it into the bushes, offering him a shrug. “I’m not really a crier.”
Having no idea what to do with that, he lets me lead the way back inside where the talk has turned to reminiscing over Haines’ bat mitvah a million years ago, and I consider my job officially finished. I’ll leave it to Winona to show enthusiasm over that one. I’m out.
Chapter Two
ANDIE
“If you see Natalie, tell her the group at table two are primed to dine and dash.”
Rayna’s eyes flash up from the veal cutlets she’s searing. “Dammit! What is it with these assholes? It’s not even the busy season yet.”
“Pricks don’t have a season.” I drop my ticket from the couple having lunch at one of the window tables and move on to the back hall behind the kitchen to find Camille. She owns the place and finds a special kind of joy in busting kids who come into the SWiN intent on enjoying the award-winning food without paying for it. It’s really just the little things sometimes.
A peek into her office reveals the woman sitting at her computer, surrounded by an array of nostalgic photos of her husband, friends, and family as she watches a YouTube video of half-naked men dancing on a stage. Her brows spike over wide grey eyes as she stares at the firm asses on the computer monitor.
She doesn’t so much as flinch when I call her name.
“Just a second, Maria.” Camille calls us all by our work names here at Schnitzel with Noodles, her Austrian restaurant inspired by everything The Sound of Music. I have the privilege of playing the part of the ever-cheerful Maria von Trapp—and, no, the irony isn’t lost on me—but I think I’ve earned it since I’m actually a silent partner in the place we locals call the SWiN.
It’s only when the men have stripped all the way down to their dong thongs and shaken their asses enough to satisfy my seventy-three-year-old business partner that she turns her attention to me. “What do you think about holding a male review this summer?”
I assume by male review, she means a schlong parade like the one playing out on her computer monitor, and I give the idea some genuine thought. “Well, the pros would be hot guys and a nice crowd. The cons would be chest hair in the food and a bunch of women stuffing their money in the strippers’ g-strings instead of in our cash register. Where would you do it, anyway? On top of the bar?”
Camille considers this and nods. “I’ll have to think about it.”
I’m never fazed by any of Camille’s ideas—and there are always a lot of them—because opening this place was one of her crazier notions and look where it’s gotten us. We’re one of the top restaurants in the Wilmington area, and we’ve been in the black since we were three months in.
Camille’s younger siblings tried to have her committed when her husband died and she opened the place, claiming she was senile and couldn’t be trusted to manage her own finances (aka they’d already blown through their family inheritances). I mean, sure, Camille is a bit out there, but she’s the furthest thing from senile. She’s a creative spirit—like me, only she never attempts to hide it from the world.
Since it was clear they were just a couple of asshole fortune seekers out to strip Camille of her money, I stepped in and joined as silent partner while Camille moved most of the remaining money to bank accounts and investments abroad. The next time her brother and sister showed up at the door, I was there to greet them with the documents of partnership and a big old middle finger. They haven’t been back since.
But it’s the least I could do for Camille. She and her husband, Klaus, lived next door to my parents’ estate until Klaus died and Camille sold the big place, opting for the comfort of a waterfront condo in Wrightsville Beach instead. With my parents traveling and socializing ninety percent of the time, I spent most of my childhood at the Blume household. Camille would bake up an assortment of Austrian and Bavarian treats and we would watch old movies under blankets in her sitting room while she eulogized Hollywood and its golden years. Sometimes we’d take a ride to the beach to search for the perfect seashell and then fill glass jars with all the runners-up at her kitchen table, getting sand all over the floor