The Way Home (22 page)

“Why, indeed,” Avery muttered. “I'm going to look into it. Unless he has it all locked up.”

Which was possible, knowing Mike. His laid-back manner belied his sharp business sense.

They worked a few minutes more in silence. Avery heard the phone and eagerly picked it up, hoping it was a reservation.

“Café Peregrine, may I help you?”

“I hope you can,” a familiar voice replied. “Want some easy business? I have a big group of hungry tourists here and not enough table space. They all have to go back on the three o'clock ferry, otherwise I'd do two seatings,” Mike explained.

The senior invasion. He wanted to send the overflow her way.

“But I don't do lunch,” Avery reminded him.

There was a short but distinct silence. “Are you kidding me? You keep telling me you need more business. I'm sending you a boatload of customers. What is the problem, Avery? You're not open? Get open,” he advised.

Avery was taken aback a bit by his tone. But she could hear the noise in the background. He was under pressure, and he had helped her when she was in a crisis, with all that emergency food. She did owe him one.

“All right. Send them over. I'll see what I can do.”

“I knew you'd come to your senses sooner or later. You don't have much time to get ready. They move quicker than you'd think.”

Avery hung up and turned to Gena. “You know that parade that just passed by? They were going to the Tuna . . . and we're getting the overflow.”

“The overflow? You mean we're opening for lunch?”

“That's what I mean.” Avery hastily gathered up the linens and cleared up the dining area. Then she ran back to the kitchen. “Call around and see if anyone can get over here to help. I'm thinking a short, blackboard menu. We have lots of pizza dough left over from Monday. I'll add the two specials I was planning for tonight and get more food for dinner later.”

There would be an hour or two to get more supplies for dinner entrees. It would be close, but she did need the business.

An unexpected shopping trip should be the least of my problems,
she reminded herself.

The tour group soon marched up to the Peregrine and filed in. Avery invited everyone to find their own tables.

“What a pretty little place,” she heard a lady say as she passed by.

“It looks a lot nicer than that fish shack,” another lady agreed. “That one's a little too funky for my taste.”

Funky, huh? She would have to tell Mike about that review. Then again . . . maybe not, she decided.

Avery ran back to the kitchen, leaving Gena in charge of getting everyone settled. Brittany and Jack walked through the back door. Luckily, they had been nearby, just down at the beach when Gena called. Avery quickly explained the situation, and everyone got to work.

The pizzas were a popular choice and easy to turn out quickly. Teresa showed up just as Avery was getting the first wave of orders in the oven. Her seasoned helper didn't ask too many questions and jumped right into the work.

“They keep telling me they need to make the three o'clock ferry,” Gena said each time she came into the kitchen. “I hope we make it.”

“Tell them to eat faster,” Teresa groused. “We can always pack a few things to go.”

Avery didn't want that to happen. They would never come back again. She cooked like a demon, consoled by the knowledge that there was a time limit to this madness.

She happened to be in the dining room, helping serve dessert, when an attractive woman, about her own age, appeared at one of the open French doors. Avery recognized her, the tour guide who had been holding the little flag.

“How's everyone doing here? Having a good time?” she asked the group cheerfully.

Avery was relieved to hear a chorus of positive replies.

“The food was very good,” one woman shouted out.

“And I loved my dessert,” her husband chimed in.

Would you please post those reviews on the Internet?
Avery nearly asked. But she didn't want to beg for good comments, and she wondered if the couple even used a computer. Though many seniors did, she reminded herself.

“Well, this was a nice surprise. Sorry we didn't have a reservation,” the tour guide said to Avery. “I'm Cindy, by the way. I'm with Pilgrim Tours.” She offered her hand and Avery shook it.

Cindy was an attractive blonde, about Avery's age, with long bangs and layer-cut hair that swooped to her shoulders. Her outfit, a French blue blouse and short white skirt, complemented her summery looks perfectly. She looked very calm and collected, even in the midst of her demanding customers, the total opposite of how Avery felt. Even Cindy's hair seemed calm, totally defying the humidity, Avery noticed. Unlike her own, which curled so wildly today, she looked as if she had stuck her finger in a light socket.

“I was pretty worried for a minute there that half the group wasn't going to get lunch. Now that would have caused a small riot. These lovely folks can turn on you quickly,” she confided.

Avery laughed, though she suspected it wasn't entirely a joke. “I'm glad we were able to accommodate you.”

“I am, too. Let me give you my card. I bring tours here all the time. Maybe I can bring another group here for lunch one day?”

“Please do.” Avery had to get a hold of herself to keep from hugging the woman out of sheer gratitude. “I mean, I'd be happy to work something out with you.”

Cindy reached into her handbag and handed Avery a business card. Avery handed her one of the café's cards, too. “That's me, Avery Bishop,” she noted, pointing to her name on the bottom. “Give me a call or e-mail anytime.”

“Will do,” Cindy nodded, and stuck the card in her wallet.

“Mike said you would be a good sport.” Her tone of voice and the way she smiled gave Avery the impression that she knew Mike well. “He's such a character, isn't he?” Cindy asked with another indulgent smile.

Avery smiled back, her teeth gritting together. “He sure is,” she agreed. A charming, attractive character who must flirt with a lot of women—and maybe even impulsively kiss a few, too? She couldn't help but wonder.

Cindy had turned away from Avery and missed her flustered expression. She took out her yellow flag from somewhere, then clapped her hands. “Listen up, everybody. Time to settle your checks and head down the boardwalk. We don't want to miss the ferry.”

The announcement inspired a flurry of activity. Bills were paid, leftovers wrapped, and the group marched out as quickly as they had come in.

Avery and her crew soon collapsed into empty chairs.

“They came, they ate, they talked about cholesterol,” Gena observed dryly.

Avery had to laugh. “How true. I'm not sure if we did lunch, or it did us. But the important thing is, we survived.”

“Every table was filled, and they didn't bat an eye at those overpriced gourmet pizza pies,” Teresa observed. “This lunchtime crowd could be a good thing.”

“I've thought about it, but I didn't think we'd be able to handle another meal,” Avery confessed. The truth was, they had barely mastered serving dinner. “But today went very well and with no advance notice. Would you all be willing to do a lunch shift—maybe two or three days a week?”

Gena, Jack, Teresa, and Brittany answered with an affirmative chorus. Gena reached into her apron pockets and began sorting out her tips. “I wouldn't mind doubling my pay. I did better just now than I do on some weeknights.”

It was soon decided by a majority vote that Café Peregrine would open for lunch Thursday through Saturday. On Sunday they already served brunch. Avery thought it was reasonable to start with a few days and take it from there.

Am I going out on a limb now to get the fruit?
Avery wondered, remembering Mike's advice. She wasn't sure. But she did know that if today was any measure, the extra profits might save the café.

She had one person to thank for this stroke of insight—and for forcing this lunch group down her throat. Mike Rossi. Who else? She wanted to laugh when she recalled what she had said to him over the phone. “But we don't serve lunch.”

Well . . . duh . . . it's a good time to start.

As her staff cleared up the dining room and began to set up for dinner, Avery wondered what Mike was doing right now at the Tuna. She half expected him to pop in the back door any minute and ask how they had survived the tsunami of seniors.

But he didn't come.
He must still be busy,
she thought.
I could go see him . . . or I could call. Maybe that would be better
.

Considering that I look like a total wreck
.

She glanced in the mirror, despairing over her hair, a mass of dirty brown curls, piled on her head and haphazardly secured with a handful of hairpins. It was her hair versus the humidity every day down here and so far, the humidity was clearly winning. She would get one hunk of hair in place with a pin and moments later, another wave would spring out from some other spot. And she was tired and sticky from cooking as well.

No, it's not the time to surprise Mike,
she decided. Then she had to catch herself, worrying so much about her appearance. Hadn't he seen her at her very worst, at her very lowest moment on the Fourth of July weekend? What was the difference now?

Avery wasn't ready to examine that question too closely.
It's just . . . different,
she snapped at the little voice in her head.
I don't have to look like someone used me to wipe down the kitchen floor every time I see him, do I?

She wouldn't visit. She would call. And thank him for
encouraging
her to serve lunch—and sending her all those customers. It was the decent thing to do, she decided.

But when Avery called the rival restaurant, a polite, unfamiliar voice answered. Mike was not around, and no one knew when he would be back. “Do you want to leave a message?”

“Um, no. No, thank you,” Avery replied.

She hung up, feeling deflated. She would catch up with him soon and tell him in person. She realized that in all this time, she had never even been inside the Lazy Tuna. She had only seen it from the outside, full of customers.

It was high time to visit him on his own turf, Avery decided. But even though it was fun to think of Café Peregrine and the Tuna as rivals, Avery was finding it impossible to think of Mike that way anymore.

* * *

I
T
took Avery a few days to work out a lunch menu. She consulted her cooking files, online recipes, and food websites, and even got help from Claire North at the inn. Little by little, she was starting to realize that she wanted the café's offerings to compliment the setting, the natural beauty of the island and the relaxed, fun atmosphere of the beach and boardwalk.

When she had first formulated her ideas for the café, maybe she had been a bit of a food snob. She could admit that now. Perhaps living out here these past few weeks had changed her. She wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but she was willing to try dishes she would have once called too simple. But simple, well-prepared, high-quality ingredients could be very elegant. Like Claire's cooking, for example. People raved about her fried oysters with homemade tartar sauce and her grilled scallops with citrus marinade. Even her fresh corn pancakes were delicious. Any cook could learn a lot from Claire. Of this, Avery had no doubt.

She worked on the lunch menu a full week, though her staff was chomping at the bit to work the extra hours. Finally, the last Monday in July, she went to the café early and tested out the recipes, preparing each one, so her staff could sample them and give their opinion.

She hadn't seen Mike or heard from him for over a week, since the senior invasion. And she hadn't had the courage to walk up to the Tuna and say hello. It never seemed the right time for that.

But she kept a vigilant eye out, waiting for him to pass, and as she assembled the sample lunches, she was rewarded. She caught a glimpse of Mike walking down the street toward the Tuna, and she called out to him from inside the café.

He turned and peered inside, then walked to one of the open French doors. “Hey, Avery. Catching up on the ironing today?”

Avery shook her head. “I'm thinking of sending the linens back to the laundry service. I should be able to afford it, once I start serving lunch.”

He looked very handsome, she thought, in a burgundy polo shirt and khaki pants.
And I don't look so bad either,
she reminded herself. She had hoped to see him and was wearing a nicer-than-usual outfit, a periwinkle blue tank top and a long skirt with a pale blue paisley print.

“So, you're opening for lunch. What in the world ever gave you that idea?” His amused expression more than made up for his sarcastic tone.

“It's a funny story. Some crazy guy sent a busload of seniors over here the other day, around noon. So what could I do? I had to feed them . . . They came, they ate. They talked about cholesterol . . . Amazingly enough, it worked out fine.”

She was pleased to see him laugh. “I hope that crazy guy learned his lesson. Now you'll really put him out of business.”

“No chance of that. His restaurant has an equally crazy but loyal following. I'm just hoping I can carve out a nice niche for myself down here.”

He smiled at her. “So when does this lunch service start?”

“Possibly tomorrow or Wednesday.” She waited and watched his expression. “What are you thinking?” she asked quietly.

“Nothing much. Just wondering if that mariachi band books daytime gigs.” He flashed her a mischievous grin. “Only kidding. I thought you might be starting today. It smells so good in here. What's cooking?”

“I made sample dishes of the menu so my staff could taste test. I want them to be able to answer the customer's questions and make honest recommendations.”