What a Man's Gotta Do

“Your references are very impressive, Mr. King,” the redhead now said, more to his résumé than to him. He guessed her to be around his age, but she mustn’t’ve been in Spruce Lake back then, since he didn’t recognize her. Then she looked up, reluctantly almost, her face not much darker than that white turtleneck sweater she had on underneath her denim maternity jumper. She’d said on the phone that both her doctor and her husband had ordered her to go easy for the remainder of her pregnancy, and that she then intended to take at least six, possibly eight, weeks maternity leave after that. So the job would last four, five months at the outside. Which suited Eddie fine.

As if reading his mind, she said, “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve worked in—” she glanced again at the résumé, then back at him “—eight different states in nine years.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s true.”

Her head tilted. “Yet every reference I contacted said they were sorry to see you go. In fact, the owner of La Greque in New Orleans told me he offered you quite a handsome salary to stay on.”

“He sure did.” Galen’s eyebrows lifted, encouraging an explanation. Eddie shifted in the same seventies-era molded plastic chair his butt had warmed during more than one lecture all those years ago. “They were all temporary jobs, ma’am. Fill-ins, just like this one. Which is the way I like it, seeings as I don’t like getting tied down to one kind of cooking for too long.”

The phone rang, cutting off further interrogation. Galen mouthed a “sorry” and took the call. Eddie crossed his ankle at the knee in the don’t-give-a-damn pose that Al Jackson, Eddie’s septuagenarian boss back when this had still been the Spruce Lake Diner, had seen straight through. An odd, rusty emotion whimpered way in the back of Eddie’s brain; he frowned slightly at the scuffed heel of his boot, concentrating instead on the early season snow snicking arrhythmically against the office’s tiny, high-set window. He hadn’t mentioned his former ties to the place to his prospective employer—what would be the point?—but now that he was here, this odd, unsettled feeling kept nagging at him, like maybe there were answers here to questions he’d never bothered to ask before. Never wanted to.

Galen hung up the phone, picked up a pen and started twiddling with it. Her plain gold wedding band glinted in the flat light. “If I hire you, can I trust you won’t leave me high and dry?”

He kept his gaze steady, almost sighing in exasperation as a telltale blush swept up the woman’s cheeks. All he was doing was looking at her, for God’s sake. And if it was one thing Al had drummed into him, it was that if you want respect—if you want folks to take you seriously—you had to look them in the eye when you talked to them, a philosophy only reinforced by four years in the Marines. “I may not be in the market for anything permanent, ma’am, but I don’t leave people in the lurch. I’ll stay as long as you need me to.”

After a moment, she apparently decided to believe him. “Glad to hear it,” she said, then awkwardly pushed herself up from her chair. Eddie stood as well, ducking underneath the still too-small door frame as he followed the woman back out into the immaculate kitchen, where a half-dozen assistants were preparing for the evening rush. The restaurant/pizzeria had taken over the building next door as well, making Galen’s twice the size of the original diner, but the kitchen didn’t look much different than it had. Oh, some of the equipment had been updated—a bigger, fancier stove, a pair of new Sub-Zero refrigerators—but otherwise, it, too, was just like he remembered. A shudder of déjà vu traipsed up his spine; it was right here that an old man had cared enough to show a displaced Southern boy with a two-ton chip on his shoulder how to channel all that resentment into making apple pie and hamburgers and beef stew and real milk shakes.

To do something with his life, instead of bitchin’ about it.

He realized Galen was looking at him, her smile slightly apologetic. “You know, we don’t have to do this right now,” she said. “I mean, you probably want to find someplace to stay first, get settled in?”

Eddie shoved back his open denim jacket to hook his thumbs in his pockets. “Already did that, as a matter of fact. Got a room in a motel right outside of town. Figure I’ll look for a furnished apartment or something, once you hire me.” When she didn’t take the bait, he added, “I can cook in my sleep, ma’am. So now’s as good a time as any.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, then. Well, we agreed on three dishes, right? Your choice, except that one of them needs to pretty standard—red spaghetti sauce, lasagna, ravioli, something like that. I don’t care about the others, as long as they’re Italian. If they pass muster—”

“They will.”

“—if they pass muster,” Galen repeated, “you can start tomorrow.”

Eddie stuck out his hand, quickly shook Galen’s. “Deal,” he said, then shrugged off his jacket, shoved up his sweater sleeves and slipped into the only world he trusted.

This morning, it had been nearly sixty and sunny. Now, at four-thirty, it was barely above freezing, and had been spitting snow for two hours already. And Mala Koleski, whose thirty-seven-year-old body’s themostat didn’t take kindly to sudden temperature changes, was freezing her hiney off. She wished.

“Come on, guys,” she said through chattering teeth as she hustled the kids down her mother’s ice-glazed walk and into Whitey, her ten-year-old Ford Escort, blinking against the tiny snow pellets needling her face. She usually tried to meet the school bus herself in the afternoons—a definite advantage to working from home—but it had taken her far longer than she’d expected to unearth last month’s receivables from the garden center’s new computer program after one of their employees decided to be “helpful.” So now she was running late. And freezing to death. And grateful she’d gotten away from her mother’s before the woman could scrutinize her for signs of physical and emotional decay.

“I need to stop at the restaurant for a sec,” she said, yanking open the back door, “then we’ve got to get home or else there’s gonna be a couple nekkid Pilgrims in the school play tonight. For God’s sake, Carrie—button your coat!”

“I’m not cold,” her seven-year-old daughter announced through a toothless gap as Mala practically shoved them both into the back seat.

“Why can’t I sit up front?” Lucas whined.

“B-because it’s not safe,” she said to Lucas, clutching her sweater-coat to her chest. Her nipples were so rigid, they stung. “Carrie. Now. Button up.”

Underneath a froth of snow-kissed, coppery curls, a pair of big blue eyes blinked back at her. “No.”

“Fine. Freeze.” Mala slammed shut the door and scurried around to the driver’s side, hurtling herself behind the wheel. Yes, she knew the child would moan about how cold she was in five minutes, but tough. Mala had more pressing things to occupy her pretty little head about. Like finishing up those damn costumes. Thawing out her nipples. Figuring out how to finance Christmas without putting it on plastic. Again. Finding a new tenant for the upstairs apartment before the first big heating bill came. One who maybe wouldn’t just up and leave, stiffing her for two months’ back rent—

“Mama?” Lucas said behind her. “I gots to pee.”

“Hold it until we get to Galen’s, ’kay?” She gingerly steered the car onto Main Street, tucking one side of her hopelessly straight pageboy behind her ear. The bright red hair, the kids had clearly gotten from their father, but Carrie’s curls were a total mystery.

The car’s rear end shimmied a couple inches to the right; silently cursing, Mala carefully steered with the skid, pulled out of it. New tires—ones with actual treads—had just officially been promoted to the top of the priority list. Tires she might’ve had already if that jerk hadn’t—

“I’m gonna wet my pants!”

“Do and you die,” Carrie, ever the diplomat, cooly replied.

“Carrie,” Mala said in her Warning Voice, despite feeling pretty much the same way. “Two more blocks, Luc—cross your legs or something.”

Lucas started to whimper; Carrie started in about wussy, crybaby brothers, and Mala turned on the windshield wipers, thinking of all the joy Scott had missed by walking out of their lives three years ago. Okay, so maybe Mala had given him a push, but still.

She eased the car through a four-way stop, then glided into a parking space in the alley behind the restaurant, casting a brief but appreciative glance at the snow-speckled, pepper-red Camaro parked a few feet in front of her. Lucas was out of the car before she’d turned off the engine, hauling his bony little butt toward the propped open kitchen door.

“Lucas! Don’t run—!”

“I told him to go before we left Grandma’s,” Her Supreme Highness intoned from the back seat, “but would he listen to me? Noooo—”

Splat! went the kid on the icy asphalt.

With a sigh, Mala hauled herself out of the car and toward the heap of now-sobbing-child lying facedown in the alley, her flat-soled boots slipping mercilessly in the quickly accumulating snow. Considering Lucas had on at least four layers of clothes, she doubted he was hurt, but she’d long since learned that the decibel level of his screams was in direct and inverse proportion to the seriousness of the injury. A stranger, however—like the tall man now darting out of the restaurant’s kitchen door, snowflakes clutching his thick, wavy hair and heavy sweater like crystalized burrs—might well think the child had been set upon by ravening wolves.

“You okay, kid?” the man asked as Mala reached them both. In fact, he’d already helped the child to his feet, thereby proving that nothing was broken, although you sure wouldn’t have known that from the Lucy Ricardo wail emanating from her son’s throat.

“Yes, I’m sure he’s fine,” Mala said in the guy’s general direction as she squatted down in front of her howling son. “Lucas! Luc, for heaven’s sake…” She tried to keep her teeth from knocking as she dusted dry snow from the child’s face and spiky hair. At least his glasses hadn’t fallen off, for once. “It’s okay, sweetie—”

“I falled dooooown!”

Mala tilted the child’s face toward the light spearing from the partially open door. Nope. No blood. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Carrie’s approach, the child’s expression even more serious than usual underneath the fake-fur rimmed hood of her coat. Which was done up, surprise, surprise.

“Mama told you not to run, dork-face,” she began, but there was genuine concern threaded through the otherwise imperious tones. Her daughter could be a pain in the patoot at times, but she was a protective pain in the patoot. Especially toward her younger brother, and especially since Scott’s vanishing act. Just ask Josh Morgan, the third-grader who’d gotten Carrie’s loaded backpack in the groin last year when he’d reduced her son to tears by calling him “Lucas Mucus.” Still, the smart-mouth comment earned her Mala’s glare. Carrie sighed. “Is he hurt?”

“Other than his pride, uh-uh,” Mala said, straightening Lucas’s wire-rimmed glasses and planting a quick kiss on his cold little lips before allowing herself the luxury of breathing in the warm, garlic-laced air beckoning from the noisy kitchen. Her stomach rumbled; she’d skipped lunch, and the thought of the canned chili she’d planned for tonight’s dinner made her very depressed.

Lucas glanced up at the man standing silently a few feet away—oh, right, an audience—then back at Mala. “I wet my pants,” he whispered on a sob, and she got more depressed. Especially when Carrie groaned.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Mala whispered back, skimming tears off the mortified little face. “There’s dry clothes in the trunk.” With all the stuff she carted around in that trunk, she could outfit an emergency storm shelter for a month.

She finally hoisted herself upright, fighting the urge to groan as her joints popped—that extra twenty pounds she was still lugging around from Lucas’s pregnancy wasn’t doing her any favors—trying to get a good look at the man who’d come to Lucas’s rescue. Except, between his skulking in the shadows in the darkening alley, as if not quite sure what to make of her kids—an understandable reaction—and the snow pinging into her eyes, all she got was a vague impression of angles and clefts and lashes no man should be allowed to have, dammit.

Along with a subsidiary impression that those angles and clefts and long lashes were somehow familiar.

“Thanks,” she said, guiding the still whimpering Lucas toward the door.

The man nodded, muttering “S’okay” in a soft, Southern accent.