April is all you’ve got left, and if you’d kept your mitts to yourself, you’d still have Xenia. Immy pounded her fist on the work counter. Would she miss this place? Maybe, but she was quitting anyway. Since her father’s death, of course, Uncle Huey had run it alone. It had been started by her grandparents and handed down to her father and her uncle. She’d worked and played in this restaurant her entire twenty-two years. She watched April swing through the double doors and glimpsed the whitewashed dining room full of scarred wooden tables and chairs, almost empty of customers now. Immy hadn’t eaten lunch yet, and the oniony smell of the meatloaf kicked up some saliva under her tongue.
Well, you’ll just have to, won’t you? Since Xenia just quit on me today, you and April are all the waitresses I’ve got left.Ĭlem, the portly cook, piled the hot plate with thick slabs of meatloaf, spooned green beans beside them, and shoved it into April’s waiting hands. I’m not working double shifts again next week. He dipped a scoop of mashed potatoes onto a plate, ladled thick brown gravy on top, and handed it to the cook. You can’t quit, darlin’, drawled Uncle Huey in that thin, nasal voice that made him seem six inches shorter than his five-ten. She took a step back, her shoes sticking to the trod-upon-after-lunch debris of squished lettuce, blobs of gravy, and bits of unidentifiable brown stuff. Her order pad, pencil, even the straws skittered out of their pouches and across the floor. I quit! If only her voice didn’t sound so young. That’s it, Uncle Huey! Imogene Duckworthy whipped off her apron and flung it onto the slick, stainless steel counter.
0 kommentar(er)
