Page 7 of Just Like Starting Over
“I cede,” she says with a nod. “When a person only wants one thing, she should get it, after all.”
“And think about those roast chickens again, the golden crispy ones with the rosemary and garlic packed underneath the skin,” I add, solidifying my triumph.
“Boring!” Merrie calls cheerfully.
“Set a limit. Make six every night and no more. I guarantee we’ll sell them out once people taste them. There’s no take-out chicken place in this town,” I remind her when she opens her mouth to argue. “And the drive to Havelock to get a rotisserie chicken from the grocery is too long for it to stay warm. Cornerstones, Merrie. We need some cornerstones.”
“Boat anchors.”
“Cornerstones.”
“What if they don’t sell out?”
“You tell me. Chicken noodle soup. Chickenvol au vent. Grilled chicken on the next day’s pizza.”
“Chicken banh mi,” she counters. “Chicken pho.”
Merrie is on an Asian kick since we got to Empire, no doubt because of her connecting with Phil Chang who (sometimes) opens the Golden Lotus down the street. Not bistro, but maybe she can make it work at lunch. “Chicken enchiladas,” I say, feeding her imagination in another direction. “With salsa verde and lime crema.”
We’re joking back and forth, making up chicken dishes when someone taps on the glass door. It’s not quite eleven, but I see that it’s Sierra. No doubt she’s excited for her first shift. She jumps up and down, waving at me, even though I’m already headed to the door.
She wants to make some money, and I can only support that. Since Merrie and I are maxed out, Merrie suggested that Sierra could hostess, taking reservations and seating people, starting with Saturday lunch. I wasn’t any older than Sierra is now when I got a job in a restaurant, so I have no space to argue.
Funny that I started in this same space, when it was Leon and Dotty’s diner.
Sierra has been heading back into the city each week to finish up the school year there – staying with her friend Lila during the week, then coming to Empire on the weekend. She’s been taking the bus Saturday morning so I could pick her up at the depot in Havelock, but this week, she caught it Friday afternoon. Una started her chemo treatment in Havelock this week so her ride, Muriel Jackson, picked up Sierra today, too. I feel like the ringleader at a circus with so many things to coordinate. Merrie regularly tells me to relax, and that everything will be fine. So far, she’s been right.
Sierra, of course, says I should teach her to drive and get her a car.
Not quite yet, grasshopper.
“You’re early,” I say, surveying her choices. “That’s good.” The make-up is less good, but one step at a time.
My daughter is tall and slender, all of fifteen years old, with attitude to spare. She has the raven-dark hair and clear blue eyes of all the Cavendish clan, and her eyes are thick with dark lashes. As well as having most of the money in town, they score genetically, too. She also has the Cavendish confidence and a social surety that I’ll never possess. I love watching her charge head-first into everything. My beautiful girl just might change the world.
“Luke said I’m a fast learner.” Sierra is taking guitar lessons from Luke each Saturday.
“Well, you are. Do you like it?”
“Yes! Maybe I’ll be a rock star, too.” She spins around at the front of the restaurant, opening her favourite denim jacket to show off. “What do you think?” In lieu of black pants, she’s wearing her black jeans. My daughter is a good foot taller thanme, so I couldn’t lend her a pair that would fit. I add shopping for those pants to my mental To Do list.
I can live with the black boots and white shirt. “Very tidy, once you tie your hair back and take off your make-up.”
She pouts. “You told me to look French.”
When we talked about her look for today, Sierra said she needed an aesthetic. I said French. “I did. How does that get you black lipstick?”
She smirks, pulls out her phone and shows me a picture of punks in Paris. It could be 1982 from the look of them with their torn Ramones T-shirts and furry boots, the safety pins and the black lipstick, but they’re all preening for their smartphones.
“You know what I meant,” I begin, then notice the twinkle in her eyes. She’s pulling my chain. “The lipstick has to go.”
“I know. I have this pale pink one.” She shows it to me and I nod approval.
“Wait a minute. That’s mine.”
She grins, then swings her bag around and pulls out a pair of flat black lace-ups. “And I’ll change to these.”
“Good choice. The boots will kill you after an hour or two.”
