Page 15 of When Summer Returns

“Jessie will be learning the ropes over the next few weeks, starting with bar service today. I expect you all to help her get up to speed.” He glanced her way. “Any words of wisdom for the troops?”

Put on the spot, Jessie straightened. “Just that I’m here to learn, not to disrupt what’s clearly a successful operation. I appreciate your patience as I figure out which end of a cocktail shaker is which.”

“The open end goes up,” Miguel stage-whispered. “Learned that one the hard way.”

As the meeting dispersed, a formidable woman approached Jessie with an appraising look. Tasha Coleman stood about five foot four but carried herself with the authority of someone twice her size. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a practical bun, deep laugh lines around her eyes contradicting the no-nonsense set of her mouth. Strong, capable hands that had seen years of hard work rested on slim hips as she sized Jessie up.

“Welcome back to the island,” she said, her tone neutral. “Been gone a long time.”

“Fifteen years,” Jessie confirmed.

“Hmm.” Tasha’s dark eyes revealed nothing as they conducted their assessment. “Well, we run a tight ship here. Luke’s built something special.”

The statement carried an unspoken warning:Don’t mess this up.

“I can see that,” Jessie said carefully. “And I have no intention of disrupting it.”

Tasha nodded once, apparently satisfied. “Good. You’ll need different shoes if you’re working the floor. Those Birkenstocks will kill your feet by lunch.”

With that practical advice delivered, she moved away to oversee table arrangements, her efficient movements suggesting someone who never wasted a single step.

Luke appeared at Jessie’s elbow, his expression amused. “Congratulations,” he said. “You passed the Tasha test.”

“There was a test?”

“She doesn’t waste breath on people she doesn’t think will last.” He watched Tasha rearranging table settings with military precision. “Showed up here about ten years ago with three kids and not much else after her husband walked out on them. Walked into the bar, told me she needed a job, and proceeded to reorganize our entire reservation system before I’d even hired her.”

“And you hired her anyway?” Jessie asked, intrigued by this glimpse into the island’s found family.

Luke’s smile held genuine affection. “Best decision I ever made. Those kids of hers are in college now, all on scholarships she made damn sure they earned. Toughest woman I know, but she’d move mountains for the people she cares about.”

He gestured toward Miguel, who was meticulously setting up the bar. “Ready for Bartending 101?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

For the next hour and a half, Miguel patiently demonstrated the fundamentals of his craft. Jessie learned the precise measurements for standard cocktails, the art of properly chilling glasses, and the choreographed dance required to serve multiple patrons efficiently. Her fingers fumbled with unfamiliar tools, and her first attempt at muddling mint for mojitos resulted in what Miguel charitably called “green sludge,” but gradually she began to grasp the basics.

“Your dad once had a standing rule here,” Miguel mentioned while showing Jessie how to properly layer a cocktail. “No servers could approach his table without being called over. First week I worked here, I didn’t know and brought him a water refresh.”

Miguel gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “He grabbed my wrist so hard I dropped the glass. Then he said, real quiet-like, ‘Boy, on this island, people learn their place. Some learn easy, some learn hard. Your choice.’”

A shadow crossed his usually cheerful face. “Luke stepped in, told him if he had a problem with staff, he took it to management, not the kid making minimum wage. Only person I ever saw stand up to Jesse James and walk away without consequences.”

Flashing his characteristic grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, Miguel added, “Taught me two things that day—how dangerous your father could be, and why everybody on this island would walk through fire for Luke Mallory.”

He watched as Jessie completed the layered cocktail with surprising precision. “Not bad for a finance girl. You’ve got good hands.”

“Years of spreadsheets and calculator punching,” she said, flexing her fingers. “Though this is definitely more interesting.”

“Wait until you’re making twenty drinks at once while some frat boy tries to impress his date by ordering something he saw on a reality show.” Miguel’s grin belied the warning. “That’s when it gets fun.”

As staff arrived and the clock approached opening time, they went through a quick pre-shift meeting where Luke reviewed the day’s specials and any large parties expected. At eleven, they removed the last of the protective night screens, and the day officially began. The first patrons trickled in from both the beach path and the roadside entrance—locals mostly, who greeted the staff with familiar ease. Jessie observed from her position beside Miguel, noting how each customer interaction seemed to follow unwritten rules established through years of repetition. This one always sat at the corner of the bar, that one preferred her iced tea with exactly three lemon slices, another had dietary restrictions that the kitchen accommodated without comment.

By noon, the pace had accelerated considerably as tourists discovered the establishment, drawn by online reviews and hotel recommendations. Miguel’s movements became faster, more economical, his banter never faltering even as he juggled multiple orders. Jessie tried to anticipate his needs, fetching garnishes and replenishing ice, learning through observation which customers expected prompt service and which preferred to linger over their choices.

“You’re not half bad at this,” Miguel said during a brief lull. “Most people would be hiding in the walk-in by now.”

“The day’s young,” she replied, wiping condensation from the bar top. “I reserve the right to have a complete meltdown around three.”

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