Page 2 of Sweet Summer

Welcome, Freya…your first lunch shift in eons will be today! Can’t wait to see you and give you a big hug. There’s a new uniform here for you, figured you’ve grown out of your old one. Car is in the garage, keys are on the counter in the kitchen.

See you soon. xoxo

Glancing around, I spy the shirt with my name embroidered on the front and grin: The Red Bird Cafe’s uniforms are a T-shirt, jeans, and your best pair of Converse. A far cry from my usual dress and heels I’d rock at the office. I change, run downstairs to grab the car keys, and go. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to be late. And that’s not good.

I go to the counter for the keys, only—there are no keys. There are no keys on the counter, nor anywhere near the counter. No. Where. I grab my phone and text Maisey. She pings back quickly, promising she left them on the counter. I start to text her back, but another beep signals another response from her, telling me to leave her alone. The cafe is getting busy.

“It’s not like I asked for this,” I hiss into the receiver as if she can hear me on the other end. Okay, I’m a problem solver, right? I can call a cab, but it’s a few days before a holiday weekend in Lake Lorelei. Cabs will be busy and fares are higher. I may be an adult, technically, but I’m still on a beer pong budget, sooo… I snap my fingers. I’ve got it. If memory serves, there should be a bicycle in the garage I can use.

I take off running so fast I slip on the hardwood floor going around the counter. Recovering, I continue at a slower clip to the garage where I find a bike, alright.

With a flat tire.

Rolling my eyes, I check my watch and my stomach sinks. I always allow myself a window of fifteen minutes before anything I do in case of a minor crisis, crazytraffic, or the urge to grab a coffee before said appointment kicks in. In this case, that window was almost closed. I need to move—fast.

That’s when I spy a familiar bright green beacon in the back of the garage. A John Deere lawn mower sits in the corner with the keys already in the ignition. They call to me. No, beckon. If the keys could speak they’d say, “Freya, come and turn us on. Use us. Aladdin, we are your carpet.”

I’ll do what I have to do, even if I’m not proud of it…this is exactly what my inner monologue sounds like as I climb on board and turn the key in the ignition, ready to steer that stinking lawnmower all five miles into the township of Lake Lorelei proper to work my lunch shift.

CHAPTER 2

Freya

“Ineed three iced chocolates and an iced coffee. Two lattes, one of them is non-dairy substitute almond milk, and an iced tea with lemon on the side.”

Standing at the entry to the kitchen, I’m surprised to find solace in the cadence of my order. The Red Bird is located on the first floor of one of the oldest and most beautiful buildings in town—it’s also on the local historical register, thanks to the work and due diligence of Gran.

It’s all familiar to me—the sounds, the smells. I’ve spent so many summers right here in this very restaurant helping Gran and then Aunt Maisey as they worked to keep the good people of Lake Lorelei fed and caffeinated. It feels nostalgic, heartwarming, and bittersweet, all wrapped up into one ball of emotion.

The cafe is busy today, lively even, and awash in sunlight with arced golden rays reflecting off the chrome and stainless steel appliances. The brick walls and muted interior add a historical feel for our customers, or guests, as Aunt Maisey likes to call them. Her motto? “They’re guests in my cafe, so I’m going to treat them like family.”

Well, I hope she likes her family super picky and pedantic, because that’s who’s sitting at table eight. “The faster you can get that order ready, the better. They said they want it yesterday, and they weren’t being funny.”

“Got it, I’ll hurry it up.” Maisey is expertly manning the barista station and is brewing coffee for the drinks, her sandy blonde hair pulled up in a high ponytail on the top of her head. “Oh, by the way, there’s a sandwich in the window for table ten. Can you drop it off?”

“Of course I can drop off food to that man you keep checking out. Although if you did it yourself, you could ask him over to the house. He could watch fireworks with you on the dock, you know.”

I can feel Maisey boring a hole in my back as I flit away to restock napkins. I know she won’t dare try to come back at me with customers sitting at the counter privy to everything we are saying. Does she think I’m dumb? I noticed the group she seated at table ten, and I noticed a certain cafe owner get anxious as soon as they sat down. My aunt is normally not the kind of person who worries about her appearance. She’s gorgeous no matter what, but today she’s rocking mascara and lipstick. My money's on the hot, blue-eyed fireman who, from across the room, has been sneaking glances at Maisey himself.

I walk back over to the drink station with a tray and gather the order together, while dodging Maisey, who is in a giddy mood and play-smacking my arm as she leans in, whispering in my ear conspiratorially, “You shush, girl. I just like to flirt, okay, and Jack’s some pretty sweet eye candy. Sue me.”

“You want him to put out your fire?” I wiggle my eyebrows, knowing it looks weird and, bonus points, it made her nuts. “Is it a four-alarm rager or a couple of love logs sitting on a fire?”

“Stop that, keep those little caterpillars aboveyour eyes under control. I don’t need anyone to put out any kind of fire.” She cocks her head to one side and stares in the distance. “And I’m going to ignore the fact you said love logs. That’s just weird.”

I balance the tray and begin walking backwards out of the kitchen, looking Maisey square in the eye, taunting her. Yet another joy of being so close to your family—you know how to poke the bear. “Maisey and Jack sitting in a tree… k-i-s-s?—”

Mid-sentence, I slam into what feels like a brick wall with such force that the wind is knocked right out of me. The tray is in a precarious position and starting to do this toppling, teetering thing in my hands. A back and forth wobble, if you will, with me trying to center its balance and prevent every glass and plate of food from being off like a slingshot into various directions around the kitchen and dining room.

To top it all off? I think my deodorant’s stopped working.

I watch whipped cream, from one of the iced coffee drinks, plop onto the tray, and the brick wall grows arms—really nice firm, muscular arms at that. But I cannot concentrate on that right now. Honestly, I have no idea who this is behind me, but they are helping me stabilize this drama, and I need the assistance. Now both arms reach around me, my mystery hero hugging me close to his (hard) body so the tray stops rocking as he holds firm in his stance.

I find myself on steadier feet, and the tray calms down. I mumble a thank you over my shoulder and bolt with the order. I want to come back and thank Arms McGee properly. I thread my way quickly through the dining area, dropping off drinks and food, including the crab cake club sandwich to Maisey’s fire daddy crush at table ten. As soon as I’m done, I make my way back to the counter to find my hero.

The only two people I find when I go back are Pastor Michael Shannon and his super sweet wife, Patricia—Maisey’s regulars who sit at the counter for lunch at least four days aweek. I say hello as I peek through the kitchen door, where I find my aunt leaning against a wall chatting with someone who has their back to me. Seeing me, she waves me over.

“Freya, come here, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

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