Page 35 of Christmas at the Ranch
“I truly am starving,” I admit. “Where are you thinking?”
“Gill’s Fish n Chips n Bait n Tackle. The best fish-and-chips you’ll ever have in your life. No funny business.” My mouth has gone dry. I don’t know how to respond. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried his lake-caught pickerel and chips. What do you say?”
Fifteen
I feel terrible. And not just because I’m pretending to be sick on my first day on the job atThe Evergreen Enquirer. I’m the worst. When Bruce suggested we go over to Gill’s for lunch, my stomach dropped so quickly I almost felt motion sick.
Bruce immediately asked if I was feeling unwell—if it was brought on by the candied brisket chunks in the cookie I’d eaten earlier—and I nodded instead of telling him who I am and why I’m persona non grata in some establishments in town. He looked deeply worried, which of course just made it all worse. Bruce is a kind person who is helping me out. He deserves more than for me to be faking sick when I’ve barely even started the job.
I flop down on the bed and take in my surroundings. It’s a little dusty up here, but otherwise quite charming. The apartment consists of a bedroom at the front, with pink-and-white tea rose–patterned wallpaper and two gabled windows looking down at thestreet. There’s a walnut bedroom set with Ikea bedding on top of the mattress, the bedding still in its packaging.
I open my gym bag and unpack my few belongings into the walnut dresser. There are little potpourri sachets tucked inside the drawers; they smell of cinnamon and cloves. I make the bed as I ruminate further on my situation. I feel awful about lying to Bruce, even if I’m sure showing my face in Gill’s would have felt worse. Charlie specifically told me not to go there and so did Tate. When Bruce suggested it, I think I just panicked. Still, it’s no excuse. I should have told him the truth.
With the bed finished, I walk out into the living room. There’s a pink settee, a small TV with a dust-furred screen, and a coffee table in the same walnut wood as the bedroom set. The fridge in the kitchen is olive green, and so are the tub, sink, and toilet in the bathroom. I can hear the light drip of the tap in the kitchen, the buzz of the refrigerator running. I open it, and it’s empty. My stomach delivers a low growl as I stare at the fridge’s clean, bare shelves.
I go back downstairs into the newspaper office, wondering if perhaps there are some granola bars down there. The office is dim and silent. Dust motes float in the weak sunlight that filters through the windows. After going to Gill’s for lunch, Bruce returned to work a little and then headed home. He said we could start our restaurant review series up again tomorrow if I was feeling well enough.
The cookies and donuts from Carrie’s are sitting intheir boxes on Bruce’s desk, beside a piece of paper scrawled with words like “scrumptious”—crossed out—and “unparalleled.” That one is underlined three times. I smile. Bruce might be onto something there.
I then see a note about Gill’s, and this causes my heart to sink again.Haliburton Gold,he has written.Special of the Week—absolutely delicious!!Then beside that, a heading that says,Fundraiser for Gill, ideas. Crowdfund???This is underlined five times and makes me suddenly want to weep. I imagine poor Gill, practically destitute so close to the holidays, still lovingly preparing his weekly special for his loyal customers—all the while worrying that he might not be able to keep his restaurant open for much longer. What has my family done?
I put on my parka and head outside. This time of year, the light is so fleeting. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, but the sun is already getting low. Clouds are gathering, too, muting the winter light even more. The clouds are swollen with snow and I wonder if we’re in for another blizzard. But as the snow begins to fall, the flakes are soft and gentle, swirling easily down from the sky.
I walk down Main Street until I reach Gill’s. There are a few customers inside, finishing their late lunches. And I can see a large man who must be Gill behind the counter, smiling as someone says something to him. But even from here, I can see that he looks tired.
I find that my feet are rooted to the sidewalk. I want to go in, but I can’t. I don’t know what to say, how I could ever offer to help or make up for what my familyhas done. I feel like Scrooge, looking in through a window at all the things he should have changed. But this is not a Charles Dickens tale, which means there are no ghosts of Christmas past, present, or future to make things right. I back away from the window before anyone sees me and continue to walk.One foot in front of the other,as my dad would say.
As I pass Carrie’s, I see her behind the counter. I duck my head, but she doesn’t spot me. I breathe a sigh of relief. If I had to eat any more of her carnival-inspired dishes, I feel sure I actually would be sick.
Up ahead, I spot a flashingopensign in the window of Young’s Chinese Cuisine. Of course, yet again, this place holds memories: Tate’s friend Mya’s family owned it. We had dinner here just before everything went wrong.But don’t think about that,I remind myself, trying to wrench my mind away from the memory of Tate’s gaze across the table in the dimly lit restaurant. The paper placemats detailing cocktails we both agreed probably no one had ever ordered. The laminated menus no one looked at, because everyone in town had their usual. Mya sitting with us and chatting whenever she got a break from waiting tables or ringing up takeout.
Suddenly, I’m craving fried rice, egg rolls, lemon chicken. I’m absolutely famished and this, at least, exorcises Tate from my mind. For now.
When I enter the restaurant, I note that althoughthere have been a few updates—bigger windows, brighter lights, whiter walls—I can smell the tang of the lemon sauce for the chicken I remember, the garlic and peppers for the vegetable fried rice. My mouth waters as I pick up the menu—except just as I do, there’s a popping sound from behind the kitchen door, and all the lights in the restaurant go out. I stand still in the total darkness, startled. But in seconds, the lights are back on again.
A woman emerges from the kitchen area, calling out an apology. “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t know anyone was here!” She’s tall and slender, her straight dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She has a textbook held up:Canadian Electrical Code, Part 1.“Just working on a school project.”
“Training to be an electrician?”
She nods and smiles, and I realize it’s Mya. I wonder if she recognizes me, too. “Trying to get ahead of things during the Christmas holidays. Fuses are not yet my strong suit. Are you dining in or taking out?”
I’m so hungry, I don’t think I can wait until I get back to the apartment to eat, so I tell her I’ll be dining in. She waves her hand around the empty restaurant as behind her, the phone rings.
“Dinner rush hasn’t started yet,” she says to me. “Pick any table you’d like.”
She answers the phone, takes an order, calls it back into the kitchen, then approaches my table. I’m reading through all the options, feeling overwhelmed.
She raises an eyebrow. “I think you’ve had a recent food trauma and probably need a total reset, right?”
I look up from the menu, surprised.
“How did you…”
“Carrie and her ‘special’ donuts, right? You have that look.”
I laugh. “Come on. Do I really?”
“It was all over the Evergreen Business Owners’ group chat…” she begins, and I put down my menu, feeling dismayed.
