Page 86 of Working for the Mob

“What can I do to make you go home?” I asked, and he opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted.

“Good evening,” the blonde hostess greeted us, with a smile so large it made me scared. “My name is Gloria, you can call me ‘Glo.’ Can I interest you in tonight’s specials?”

“I’m sorry, we’re in the middle––”

“That would be lovely, Glo,” my dad cut me off.

“Great!” Glo said, and smiled so wide I could drive a train through her mouth. “We have the baked pork chops with peach drizzle and a side of green beans, a––”

“Excuse me,” Lucy said, to the server. “Is your beef grass-fed?”

The server’s expression indicated she had no clue what Lucy was talking about. “Is it what?”

“I dated a farmer once. He said that he had fed some cows grain, and some cows grass, and the grass-fed cows tend to be less fatty. I’d like to think that they’re happier cows as well. Do you know what was fed to your cows?” Lucy asked.

My father gaped at Lucy. The questions clearly surprised him.

“I’d be happy to check with the chef,” the blonde hostess-turned-waitress said.

“Thanks.”

“Do you want me to continue with the specials?” Gloria asked.

“I think we’re fine,” I said.

“Please do,” my dad said.

Gloria turned her attention to my dad and said, “We have a delicious meatloaf, with a side of fresh cornbread with pumpkin butter, and a––”

“Is the cornbread made on site?” Lucy interjected again, and annoyance passed over my dad’s face.

Gloria didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, we bake it here.”

“Can I talk to your baker? I’d love to find out how to bake cornbread,” Lucy said.

“You bake cornbread?” my dad asked.

“No,” Lucy said. “That’s why I want to learn.”

My dad couldn’t be more confused.

“Lucy bakes for the café. She sells out every day,” I said.

“I can’t take credit for that. People come for the coffee and sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches withyourbread,” I said. “She also bakes scones.”

“That’s wonderful, sweetie,” my dad said, but no conviction backed his words. He might’ve been saying “the sky is blue today.”

“They’re amazing,” I said, with anger creeping into my voice. “Lucy’s amazing.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” I don’t know why, but I needed my dad to understand how good Lucy was at baking. “Lucy’s a damn good baker. You would know that if you showed one ounce of interest in her.”

My dad opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and closed it.

“I could come back to take your order when you’re ready,” the waitress said, without losing her smile. She had already taken a step away from our table.

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