Page 31 of Secret Santa

“What’s up?” I asked before he could even say hello.

“All of the follicle pulls were negative. Not that any of this is a surprise. USAS has nothing other than Charley’s word. And it was Charley. Not that they’ll admit that to you or to the public, but I have my sources behind the scenes that confirmed it. The issue is that until we and by we I meanmyteam of people—not you—can find evidence of wrong doing, you need focus on your career as a fucking incredible coach. Until Charley missteps or does something really obvious that we can exploit it’s just he said he said. So you need to stay squeaky clean until we can take Charley down.”

“You say that like I’m out here trying to game the system.”

“I know you’re not intentionally, but those kids working at Priscilla’s place? Harris said they’re just working for tips. She’s not paying them?”

“It wasn’t an agreed upon thing with her. I just saw she needed help and asked them if they wanted to make some extra money.”

Beckett swore under his breath.

“Any chance she could hire them as workers, have actual W2s for all of them?”

“I wouldn’t even know how to get my arms around that. Everyone has just dropped in and out as they’ve had an extra hour or two. I have no way of knowingwhoworked let alone for how long.”

“That is problematic,” Beckett said. “They can’t do what you’re having them do. It violates their student athlete contracts and would make them ineligible for the Olympics if any of them had those aspirations. Essentially, the diner is using their likenesses to benefit, or profit off them.”

“Are you kidding me? They’re waiting tables. Helping out a member of their community.”

“True, but each of those kids have social media accounts. Most of them have verified social media accounts with followers in the tens of thousands. The argument could be made that their posts on social media encouraged people who were fans of theirs to visit her establishment. And the team—the girls especially—have oodles of pictures on their pages of them at Ito Eats.”

“Fuck.”

I wanted to punch something. Could one thing in my life not be hyper complicated? Just when I think I’m seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, the mountain decides to throw down an avalanche to block the track.

“I’ll handle it. I think I may have a way around it. If anyone asks you in the meeting just tell them that Priscilla is a very active member of the community. That the entire university, including the swim team, spend time there. When she needed help all of the kids were more than willing to extend a helping hand.”

With that he disconnected. The meeting went just as Beckett said it would. They told me and my kids that there was no evidence of wrongdoing, apologized for the stress it caused, assured them all that this matter was closed and would in no way be reflected in their files, and wished them a successful rest of their swimming season. No one brought up the work done at Priscilla’s restaurant, thankfully. And to be honest, once the meeting was over and the elation of the kids infused the office, I forgot all about what Beckett had said.

ChapterTwenty

Despite the busyness of the week, and the last-minute order filling there was finally some relief. My back up cook, Rylan eased back into working a couple of hours here and there as he was able. Tomás, my broken-ankled full time chef returned enough to help me with prep while seated, and brought along an apprentice from the cooking school who, under Tomás’s guidance could hold his own.

Thankfully Ito Eats had very simple, down-home recipes. No fancy culinary skills were needed to drop pancakes on a griddle or top my special banana French toast with fruit and syrup. Having the extra help though eased the heavy burden of keeping it all going on my own.

By Thanksgiving day I was grateful to have the “closed” sign on my door by three o’clock so I could go home, rest my feet, and spend an evening doing absolutely nothing. A gift from my Secret Santa welcomed me to my front stoop. It hung from my doorknob in a glittery snowflake bag, tucked inside with nearly matching glittery snowflake wrapping paper.

It contained a picture frame of me at the State Fair five years ago. The time I’d won the first baking championship for my coconut cake. I never even knew it made the papers. The article read:

Newcomer Takes the Cake:Bourbon City diner Ito Eats draws crowds with Elvis inspired coconut cake

Beneath the headline was a picture of me looking flat out shocked, holding my beautiful white-as-snow cake on the peacock blue cake platter my mom always used for special occasions.

A soft knock at the door pulled me from my daydreaming, though my body saidI’m so comfortable on this couch I refuse to leave it. Unfortunately thanks to an overbearing big brother my door was never not locked so I couldn’t even shout “it’s open!” to whomever was there.

“I thought someone should cook for you, for once.” Presley stood in my entry way, a bag in either hand and a shy smile playing across his lips.

“You cooked for me?”

“It’s no Thanksgiving feast, but I have the basics. Turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole because you can’t have a thanksgiving without it, some stuffing but I’ll forewarn you it’s the boxed kind. My mom makes the best stuffing I’ve ever had, but by the time I got to the grocery store the things the recipe called for were already sold out.” He chatted as he laid out his plastic containers on my kitchen table. “Sit. You don’t need to set the table, or get drinks, or do anything but relax and let someone else wait on you for once.”

It could have been McDonald’s drive thru. He knew that I’d be dead on my feet after slogging through the last few weeks. I could almost picture him in his kitchen making dinner for me. That despite his own busy and stressful week he went out, faced the grocery storesonThanksgiving just so that I’d have a warm meal to come to? It was too much. My rib cage ached with the swell of tenderness.

I don’t know if any meal had ever tasted as good. Even the single slices of pumpkin pie that Presley apologized at least five times for being “store bought” tasted like no pumpkin pie I’d ever eaten. I swore to myself as we sunk down into my sofa and flipped through the TV channels with half-hearted interest, that I would never, ever forget this Thanksgiving.

ChapterTwenty-One

“Someone got a present from their Secret Santa.”

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