedule and staffing. I could start as early as eight a.m. or as late as two p.m. Eventually I’d be trained to work the floor as a server. I still wasn’t sure how she knew my brother or why she was willing to give me this interview, but I was too grateful to question it.

“Come on,” she instructed, standing from her seat. “I’ll show you around.” I followed her out of her office and into the kitchen. The sous chef was adding ingredients into a large pot on the gleaming industrial gas stove, stirring after each dash of pepper and pinch of herbs. Another chef was chopping vegetables for salads while a third flipped portions of steak and chicken on the grill.

“Everything but drinks are prepared back here and placed there,” she said, motioning to the shelf where a few plates of food were lined up, waiting to be retrieved by the servers.

We weaved our way through the dining area that was quickly beginning to fill and stopped at the front where the current hostess was preparing to sit a new party that had just arrived. She grabbed a stack of menus and led a group of finely dressed, middle-aged women to a table. Caroline deftly showed me how to keep track of which tables were open, which were occupied, and the wait staff who were assigned to them.

“It won’t take you long to learn the system,” she offered with a smile. We returned to her office and took our seats again. “Any questions?” she asked, folding her hands over her desk. I assured her she’d been quite thorough and that I didn’t have any at this time.

“As you probably noticed, our need for a hostess is pretty urgent. Our wait staff are trying to seat customers in the morning when it’s not as busy, but they’re spread too thin as it is. Our current hostesses come in at eleven thirty when traffic starts to pick up, but we really need coverage all day. If your references check out, I have no doubt that there will be a job offer coming your way soon.” That was great news. We briefly discussed pay, and when she told me what some of the waiters and waitresses earned in tips, my jaw nearly hit the floor. “We’ll be in touch.” She ended on that note and stood from her chair to walk me out.

I stepped out into the bright, late morning sun and took a deep breath. I might have a job very soon and I couldn’t wait to get started.

“You!” a disgruntled female voice growled in my direction. There was anger and accusation in that one simple word, drawing my attention to the sidewalk. I glanced up and looked around as people passed by me quickly.

My eyes landed on a stunning blonde woman in her early thirties. Her hair curled around her shoulder and she wore a flowy sundress with pink and yellow flowers. She was dressed differently and her hair was loose around her face, but I would recognize her anywhere.

Jason’s wife. Holy shit!She was standing right there in front of me and she recognized me. How did she know who I was? Did he tell her?

She stomped toward me, her face awash with fury. She poked her perfectly manicured finger into my chest and I winced.

“You’rethe little floozy who seduced my husband,” she accused.

My mouth fell open. Isthatwhat she thought? Did she really just accuse me of being a homewrecker on a busy city sidewalk in the middle of the day? My face burned with humiliation and anger. This day had been going too well. I should’ve known something would go wrong.

“That’s right,” she sneered. “I’ve got your number.”

Her disdain sobered me and I shut my mouth. I really didn’t want to do this here with an enraged, hormonal woman ready to give birth at any moment, but it needed to be said. I wouldn’t let her make me into the villain. No, that title was reserved for her bastard of a husband.

“Look, Mrs. Barret, I don’t know what you’ve been told-”

“Oh, I didn’t need to betoldanything,” she interrupted. “I saw you run out of that room when Jason kissedme,” she said, pointing to herself, “hiswife,” she spat, reminding me of her station. “When he finally came clean about why he was on probation, I knew it was you.”

“It’s not what you think,” I began, the need to explain myself growing by the second. It wouldn’t completely absolve me from my sins, but at least she’d know I wasn’t aware of his marital status when we started seeing each other.

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