The Secret Of Us. Liesel Schmidt
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smiling at me like that, when he’d done what he’d done?
I forced my attention back to the present and reached for the menu he’d extended towards me, realizing I was going to have to pull it together. Otherwise, I risked looking pitiful and desperate, the wounded woman who’d never gotten over being dumped. No matter that I wasn’t the one at fault, that I’d been left with no real explanation.
This was my proving ground, and I was determined not to fail.
I summoned every muscle in my face to rearrange my mouth into something resembling an easy smile as I answered.
“Rare it is,” I replied, my voice sounding strained and unfamiliar to my own ears as I stood there, trying to convince myself not to reach out and dump ice water in his lap.
Trying to talk myself out of hauling off and punching him hard enough to break his nose.
Instead, I was trying to remember to breathe, to remember that I was strong.
Why didn’t I feel that way?
“Did you get that?”
It wasn’t until then that I really took notice of the man sharing Matt’s table, looking up at me with a bored expression that seemed less than respectful of my place on the food chain.
I smiled tightly at him. “Why don’t you repeat it so that we can both make sure I got it right?” I asked, my pen poised above my pad while I stared at him as though in rapt attention.
The man was positively vile. There was nothing outright about it, as he was handsome at first glance, but the attitude he seemed to exude like bad cologne ruined everything about his looks.
“Prime rib. Rare. Bordeaux mushrooms, asparagus. And get another round while you’re at it,” he added, holding up his highball and rattling the ice cubes around in the empty glass. “Got it now?” He arched an eyebrow in naked condescension and waited with exaggerated patience as I scrawled his order.
I realized as I wrote that I was almost grateful for his presence. It was absurd, but the outrage he was arousing in me was like a balm for the confused feelings of frustrated anger that Matt was bringing to light. It certainly was a distraction, at any rate.
I smiled down at him and then at Matt, upping my wattage as I shifted my gaze.
“Okay, then. I’ll go put your orders in and be right back with those drinks,” I said breezily.
I shoved my pen and pad in the pocket of my apron, turning on my heel to retreat to the sanctuary of the kitchen. There were way too many warring emotions coursing through me right now, and I wasn’t quite sure which one would end up winning. It was a little too important for me to be able to keep my cool, both for the sake of my dignity, as well as for the sake of my job.
“Eira, honey, what’s wrong? You don’t look so good,” Maggie said, sidling up next to me as I punched the order into the computer. She laid a hand lightly on my back and gave me an appraising look.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I sighed, not meeting her eyes for fear that I would give myself away.
“Tell me another one,” she replied.
Obviously, I needed to work on being more convincing. The woman was relentless, though, and I knew she would refuse to leave me alone with my thoughts if she had any inkling that something might be wrong. I gave her a sidelong glance, trying to be discreet about it so that she wouldn’t catch me looking. I didn’t want to give her any more reason to probe for details. There wasn’t enough time or enough energy in me right now to get into explanations about what had me so tied up in knots.
“Really, I’m fine,” I said firmly, finishing up at the computer and stepping away, hoping she would do me the favor of taking the hint.
“Eira, I know you, and you’re not fine.”
I stopped in my tracks and looked over my shoulder at her, leveling my gaze.
“You’re right. I’m not. And I can’t really explain anything right now, but I need you to have my back on this.” I tossed my head in the direction of the dining room. “There’s something out there that I really…” I paused, unsure of how to explain. “I’m clocking out, Maggie. Right now. There’s enough staff to cover dinner tonight, so I’m going to clock out. Then I’m going to pick up the drinks that I left on order at the bar and deliver them before I leave. After that,” I swallowed a growing lump of apprehension in my throat, “after that, I don’t know. But I need you to back me up on this. I’ll explain everything later.”
I closed my eyes, willing Maggie not to press me for details.
“Please, do this for me, Maggie. Please,” I pleaded.
I opened my eyes to find her staring at me, studying my face and my posture. She bit back the protest that was obviously working its way off her tongue and nodded silently. I turned back towards the swinging doors of the kitchen, pushing through with a determination I didn’t really feel, leaving her staring after me with concern.
Maggie was my best friend these days, someone I knew I could count on for anything, any time. We’d known each other for a couple of years now, but most of that time, it had just been on a casual level, the kind of acquaintance that is sporadic at best. We ran into one another at parties every once in a while, maybe caught a glimpse and exchanged a friendly wave or a smile across the room if we found ourselves in the same restaurant. But it had never really gelled into anything until the previous year, when I’d started waiting tables.
Porterhouse was a small steakhouse with an intimate atmosphere, an exclusive menu, and a discriminating wine list – all of which made it an up-and-coming gem in the eyes of the region’s most persnickety foodies.
The locale didn’t exactly hurt, either. With its red brick façade, leaded windows flanked by vintage lamps, and an antique door, the restaurant had an architectural charm that meshed seamlessly with its surroundings in downtown Pensacola, occupying a corner of Cervantes Street that was within walking distance of the city’s cultural hub and most treasured scenery.
I’d put in an application on a whim, needing a respite from the monotony of the corporate scene I’d somehow become mired in. I wanted a job I could leave without worry of what was waiting for me the next day, something to take my mind off the life I was living that was so far from the one I thought I would have.
Maggie Blake was the restaurant’s owner, manager, and head waitress – and her smile was more than a welcome sight on my first day of work. I had an ally, someone to show me the ropes, a familiar face among all the strangers whose names I would have to learn along with the menu. Since then, we’d forged a friendship that had gotten me through some pretty low times, days when the burning pain of loneliness felt as fresh as if it had all happened yesterday.
Even without the fifteen-year age difference, Maggie and I were, by all admissions, complete opposites. She was petite and voluptuous with bright, bottle-blonde hair cut in a disheveled pixie that placed her features front and center. Big, round blue eyes were fringed by long eyelashes and offset with expertly tweezed eyebrows that seemed, at times, to be even more expressive than her tongue. She had a pert little nose and bee-stung lips, two attributes of which I was insanely jealous. Genetics had blessed her with a cup size that regularly made men swoon, though at the end of a long shift, she seemed to consider it more of a curse.
These were not the least of the ways in which Maggie and I differed from one another. She was fearless, candid, and brash. If Maggie saw something she wanted, she went for it without fear of failure.
I, conversely, was over-analytical, diplomatic, and level-headed.
Most of the time.
I was also constantly second-guessing myself and extremely self-conscious. Right now, I would have given anything to have half of her self-possession and fearlessness.
Would Maggie dump a drink in Matt’s lap or slap that oh-so-innocent smile off his face?
Probably.