Fifteenth Summer - By Michelle Dalton Page 0,36

I said.

“I hate to agree with her, Melissa,” Andrea said as she popped a new filter full of grounds into the coffeemaker. “But she kind of was.”

She sat next to me at the counter, smiling sympathetically through dark red lipstick. Andrea looked like she was in her early twenties. She had a ton of tattoos and wore Adidas sneakers with tube socks pulled up to the knee. I loved her style, and I marveled at how non-sweaty and pretty she still looked after that brutal shift.

“No offense, Chelsea,” she said.

“None taken,” I said sadly.

“Oh, Andie,” Melissa scolded. “You on your first day, now that was a disaster. Remember the way you cried! ‘I can’t do it, Mel! I can’t do it! Just let me wash dishes!’ ”

“You started me on Sunday brunch!” Andrea protested. “Talk about trial by fire! Today’s only Monday! A slow Monday, at that.”

“That was slow?” I squeaked.

“Moderately,” Melissa admitted. Then she looked at me. “Listen, if you’d had any experience, I’d say, yes, this day was a disaster. But for someone on her first day, I’d call you, oh, a mild calamity.”

“Is that good?”

Ginny breezed by on her way to a table, with a parade of oval plates stacked along the full length of her arm. She was probably in her fifties, had short salt-and-pepper ringlets, and her eyes looked tired even when she was smiling, as she was now.

“Calamity’s not bad,” she said encouragingly. “You’ll get there. If Andie did, anybody can.”

“Hey!” Andrea said poutily.

“So . . . do you want me to stay?” I asked Melissa cautiously.

“Well, I’ll have to talk about it with Melanie,” Melissa said, “but I think you might be a good fit. You are good with the little ones, and we get a lot of those in here.”

“I know,” I said with a grin. “I was one of those! I’ve been coming here for forever.”

“Oh, now you’re making me feel old,” Melissa complained with a good-natured smile. “So, what, do your parents have a summer cottage here?”

“My grandma,” I said automatically, before catching myself. “I mean, she did. I mean, the cottage is still here but my grandma . . . isn’t. She passed away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Melissa said. “What was her name?”

“Delia Roth,” I said, looking down at the white Formica counter. It blurred a little bit.

“Oh, right, I did know that,” Melissa said softly. “I remember Delia coming in here with all those granddaughters. That must have been you and your sisters. I should have recognized you from your—”

“Hair,” I said, and sighed, smoothing back the frizzy corkscrews that had pulled out of my ponytail. “I know.”

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, sweetie pie,” Melissa said.

I nodded and swallowed hard. “Thanks. It’s okay.”

I was glad for the distraction when Melanie called through the order window.

“All righty!” she said. “Just got my first lunch order. Turn on the specials board!”

Melissa hopped promptly off the stool behind the cash register and walked over to a glossy black screen propped on an easel next to the pie carousel. Ceremoniously she plugged it in. The specials—written in different colors of neon marker—lit up, glowing brightly.

“Wow, that’s fancy!” I said.

“I know!” Melissa said, giving the light board an affectionate pat. “We just got it last season. I think it really sells the specials, don’t you?”

“Melissa,” said Andrea, propping her chin on her fist, “are they really specials when they’re always the same?”

“Well,” Melissa said, giving Andrea a scolding glance, “only since, you know, the order.”

I wondered what they were talking about as I scanned the specials on the light board.

SPINACH ARTICHOKE DIP WITH TOAST POINTS . . . $4.99

EGG SALAD–CHICKEN SALAD–TUNA SALAD COMBO ON BED OF LETTUCE . . . $8.50

PIMENTO CHEESE SANDWICH ON PUMPERNICKEL . . . $6.50

GRILLED ASPARAGUS WITH LEMON AIOLI . . . $3.99

I was starting to see a theme here. A certain ingredient that all the specials contained.

Then I remembered something I’d noticed that morning as I’d rushed from the dining room to the kitchen and back again. In my frantic state it had barely registered, but now that I had a moment to think, it finally clicked.

Just inside the swinging doors that led to the kitchen was a tall, chrome shelving unit. The top and bottom shelves were filled with various dinery items—spare salt and pepper shakers, red and yellow squirt bottles, a big glass jar of pickle relish, and several stacks of napkins.

But by far the predominant feature on the shelves, placed square at