All Roads Lead Home, page 2
Here’s a fun fact for you: Titles have always been tricky when it comes to publishing. Many of my titles then and now were often rejected by my editors—all for good reasons. A few years into my writing career I found a valuable source of inspiration, and this will surprise you—names of racehorses. I found a list of registered names and several of my books share those of highly celebrated winners. Word soon got around, and my author friends often called asking for title suggestions. Truth is, I don’t remember if A Friend or Two or Reflections of Yesterday, the original titles of this combination volume, were racehorses, but I strongly suspect they were.
It’s an honor that you purchased this book based, I suspect, on my name alone. I’m grateful for the faith my readers have placed in me. Now turn the page and return to a period not so long ago before we had text or emails and enjoy these fun stories.
As always, hearing from my readers is a bonus. Your letters and comments have guided my career from the very beginning. You can reach me through all the social media platforms. If you would rather write, here is my mailing address:
P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.
Blessings,
A Friend or Two
“Miss Elizabeth?” The elderly butler’s eyes widened, but he composed himself quickly. “This is a surprise. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Bently. It’s good to be home.” Elizabeth Wainwright felt comforted by his formality and British accent. She looked around the huge entry hall, with its elegant crystal chandelier and imported oriental rugs and sighed inwardly. Home. Would it offer her what she hadn’t been able to find in Europe? Immediately doubts filled her.
“Would you see to my luggage?” she asked in a low, distracted tone. “And ask Helene to draw my bath?”
“Right away.”
She looked around with a renewed sense of appreciation for everything this house represented. Wealth. Tradition. Family pride. With all this at her fingertips, how could she possibly be dissatisfied?
“Bently, do you know where Father is?”
“In the library, miss,” he responded crisply.
Her smile faded as she started across the huge hall. She loved Bently. Nothing could ruffle him. She could recall the time…Loud voices drifted past the partially opened door, and she paused. Her father rarely raised his voice.
“I’m afraid I’ve failed her, Mother. Elizabeth is restless and unhappy.”
Stunned, Elizabeth stood just outside the library door, listening.
“Give the girl time, Charles. She’s suffered a great loss.” Her grandmother’s raspy voice sounded troubled, despite her words.
“She has no drive, no ambition, no purpose. Dear heavens, have you seen these bills from Paris?”
The sound of his fist against the desk shocked her.
“Elizabeth goes through money as if there’s no tomorrow. I’ve pampered and indulged her since Mary died, and now I’m left to deal with it.”
“But she’s such a dear child.”
“Dear, but hopelessly unhappy, I fear. The thing is”—her father’s voice lowered and took on a slightly husky quality—“I don’t know how to help her.”
A twinge of guilt caused Elizabeth to lower her head fractionally. She’d thought she had concealed her unhappiness. And she couldn’t argue with her father’s earlier statement. Her spending had been extravagant the last few months.
“What can we do?” Again, it was her grandmother.
“I don’t know, Mother.”
Elizabeth had never heard such resignation from her father. “I’ll talk to her, but I don’t know what good it will do. Perhaps if Mary had lived…” he continued soberly.
Elizabeth refused to listen to any more. Her father rarely spoke of her mother. Mary Elizabeth Wainwright’s unexpected death two years before still had the power to inflict a deep sense of loss on them both. Elizabeth’s brother had adjusted well, but he was older and constitutionally more able to cope with his grief.
Thoughtfully, she climbed the long, winding staircase to her rooms. A confrontation with her father was the last thing she wanted. How could she explain this lackadaisical attitude that had taken over her usually cheerful existence? And as for the benefits of wealth, she was well aware of the privileges and even the power that came with having money. But money wasn’t everything; it didn’t bring happiness or fulfillment. The best time she’d had in her life had been the summer she bummed her way across France, when she’d barely had two euros to rub together. Not only was she intelligent, she was gifted. She spoke fluent French, and enough Italian and German to make her last visits to Rome and Berlin worry-free. But what good was any of that to her now?
Sitting on her plush canopy bed, she forced her spine to straighten. She was a Wainwright. She was supposed to maintain her pride and independence at all times.
A gnawing ache churned her stomach. She didn’t want to talk to her father. She didn’t want to explain the fiasco in Paris and her extravagant expenses. All she wanted was peace and quiet. The germ of an idea began to form in her mind. Her bags were still packed. She could swear Bently to silence and slip out just as quietly as she’d slipped in. San Francisco sounded appealing. Her mother had spent a carefree summer there when she was about Elizabeth’s age. With a renewed sense of purpose, she headed out of her bedroom door and down the back stairs.
The ever-present odor of fresh fish and the tangy scent of saltwater followed Elizabeth as she sauntered down Fisherman’s Wharf. The wharf wasn’t far from where she was staying at the St. Francis, one of San Francisco’s most prestigious hotels. A little breeze ruffled her golden-brown hair and added a shade of color to her otherwise pale features.
With the morning paper tucked under her arm, she strolled into a small French café. It had only taken three days for the restless boredom to make its way into her thoughts. How could she sit in one of the most beautiful cities in the world with the homey scent of freshly baked bread drifting from the restaurant kitchen and feel this listless?
A friendly waitress dressed in a crisp pink uniform with a starched white apron took her order for coffee and a croissant. She wasn’t hungry, but she had noticed this morning that her clothes were beginning to hang on her and decided to make the effort to eat more.
Lackadaisically her eyes ran over the front page of the newspaper. Nothing had changed. The depressing stories of war and hate were the same on this day as they had been the week before and the month before that. Sighing, she folded the newspaper and waited for the waitress to bring her food.
“Are you looking for a job?” the young waitress asked eagerly as she delivered Elizabeth’s order.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I saw you looking through the paper and thought you might be job-hunting. I wouldn’t normally suggest something like this, but there’s an opening here, if you’d like to apply. You could start right now.”
Elizabeth’s pale blue eyes widened incredulously. What was this girl talking about?
“I know it’s not much, but a position here could tide you over until you find what you’re really looking for. The other girl who normally works with me called in this morning and quit.” She paused to forcefully release her breath. “Can you imagine? Without a minute’s notice. Now I’m left to deal with the lunch crowd all by myself.”
Elizabeth straightened in her chair. Why not? She didn’t have anything better to do. “I don’t know that I’d be much help. I’ve never been a waitress.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The younger girl’s relief was obvious. “I can guarantee that by the end of the day you’ll discover everything you ever cared to know about waitressing and a few things you didn’t.” Her laugh was light and cheerful. “By the way, I’m Gilly. Short for Gillian.”
“And I’m Elizabeth.”
“Glad to meet you, Elizabeth. Boy, am I glad.” The breezy laugh returned. “Come on back to the kitchen, and I’ll introduce you to Evelyn. He’s the owner and chef, and I’m sure he’ll hire you.” With determined, quick-paced steps, Gilly led the way across the room to the swinging double doors. She paused and turned around. “Don’t be shocked if Evelyn kisses you or something. He’s like that. I think it’s because he’s French.”
“I won’t be surprised,” Elizabeth murmured and had trouble containing her smile. What would Gilly say if she knew that Elizabeth spoke the language fluently and had lived in Paris?
A variety of pleasant smells assaulted her as she entered the spotless kitchen. As a little girl, her favorite place in the huge, rambling house had been the kitchen. The old cook would often sneak her pieces of pie dough or a cookie. Her childhood had been happy and untroubled.
“Evelyn,” Gilly said, attracting the attention of the chef who was garbed completely in white and working busily at the stove. “This is Elizabeth. She’s going to take Deanne’s place.”
The ruddy-faced man with a thick mustache that was shaped like an open umbrella over a full mouth turned and stared blankly at Elizabeth.
Giving in to impulse, she took a step forward and extended her hand. In flawless French, she explained that she hadn’t done any waitressing but would be pleased to help them out this afternoon.
Laughing, Evelyn broke into a wild speech in his native language while pumping her hand as if she were a long-lost relative.
Again in perfect French, she explained that no, she wasn’t from France or Quebec, but she had spent several years studying in his country.
An expression of astonishment widened Gilly’s eyes. “You should have said you were from France.”
“I’m not. I studied French in school.” Elizabeth didn’t explain that the school had been in Paris.
“You know, that’s one thing I’m sorry for,” Gilly said, thoughtfully pinching her bottom lip. “I wish I’d studied French. A lot of good Spanish does me here. But then”—she paused and chuckled—“I could always end up working in a Mexican restaurant.”
Elizabeth laughed. Gilly was delightful. Amiable and full of enthusiasm, the younger girl was just the antidote for the long day that lay ahead.
Luckily, the two were close enough in size that Elizabeth could wear one of Gilly’s extra uniforms.
After a minimum of instruction, Elizabeth was given a pad and pencil, and asked to wait on her first customers, an elderly couple who asked for coffee and croissants. Without incident, Elizabeth delivered their order.
“This isn’t so bad,” she murmured under her breath to Gilly, who was busy writing out the luncheon specials on the chalkboard that would be displayed on the sidewalk.
“I took one look at you and knew you’d do great,” Gilly stated cheerfully.
“You took one look at me and saw an easy mark.” A smile revealed deep grooved dimples in each of Elizabeth’s cheeks.
“Does everyone call you Elizabeth?” Briefly, Gilly returned her attention to the chalkboard. “You look more like a Beth to me.”
Beth, Elizabeth mused thoughtfully. No one had called her that since her school days, and then only her best friends. After all, she was a Wainwright. “Elizabeth” was the dignified name her family preferred.
“Call me anything you like,” she said in a teasing tone. “No, on second thought, you better stick with Beth.”
A half hour later Elizabeth was answering to a variety of names, among them “Miss” and “Waitress.” Never had she imagined that such a simple job could be so demanding, or that there were so many things to remember. The easy acceptance given her by the customers was a pleasant surprise. Most of the café’s luncheon crowd were regulars from office buildings close to the wharf. Several of them took the time to chat before ordering. A couple of men blatantly flirted with her, which did wonders for her sagging ego. A few asked about Deanne and weren’t surprised when they learned that she’d quit.
The highlight of the afternoon came when she waited on a retired couple visiting from France. She spoke to them in their native language for so long that Gilly had to point out that there were several other customers who needed attention. Later Gilly was shocked to see that the couple had left a tip as large as the price of their meal.
“Tutor me in French, would you?” she joked, as she passed by carrying a glass coffeepot.
Elizabeth couldn’t believe the time when she glanced at her gold wristwatch. Four o’clock. The day had sped past, and she felt exhilarated, better than she had in months. Tonight she wouldn’t need a pill to help her sleep.
“You were terrific. Everyone was saying how great you were,” Gilly said, laying on the praise. “A couple of regulars said they hope you’ll stay. And even if it was your first time waitressing, you were as good as Deanne ever was.”
After all the orders she had mixed up, Elizabeth was surprised Gilly thought so. Of course, she had eaten in some of the world’s best restaurants and knew what kind of service to expect. But giving it was something else entirely.
“Would you consider staying on for a while?” Gilly’s tone held a mixture of hope and doubt. “I’m sure this isn’t the kind of job you want. But the pay isn’t bad, and the tips are good.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I…I don’t know.”
“It would only be until we could find someone to replace you,” Gilly added quickly. “That shouldn’t be long. A week or two. Three months at the most.”
“Three months?” Elizabeth gasped.
“Well, to be honest, Evelyn saw you with the French couple and told me that he’d really like to hire you permanently. I suppose it’s too much to ask, with your qualifications.”
What qualifications? Elizabeth mused. Oh, sure, she knew all the finer points of etiquette, but aside from her fluency in several languages, she’d never had any formal job training.
“Just think about it, okay?” Gilly urged.
Elizabeth agreed with a soft smile.
“You’ll be back tomorrow?” The doelike eyes implored, making it impossible to refuse.
Exhaling slowly, Elizabeth nodded. “Sure. Why not?”
Why not indeed? she mused later as she unlocked the door to her suite at the St. Francis. Her feet hurt, and there was an ache in the small of her back, but otherwise she felt terrific.
The hot water filling the tub was steaming up the bathroom when she straightened, struck by a thought. There was no one she wanted to visit this summer, no place she wanted to go. There wasn’t anything to stop her from working with Gilly. It would be fun. Well, maybe not fun, but…different, and she was definitely in the mood for different.
With the sound of the hot water still running behind her, she knotted the sash of her blue silk robe and eased her feet into matching slippers. Sitting atop the mattress, she reached for the phone. For the first time in months, she felt like talking to her father. He had a right to know where she was staying and what she was up to. Over the last year she’d given him enough to worry about.
Bently answered the phone. “Good evening, Miss Elizabeth,” he said after she identified herself.
“Hello, Bently. Is my father home?”
“I’ll get him for you.”
Had she detected a note of worry in Bently’s tone? He was always so formal that it was difficult to discern any emotion.
“Elizabeth, dear.” Her father spoke crisply. “Just exactly where are you?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Bently said that you were home, and then, before anyone knew what had happened, you were off again.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said, though in fact she wasn’t the least bit regretful. “I’m in San Francisco. I’ve got a job.”
“A job,” her father repeated in a low, shocked tone. “Doing what?”
She laughed, mentally picturing the perplexed look working its way across her father’s face. With a liberal arts degree as vague and unimpressive as her grades, she knew he doubted that anyone would want to hire her. “I’m a waitress in a small French café called the Patisserie.”
“A waitress!” Charles Wainwright exploded.
“Now don’t go all indignant on me. I know this is a shock. But I’m enjoying it. Some of the customers speak French, and the chef is from Paris.”
“Yes, but…” Elizabeth could feel her father’s shock. “But if you wanted to work,” he went on, “there are a hundred positions more suited to you.”
“Honestly, Dad, I’d think you’d be happy that I’m out of your hair for the summer. Wish me well and kiss Grandmother for me.”
“Elizabeth…”
“My bath’s running. I’ve got to go.”
A resigned note she recognized all too well entered his voice. “Take care of yourself, my dear.”
* * *
—
“This is working out great,” Gilly commented at the end of Elizabeth’s first week. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about you that the customers like.”
“It’s because I can pronounce the name of Evelyn’s pastries,” Elizabeth returned in a teasing voice.
“That’s not it,” Gilly contradicted with a slight quirk of her head. Her short, bouncy curls bobbed with the action. “Though having you speak French does add a certain class to the place.”
“My French may be good, but my feet are killing me.” She faked a small, pain-filled sigh and rubbed the bottom of one expensive loafer over the top of the other.
“Your feet wouldn’t hurt if you were wearing the right shoes.”
Elizabeth glanced at her Guccis and groaned. Heavens, she’d spent more on these leather loafers than she made in a week at this restaurant. How could they possibly be the wrong kind of shoe?
