Changing Tides, page 5
“Okay,” Mandy drawled. “I’m Mandy. Mr. Boggs is in the back. I think he wanted you to check in with him when you got here.” Her gaze drifted down to Rachel’s dress and her lips twitched.
Clearing her throat, Rachel fought the urge to bail and go home as she headed for the kitchen. She couldn’t remember a time where she’d felt this self-conscious. Okay, maybe she couldn’t remember a time when she felt self-conscious at all. The feeling was as foreign to her as the anxiety twisting her stomach into knots.
She pushed through a set of swinging double doors and entered a large kitchen with gleaming chrome surfaces everywhere. Behind a large stainless workstation, Mr. Boggs spoke with a man wearing a white apron and a white chef’s hat, she assumed to be the cook.
When Mr. Boggs turned at the sound of her heels on the floor, his gaze raked over her. “Is that what you’re wearing?” he half-shouted.
“Uh, yeah,” Rachel said.
What was with the scrutiny? She’d wanted to look nice for her first day. So what if she was a little overdressed?
Beside Mr. Boggs, the chef’s eyes sparkled with interest.
Rachel blushed and glanced away, turning her attention back to Mr. Boggs.
“And those shoes?” Mr. Boggs arched a brow, and all three of them glanced down to her heels. “Whatever,” he grumbled, waving her off. “As long as you can keep up, what do I care?” Then he snatched a similar apron to the one the hostess and Mandy had been wearing off a shelf by the wall and shoved it into her arms. “Put this on.”
Rachel gripped the stiff material and fought the urge to grimace as she tied it around her waist. At least it was only half an apron, so the effort with her dress wasn’t entirely spoiled.
“I assume you’ll want this since it’s your first day,” he said, shoving a notepad and pencil in her hands. “Use it, don’t use it. I don’t care as long as you get your orders right.
Rachel followed him as he moved about the kitchen, showing her where everything was. He motioned her over to a soft drink machine and two industrial coffee pots, then turned to her once more. “The reason The Sea Oat stays open in the winter and still does decent business is because we don’t do any of that fancy nonsense. We’re a mom and pop shop. We sell good food, quick, and at a good price. Most of the fishermen won’t start piling in until May, but we still get a handful who work in the winter months, so no matter what, you should always have at least one of the pots full. You never know when half a dozen men will pile in. Overall, business is fairly consistent, even in the winter. We only get one or two lulls throughout the day. We’re far busier in the summer months, however. Come May, there will be several other waitresses working each shift with you. Again, because we make good food, fast, and cheap. Any questions?”
The thought of still waiting tables come May was slightly discouraging, but she pushed it aside.
“No. I think I’ve got it.”
“Great. Since you know what you’re doing, I’ll leave you to it. Start by making some coffee. After you’re done, go on out and make sure Patty has all the tables ready.”
“Patty?”
“The hostess.”
Rachel nodded.
“We open in ten minutes. That’s when the boys start rolling in off the dock, some going out; some going in, but all of them want coffee.”
Rachel nodded, eyeing the monstrous coffee machine, and her throat bobbed. “Okay,” she said warily.
Mr. Boggs took one more glance at Rachel’s outfit and shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he disappeared out the kitchen door.
Rachel stood there a moment, staring at the pots, feeling as though her heart might flutter from her chest. She’d never made coffee before, a revelation that just now hit her. But how hard could it be? She could do this, she told herself.
Mustering her confidence, she stepped forward and pulled out one of the carafes. Growing up, Marge made the coffee, and at her condo, she used a Nespresso and often went to Bayshore Coffee Company for her daily brew, so she had no idea how to make a proper pot of coffee. But she saw Andi making it the other morning, and she was pretty sure she had to fill the pots with water first, then dump them into the machine. But did she fill one or both? And where did she put the grinds? And how much?
She bit her lip and stared at it, then decided she’d start with one pot and figure it out. Baby steps.
She spun around and searched for the bottled water and found nothing. Finally, she hurried over to the chef and cleared her throat. “Ahem.”
When he didn’t glance up right away, she did it again, this time louder, “Ahem!”
Finally, his gaze shifted from the veggies on the cutting board to her, which is when she noticed the earbuds in his ears. He yanked them out with a grin. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Rachel said. “Um, I’m Rachel.”
“Miguel.”
“Hi, Miguel. Listen, do you know where the bottled water is, or maybe a jug of filtered water?”
Miguel frowned. “Filtered water?” he asked like he’d never heard of it.
“For the coffee.”
He snorted and pointed toward a stainless-steel sink with a knife. “We use tap.”
“Oh.” Rachel glanced over at the sink. “Right,” she drawled, remembering what Boggs said about not serving “any of that fancy nonsense.”
“Sorry,” she murmured, then slunk away.
Of course they don’t use filtered water, she told herself, wishing she could take back the last few seconds.
Her heels clicked over the floor as she crossed the room and filled the pot, then returned to the machines where she dumped the water inside.
Okay, now what?
Beside her was a giant tin of coffee grinds and white filters.
She took one of the filters, fiddling with it before she pulled the drip tray out and set it inside, then opened the giant tin of coffee. Peeking over her shoulder to ensure Miguel wasn’t watching, she hurried to where she stashed her purse and coat and slid out her phone, then pulled up her internet search bar and typed “how much coffee do I use for a pot of coffee,” then waited as the screen loaded.
She quickly read the directions, put the appropriate amount of grinds in the tray, then flicked the machine on.
She did it, she mused, feeling slightly proud of herself, then headed out to the dining room to find Mandy.
Ten minutes later, half a dozen men entered the diner, standing just inside the doorway despite the hostess presence. Mandy was busy with a lone diner, taking his order, which Rachel carefully observed, so she turned to the men and asked, “Can I help you?”
Heat rose to her cheeks as the words left her mouth, but she pulled out her notepad and pen, ignoring it. She’d need to get over her shame of serving others if she, herself, wanted to eat.
The man in front, the youngest one, with a neatly trimmed beard, looked her up and down, assessing her figure appreciatively, which made Rachel even more uncomfortable before he slid his thumbs underneath the suspenders of his waders and rocked back on his heels.
“Sure, darlin’. We just want some coffee. Six of ‘em. Strong and black.”
“No breakfast?”
“Nope. We’ve gotta get on the water.”
Rachel slid her notepad back into the pocket of her apron. “Okay, then. I’ll be right out with your coffees.”
She rushed past Mandy and headed into the kitchen toward the coffee pot and halted in her tracks. Her eyes widened, and a tiny, startled gasp escaped her lips.
Dark liquid spewed from the machine onto the counter, dripping to the floor where a giant puddle had begun to form.
She stepped closer, flailing her arms out in front of her, unsure of what to do.
She must’ve forgotten to put the carafe underneath.
“Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap,” she muttered uselessly.
When Mandy appeared around the corner, Rachel was both mortified and grateful.
“Good gravy,” Mandy hollered as she shoved the carafe underneath the machine, effectively stopping the steady stream of hot liquid spewing onto the floor.
Rachel pressed a hand to her chest, sighing in relief.
“It’s kind of essential to put this under here,” Mandy said. After a minute, the coffee stopped perking, and she snatched the carafe back up and filled two mugs, using what tiny amount was left before turning on her heel.
“Hey, I need that!” Rachel yelled.
“Then I guess you should make it the right way next time,” Mandy called behind her.
Rachel deflated and stared dejectedly at the mess.
Great, now she’d have to wait another ten minutes while a fresh pot perked. Somehow, she didn’t think the fisherman would be so patient.
Hurrying over to the pot, she quickly made another, this time figuring out how to make both at once, then proceeded to sop up the mess with an entire stack of paper towels.
“Hey, new girl,” Mr. Boggs’s voice came from behind, “they’re waiting for you at table—What in tarnation!”
Rachel whirled around to see Mr. Boggs’ eyes grow to the size of his head.
“There was a little mishap with the—”
“I don’t care what there was,” he said, waving toward the door. “You can’t just stay in here all day. You have a table to wait. Clean this up and get out there. People are waiting on you at Table Five.” Then he stepped forward, gawking at the empty carafes. The pot had only just begun to splutter, the first signs the coffee was about to perk. “Why are these empty? These should never be empty. Did you spill all of it?”
“I’ve got six of Jack’s crew. Said they were still waiting on coffee,” Mandy interrupted as she approached, then stopped in her tracks. “It’s not done?” She glanced up at Rachel and frowned. “I thought you took care of this. You’ve got six waiting, plus Table Five.”
Mr. Boggs threw his hands up in the air, and Rachel wanted to melt into the floor.
“I-I-I’m sorry,” she stammered.
“Just . . . ” Mr. Boggs’s face turned beet red as he searched for words through his apparent anger. “Get back out there, take the new diner’s orders, and tell the men the coffee is coming.”
“Okay. Sorry.” Rachel did as she was told, heading out into the dining room, head down, her proverbial tail tucked between her legs, then managed to return to the kitchen a couple minutes later with her first food order for the kitchen.
She filled the fisherman’s coffee cups and took them out, realizing too late she had no idea what they charged for coffee and how to go about taking their money, but the men were regulars, and so after she apologized profusely, they handed her a couple bills each, thanked her for the brew, then left. It wasn’t until she observed Mandy going to a little alcove with a cash register off the kitchen that she knew what to do with it. Luckily, it was all electronic and there was a button for the coffees. Turned out, the men gave her enough, plus a fifty-cent tip each.
She pocketed the change, which added up to three bucks, thinking it was a far cry from the rent money she’d need in the coming months, but it was something at least.
The door chimed, and Mandy craned her neck around the alcove to see who it was. “Oh, shoot. I have to get Table Three’s orders. Will you find Boggs and tell him his morning delivery is here?”
“Uh, sure.” Rachel hurried into the kitchen, having no idea what the morning delivery was, and hoping Boggs didn’t ask.
She spotted him in the walk-in freezer, clipboard and pencil in hand, taking inventory.
“Um, Mr. Boggs?”
He glanced up, pen in hand, waiting expectantly.
“The morning delivery is here,” she said, to which he slid the pen behind his ear, then rushed out of the kitchen toward the dining room.
Rachel followed but paused when Miguel whistled.
Her head jerked back toward him, and he nodded to a stainless-steel counter where two steaming plates sat, illuminated underneath a row of heat lamps. “Your orders for Table Five,” he explained.
“Oh. Yes, thanks.” Rachel flashed him a grateful smile and slid the plates off the counter, then headed toward the dining room where she placed them in front of the diners, proud of herself for remembering who ordered what.
When she glanced up, she noted Boggs talking to a man dressed in a faded black hoodie and jeans. A pair of work gloves hung out of his back pocket, and when he handed a piece of paper to Mr. Boggs and lifted his face, Rachel sucked in a breath.
It was the man from the Oasis; the one that saved her from Carter.
The tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks were slightly pink from the cold outside, and the sound of his deep baritone fisted in her chest.
When he laughed at something Boggs said, the sound tugged on her heart.
Wandering back toward the kitchen, she watched Mystery Man as she went, nearly smacking right into Mandy. “Have you warmed up your table’s coffees?”
“What?”
Mandy sighed. “You need to take the pot out and ask them if they’d like their coffee topped off. You do this with anyone who orders coffee. Always.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah, I forgot. I’ll get right to it.” She glanced back over her shoulder as Mystery Man tucked something in his back pocket. “Hey,” she nudged Mandy’s arm, “who’s that?”
Mandy glanced behind them to see who she was talking about. “With Boggs?” When Rachel nodded, she said, “That’s Joe Hastings. You don’t know Joe?”
“Should I?”
Mandy shrugged. “He’s like a permanent piece of the marina. Hardly a day goes by you don’t see him around here somewhere.” Then she turned and disappeared into the kitchen while Rachel stared after him as he turned to leave the diner.
Joe Hastings. The name rattled around in her head, an echo inside her brain. It sounded so familiar, yet she couldn’t place it, and before she could ask any more questions, she pushed through the swinging kitchen doors and crashed into something hard.
The ear-piercing sound of porcelain shattering hit her ears first.
Her jaw dropped as she slowly pushed the door open the rest of the way to see the source of the sound.
Mandy stood there, empty-handed with several dishes in pieces at her feet. Eggs, potatoes, and sausage covered the front of her apron and the ground in a greasy heap.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” Mandy screeched.
She lifted her head from the mess, chest heaving as she cut Rachel with a look meant to kill.
“I am so, so sorry.” Rachel held her hands up, unsure of whether to help clean her up.
Mandy wiped bits of eggs off her shirt to the floor in short, sharp movements. And because the morning hadn’t gone poorly enough, Boggs chose that particular moment to walk back into the kitchen.
He zeroed in on the mess immediately with his hawk-like gaze before he barked, “Get this mess cleaned up!”
Rachel hopped into action, hurrying toward the counter, where she grabbed a handful of paper towels, then began to scoop the food off the floor.
“I’m going to clean up,” Mandy said, then stepped over the mess. When she returned a few minutes later, she hurried inside and said, “You’re still in here?”
“I was cleaning up.”
Mandy scoffed. “Just go! You have a party at Table Four, Table Three is asking for you, and we have coffee orders to fill.”
Rachel stood, a wad of soiled paper towels in her hands as she snagged a pot of coffee off the warmer, then scurried toward the swinging doors, tossing the soiled towels in the trash on her way. Bursting into the dining room, an ominous snap, followed by her ankle twisting, drew her gaze down to her feet.
She stilled while her morale plummeted. The heel of her favorite pumps had totally snapped off.
Huffing out an incredulous breath, she bit back her urge to cry out and limped her way toward the tables. “I’ll be with you in one second,” she said to Table Four, then headed back toward Three, and asked, “Would you like more coffee?”
The woman scowled at her. “There are peppers in my omelet. I specifically said ‘no peppers.’”
“Oh, uh, sorry.” Rachel pointed toward her dish. “They’re probably easy to pick out.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Pick them out? You got my order wrong. I shouldn’t have to—”
“We’ll get you a new one right away.” Mandy swooped in and snatched up her plate. “Sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll throw in two of our amazing blueberry muffins to go for the hassle.” Then she shot Rachel a dirty look and turned for the kitchen.
“Uh . . . ” Rachel mumbled, then swiveled around and took Table Four’s order before she headed to the kitchen on uneven feet.
“You’ve never waitressed before, have you?” Mandy turned on her, eyes narrowed to slits.
“What?” Rachel blinked.
“Boggs said you had experience.”
Rachel’s mouth opened, and she feigned outrage, stumbling over her words when she said, “Of course I have. It’s just been a really long time.”
“Well, you’re really awful. We’re not even busy yet,” Mandy muttered as she turned toward Miguel and hollered, “I need a Western with hash, no peppers, STAT.”
“You got it.” Miguel winked at Rachel, then got to work beating eggs.
Rachel deflated as she drifted over to the coffee pots and returned the carafe.
Who was she kidding? She’d never be able to rattle off orders like that or multitask like Mandy. She sucked at waitressing. Something as simple as filling coffee orders and handling one table threw her for a loop. And this was winter—the slow season. How on earth would she cope when they were crowded and had people waiting for tables.
“You better get your act together, girl.” Mandy snapped her fingers at her, drawing her attention.
Rachel nodded. “I’ll do better,” she said, wishing she felt as confident as she sounded.
Six hours later, Rachel realized why Boggs, Mandy, and everyone else had looked at her like she was crazy for wearing the dress and heels. Her feet ached with the intensity of a thousand suns and grease stains covered the sleeves and front of her dress. She would kill for a pair of yoga pants, cashmere socks, and a soft cotton t-shirt.
