“Does Brad work?”
“Off and on. He does demolition—taking down old buildings and stuff like that—but it’s kind of an unsteady job market unless you run your own company. Which is okay with Brad, because he doesn’t like life too predictable, anyway.”
“Ah.” If Tiffany didn’t mind supporting a slacker, who was Emma to protest? She propped her chin in her hands. “Well, if Jimmy isn’t here, he can’t very well know what’s going on, can he?”
Tiffany shot her a suspicious glance. “What’s going on?”
The idea had occurred to her in the cab on the way home last night. “Suppose I changed the menu. He wouldn’t realize until sometime during the evening. And by then, he’d see how much the customers enjoyed something new.”
“Emma Garrett, you are nuts.” The bartender shook her head. “Jimmy would kill you for something like that. He’d kill me, too, for letting you.”
“But you know I’m right. Just think what this place could be with the right food, new furniture, paint—”
“Whoa! Furniture?” Tiffany backed into the counter opposite the bar, her hands held up as if to ward off danger. “Not another word. I want to be able to tell Jimmy I didn’t know a thing about it!”
Before noon, Emma had ordered a minimum of dishware from a local shop and billed it to her credit card, along with knives, forks and spoons. If the idea failed, she wouldn’t want Jimmy to bear the loss. Her savings could stand the damage. And though there would be more dirty dishes to deal with, the club’s dishwashing machine functioned well enough to make the gamble worthwhile.
From their grocer, she requested the usual supplies for sandwiches, but added mixed greens for salads, goat cheese and French bread. And chicken breasts—they were on special and would be easy to marinate and serve with sauce.
The woman on the other end of the line took the order without comment. After a moment’s silence, she said, “Now where did you tell me this was for?”
“The Indigo.”
“Jimmy’s place?”
“That’s right.”
“Did Jimmy die?”
“Of course not. Why do you ask?”
The woman clucked her tongue. “He’s the last guy in town I’d expect to serve fancy salads. I might have to show up tonight just to see that for myself!”
Emma prepped food for several hours, then went back to the hotel to change. When she returned at four, she noticed a young man leaning against the corner of the building, next to the alley. As she crossed the street, he turned. Harlow.
He threw away his cigarette and came toward her at an easy walk. “Hey, Emma. How are you this afternoon?”
“Well, thank you. I must say, you disappeared rather quickly last week.”
His grin could melt sugar. “I make it a point to leave fast. Never can tell what you’ll get blamed for if you hang around too long.”
She pushed open the front door to The Indigo. “Would you like to come in?”
He glanced up and down the empty street. “Sure. For a minute, anyway.”
As they stepped inside, Tiffany emerged from the back hallway. “Hey, Harlow. How’s it going?”
“Good. What’s Brad doing these days?”
Tiffany hesitated. “Uh…not much. He’s between jobs.”
Harlow laughed. “Me, too.”
The front door opened again. Emma saw the boy freeze, then turn slowly to face the newcomer. She wondered what he expected Jimmy to do to him.
But a heavyset man stepped inside, not Jimmy. “I got a food delivery. Where do you want it?”
“In the alley, please. Tiffany, would you unlock the door?”
In fifteen minutes, with Harlow helping, the boxes of groceries sat on the kitchen table. Emma surveyed what she’d done with a sudden tremor of doubt. This was a lot of food. If it didn’t sell…
Nonsense. “I should get those chicken breasts in the marinade.”
Somehow Harlow became the unofficial kitchen boy, stowing the supplies where she directed. The new dishes were delivered, and he put those away, as well, after she washed them. He worked efficiently, always whistling a tune underneath his breath. Soon enough, the kitchen was back to normal, except for a large bowl of salad greens soaking in cold water.
The daylight in the alley had nearly disappeared. “I’d better be going,” Harlow said. “Mr. Falcon’ll show up soon.”
Emma put her hand on the thin bones of his arm. “Let me make you something to eat first.”
“That’s okay. I’m good to go.”
“But you’ve done a great deal of work this afternoon. Please, it’s the least I can do.”
He shook his head. “I’d like to, Emma. Your cooking is the best. But I don’t want to be here when the boss comes in. That’ll be bad for you and me. I can take it, but you shouldn’t have to.”
“Well, then, at least let me pay you. I won’t feel right if I don’t.”
Again, that sweet grin. “I wouldn’t want you feeling bad. Just a couple of bucks for a burger is plenty.”
He’d worked for two hours. She gave him forty dollars—twice what she got paid, but her savings would make up the difference. In any event, she hadn’t taken this job for the money. “Have a really good meal tonight. Vegetables, too.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He saluted her from the door to the alley. His smile faded and his expression turned somber. “You’re something special. Thanks.”
Emma stared out the screen door for several minutes after he disappeared. Jimmy had warned her about Harlow, and his friend. But the boy she’d seen today seemed neither desperate nor dangerous. Just in need of help. Almost eager, in fact, to be helped. Perhaps he wanted to change his life and didn’t know quite how to begin. Or how to ask.
“If we wait until we’re asked to help,” her mother had said more than once, “many good people with too much pride will be lost.” Not long after Emma turned fifteen, Naomi Garrett had given her life for those good people—a victim of dengue fever, contracted while nursing the critically ill. Emma’s dad had suffered recurrent malaria attacks for years, thanks to his work in Africa studying tribal dialects. Between them, they’d left her a very big example to live up to.
If anything positive were to come out of the end of her university career, Emma thought it might be the chance to provide the kind of help her parents had modeled for her. At least, she could try.
She smiled ruefully, thinking of her father’s jokes about Emma-Knows-Best. Perhaps her penchant for meddling in other people’s affairs could finally be turned to good use.
THE MUSIC WAS HOT and heavy by the time Jimmy showed up at the club. He made his way down the bar, greeting regulars with a handshake, checking out the room in general. An okay crowd for a Thursday night. Big enough to keep him occupied somewhere besides the kitchen.
Tiffany brought him a whiskey as he leaned against the end of the bar. Darren whizzed by, carrying a loaded tray on his shoulder. “Upper-body strength,” he muttered. “I shoulda been lifting weights.”
The comment didn’t make sense until a break between sets, when Jimmy heard the clatter of dishes at a nearby table, the ping of knives and forks. The next time Darren came by, Jimmy stopped him.
“What’s the deal with the food?”
The