Page 106 of Inside Silence
Damn, who’d have thought when I took a chance on the rail-thin girl who answered the help-wanted sign in my window six years ago, she’d become the rock I lean on these days. As it turned out, hiring her was not only the best thing that could’ve happened to her, but me as well. She has become invaluable to me and Strange Brew.
Lola has shared only bits and pieces of her history with me over the years, but it was enough information for me to realize my own sordid past pales in comparison. The woman has a core of steel though, and has completely reinvented herself. The pretty, well-put-together woman in front of me is a far cry from the skinny kid who first walked in here.
“Lemon-poppyseed muffins and pecan chocolate-chip cookies.”
“On it,” she states, checking the wall for the recipes.
Every time I add a new item to our weekly rotation, I tack a laminated copy to our recipe wall. I don’t have any secrets, at least not with respect to my baked goods.
“Why don’t you take a break, go make yourself a coffee,” Lola suggests, glancing at me over her shoulder. “You look like you could use it.”
Ugh. I purposely avoided looking in the mirror this morning. I figured it wouldn’t be an improvement on the pale, haggard reflection staring back at me last night. Guess I was right.
I don’t bother arguing; I could use a boost of caffeine if I’m going to make it through today.
“Oh, and I’ll take Carson under my wing when he gets here,” she adds when I start out the door.
Shoot, Carson. I’d forgotten about him; the kid is supposed to start today.
I overheard him talking to his girlfriend, Tatum, when they dropped in after school last week. He’d been complaining he had a hard time finding an after-school job. It just so happened one of my weekend part-timers gave me two-weeks’ notice a few days prior, and I hadn’t started looking yet. I ended up offering him the job, provided his father approved. I’m sure working at the local coffee shop wasn’t Carson’s first choice, but the promise of free baked goods had been enough of an enticement for him to accept.
I’d all but forgotten he’s supposed to start today,
“I need him to fill in a few forms for me first, but after that, yes. If he could shadow you for a bit during the rush, that would be great.”
The rush is usually between seven—when we open—and nine. After that things slow down a bit until noon, when it picks up again for the lunch crowd. Our menu isn’t big, since we’re supposed to be a coffee shop and not a restaurant, but especially on the weekends people have a tendency to pop in here for a quick bite while they run their errands. We offer sandwiches and a daily soup or stew during the winter months, but it’s all pretty basic.
When I get here at around four in the morning, baking is the first thing I tackle. Usually by the time the doors open, most of the pastries are done, and I start prepping for lunch.
When I started, I was very ambitious and baked all my own breads as well, but that proved to be too labor intensive. I ended up ordering in from Crumbs, a local, artisan bakery with whom I was able to negotiate a great deal. It leaves me more time to spend on salads for the sandwiches and whatever special I am serving that day.
Then after lunch, I normally do my ordering and administration, and when I close the doors at five, I’m dead on my feet.
I haven’t had much of a life since I opened Strange Brew eight years ago, working thirteen- or fourteen-hour days, but it has been a labor of love building this place in to what it is now. At least these days, with Lola running things so I can take a day, sometimes two, off every week, I have some downtime.
Tomorrow is Sunday, my standard day off. Normally, I’d be looking forward to the break, but at the moment I’d rather be busy. Less time to think and worry.
I’ve barely booted up the computer in my office when I hear the back door fall shut. It sounds like Lola is intercepting whoever walked in, but a few moments later I hear footsteps coming down the hall.
“Hey.”
Hugo Alexander, Carson’s dad, pokes his head in the door.
“Hi.”
I’m annoyed I sound breathless whenever I talk to him. It’s ridiculous. Sure, the man looks more like a reincarnated Viking the older he gets, but I’ve known him forever, and he’s not the only handsome man in town. He just appears to be the only one who affects my vocal cords. It’s aggravating.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks, obviously referring to his offspring working here.
“Positive. He’s a good kid, Hugo, he’ll do fine.”
He runs a hand through his unruly, straw-colored hair laced with a decent amount of silver.
“I know, it’s just…we’re friends, and I’d hate to see him fuck up and?—”
“And what?” I interrupt sharply, for some reason extra annoyed by the friend label I’m slapped with. “You really think I’d be so petty; I’d take that out on you? Please, you should know me better.”
He looks appropriately sheepish and maybe a little surprised at the edge in my voice.
