'Til Grits Do Us Part (11 page)

“He has. Twice.” Trinity glanced back at the kitchen, her impeccable dark eyeliner revealing her years as a model. “He's really mad at the guy who installed it. Says if he comes in here again he'll—” She broke off, turning back to the far wall with a confused grimace. “Hey, why are you guys sitting over here? Jerry set up that booth over there for you.”

She glanced down at our plates, and her eyes bugged out. “This table hasn't been cleaned yet! What are you guys doing?”

“What?” I jerked the wine glass away from my lips.

“Gross! You didn't drink out of that, did you?” She snatched it out of my hand and smacked me with the menu. “Are you out of your mind, Shiloh? Get out of here!
There
.” She pointed. “See? Jerry put you right next to the new fountain.”

For the first time I registered the steady tinkle of water over laughter and clinking glasses and the soft Enya music piped over the speaker system. “But he said next to the plants.”

“The tree with Christmas lights.” Trinity swept her arm toward an alcove behind a large table. “And all the orchids. Plants, Shiloh. Not that old fern.”

“Oh,
those
plants.” I stood up sheepishly after Adam and shook the crumbs off my skirt then slid into the table she indicated. Gleaming clean. Glistening, untouched china and crystal. A bottle of sparkling apple juice chilled in a bucket of ice. “Wow. Now this is great.”

“You like it?” Trinity gestured to the bamboo-and-stone semicircle in a little alcove, shrouded by ferns and potted apple-green orchids. A fake topiary-style ficus tree with a braided trunk glimmered with white lights. “Yeah, everybody loves the fountain. Except Flash in the kitchen, who says it sounds like a urinal.”

“Nice.” Adam chuckled, unfolding the sumptuous cloth napkin. “I'll try not to think about that while we eat.”

“The fountain's amazing. The table. Everything.” I leaned on my chin and listened to the soothing ripple of water dripping from a bamboo spout, swirling around the rocks. Calming my frazzled nerves.

“And candles.” Trinity gestured to the silver candlesticks. “Romantic, don't you think? I'll be right back with a match.”

She lowered her head to Adam's and whispered in his ear, and I barely made out the words “on the house.”

“What? He didn't. I told him not to.” Adam lifted his head.

“Well?” Trinity shrugged and put her palms up. “What's done is done.” She grinned, showing dimples.

“Jerry. Let me guess.” I shook my head.

Adam's mouth turned up in a wistful smile. “He's a good guy. I hope one day I can run a business the way he does.”

“I know. People love this place.” I brushed my finger along the sleek, square lines of the plate, everything beautifully dim in the soft light. “Check this out. Japanese style.”

“Jerry says he had ‘inspiration' on the Japanese setup.” Trinity bobbed a slender eyebrow as she turned toward the kitchen for the matches. “Whatever that's supposed to mean.”

“It's nice.” Adam held up a shiny fork. Then he put it back next to his plate and reached across to take my hands. “But listen, Shiloh. We need to finish our conversation about your mom.”

“I was talking about the silent killer.” My words came out in a whisper. At exactly the same moment my eyes lit on the sleek shine of something tall and flute-shaped in a shadowy corner of the table, right next to the pepper grinder. A bottle of olive oil? A flask of balsamic vinegar?

I carefully slid it between our plates. And found myself staring not at a white freesia bloom, but a vase topped with a full, fragrant, dark red rose.

W
ho put this here?” I shoved the crystal vase away from me, practically knocking Adam's plate in his lap.

“Why, what's the problem?”

“It's the same color rose.”

“Same color as what?” Adam paled. “You mean like the bouquet that came on your birthday?”

“Definitely.” The beautiful square plates and white tablecloth blurred into a shadowy mess of lines, punctuated by a dark red splotch. “Jerry wouldn't have ordered this, would he? He hates roses. Says the smell makes his allergies flare up—hence the practically odorless freesias and orchids and things.” I waved toward the other tables. “And not only that, it's a red rose.”

“Red?”

“Jerry's color blind. Red flowers all look brown to him. He never buys anything red on purpose.”

“Okay, but think with me here. He did it for you, Shiloh. It's your birthday.” Adam diplomatically placed the vase back over to the side, against the wall. “I asked Jerry to set up a table for us, and he did. I'm sure it's not what you're thinking.”

Before I could reply, Trinity appeared with the match, lighting the pair of slender white candles into flickering pulses of golden flame. I waited, all my theories about roses still on my tongue, as Trinity shook the match—and I stared into the twin glimmers of flame. So fragile. So easily extinguished. Like a life, suspended between two worlds.

I breathed, and the candle on my right sputtered and went out, leaving a faint trail of smoke. And a hole of darkness, pricked with a single fading ember where the light had been.

“Thirsty? It's been hot lately.” I looked up at the sound of Trinity's voice. Her gold rings glistened in the candlelight as she struck another match, her slender, coffee-brown fingers moving as if in slow motion.

“Sure.” I pushed my glass forward. Glowing spots still hung behind my eyes like memories, draining slowly into darkness.

“So when are you going to Grandma's again? She's been asking about you. Says you haven't been to dinner in a month, and she wants to help with your wedding plans. Whatever you need.” Trinity opened the bottle of sparkling apple juice, a wisp of mist trailed up like smoke.

Before I could answer Trinity's question, she winked. “Nice touch, Adam. I didn't know you had such good taste in flowers.”

“What?” Adam and I both jumped at the same time.

“The rose. It's pretty.” Trinity's nail polish sparkled as she passed a finger over the spicy-scented petals. “So fess up. Where'd you put my chrysanthemums?”

“Huh?” I spun around in my chair to face Trinity. “What chrysanthemums? I didn't see any.”

“Jerry asked me to set up the table.” She waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “ ‘A bouquet of chrysanthemums, even if the allergies kill me,' he said. Where'd they go? I put them right in the middle of the table.”

“Chrysanthemums. I get it. This gorgeous Japanese setup.” I smoothed the bamboo placemat.

“Exactly. I think he wanted to make you feel at home. Japan-home.” Trinity turned and looked around the restaurant then shrugged. “Beats me where they went though. I'll ask Jerry. Maybe he… Nah. Forget it.” She waved it away.

“Forget what?”

Trinity sighed. “I don't know, Shiloh. He's just been…different lately.”

Adam squinted up in the candlelight, reflections dancing in his eyes. “Different how?”

She dropped her voice. “Nervous. Stressed. I don't know. His head in the clouds.”

“Don't say stressed.” I closed my eyes, trying not to think of Mom and her pile of unopened letters. “But why's Jerry on edge? Because the sanitizer hose keeps breaking?”

“Not exactly. He keeps changing things around, trying to cut costs.Cheaper flowers. Lower-quality cheese. Slashing stuff off the menu that people love because he says it's too expensive. That sort of thing.”

“He can't be too hard up, can he? He must've shelled out big bucks for this new flooring.” I looked across at the polished wood grain, shining dimly in the yellow-white overhead light.

“Exactly. Because the dirty carpet cost too much to shampoo, and people were complaining. He had a relative lay the flooring and sold his car to pay for everything.”

“His car?” I jerked my head back, stunned.

“Yep. He's borrowing a car from your next-door neighbor until he can buy a cheaper one.”

“Stella? His sister?”

“Yep. She dropped him off today, and they went in the back and talked a while. And she didn't look happy when she left. I don't know, Shiloh. But something tells me all Jerry's little changes to the restaurant are last-ditch efforts.”

Adam leaned forward. “You mean like…he might have to close the restaurant?”

“I'm not sure.” Trinity's full lips formed a line. “He hasn't let anybody go yet, but I've seen him going over numbers for hours, glued to his accounting books.”

The bad haircut. “To save a buck,” he'd said
.

I ran my hands over the thick tablecloth and brown wicker charger, light dancing in pale ribbons across its surface. “But it's all so beautiful.”

“Well. Everything ends sometime.”

The bright candle flames bobbed in a current of air.

Trinity lowered her voice to a whisper. “I'm looking for another job just in case.” She shrugged. “Anyway. You can ask him about the rose while I go get your appetizer.”

We all turned at the sound of Jerry's voice from across the tables, unusually tight as he called something over his shoulder. I sized him up as he strode between the tables toward us, a no-nonsense leather folder under his arm and a weary look in his eyes.

Trinity shook her head. “Poor guy. Wait to bring up the rose until he's talked to you about what's on his mind first. Otherwise he might keel over. Stress and all that.”

“So I'm offering you a proposal,” said Jerry, leaning forward on the chair he'd swiped from a neighboring table. “A business proposal. I need your help, and you need moola. For that weddin' of yours.” He grinned. But when he settled back in the chair, the tired lines crossing his forehead spoke louder than his smile. For the first time I noticed some gray edging his chopped sideburns.

“You want us to help you give The Green Tree a face-lift,” I summarized.

“Yep. That's what it boils down to.” Jerry sighed and set his glasses on the edge of our table, wiping the sweat from beneath his eyes. “We need a new direction. A new…something.”

“But I don't understand. The place is gorgeous.” I pointed to the bamboo placemat. “You nailed the Japanese theme. If this is your new direction, it's perfect.”

“It does look nice, don't it?” Jerry's tight face relaxed a bit. “I had some special help with that one. But I'll be blunt. We ain't doin' so well.”

“But people are packing in here!” I gestured at the crowded tables.

Well. Maybe not crowded, exactly. Now that I looked, I could see a few empty tables here and there, lonely chairs—but wasn't that normal?

“Not exactly.” Jerry sighed and reached for his leather folder. “Take a look at this.” And he tossed a magazine on the table.

“ ‘The Green Tree offers plain vanilla,' ” Adam read out loud then looked up at Jerry in surprise. “ ‘Upscale veggie-heavy joint serves up more of the same tired dishes and flavorless design.' ”

“Flavorless design?” I yelped, snatching the magazine closer. “Who said that?”

“I'm afraid there's more.” Jerry pulled out a folded newspaper. “This ain't much better.”

“ ‘The Green Tree's steady slide from alluring to abysmal just goes to show that farmers should stick with fried eggs and pork shanks.' ” I gaped at the blocky type. “ ‘Farmers'? They're making fun of your last name, aren't they?”

“That ain't the half of it. We've had a thirty-eight percent decrease in customers since these things ran.” He shook the newspaper. “The lowest I've seen in nine years of business. Today we had half the usual number of lunch customers. I'm at my wit's end.”

The numbers fell hard on the table like a dropped spoon, shattering our thoughts.

Jerry sighed, slumping back in his chair. “I jest don't get it. I work hard. I break my back. I treat my folks right and give my customers the best. And doggone if it don't come back and bite me in the leg.” He pointed a finger at the newspaper. “This stuff's death for restaurants, folks. One-and-a-half stars? You think people are going to shell out cash for me to buy fresh organic spinach and Jarlsberg cheese with a rating of one-and-a-half stars?”

Jerry looked haggard. “Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm washed up or my time as a restaurant owner is done. I dunno.” He put his hands up. “I gotta do somethin' though, or…who knows what'll happen.”

“Jerry, no.” I shook my head. “You can't fold. Staunton needs at least one place that doesn't sell fried chicken and ham biscuits. Please.”

Jerry's cheek crinkled into a wry grin. “Don't ya think I've been up night after sleepless night thinkin' about that? And what about Stel? She'll take a hard cut.”

Jerry's sister Stella. My Marlboro-smoking, school-bus-driving, big-haired next-door neighbor who looked out for me with a tender fierceness. Stella made her heavenly caramel-chocolate brownies and cherry cheesecakes for Jerry, who then sold them at The Green Tree. Giving her a good-sized amount of the proceeds.