One Mountain Away. Emilie Richards
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out of guilt. Now she was finally hungry and knew she should probably try to eat something before she left for home. Cuppa wasn’t exactly her usual, much more casual than the places she frequented with friends and colleagues, but the atmosphere was upbeat and the pizza at the next table smelled wonderful.
She studied a menu snuggled alongside a brief wine list between the sugar dispenser and the salt and pepper shakers. The selection was simple. Pizza, salads, wraps, a variety of sandwiches and a few Italian specialties. As ordinary and ubiquitous as the choices were, the ingredients seemed innovative. The Cobb salad had pea shoots and shiitake mushrooms, the Greek wrap featured baby spinach, fire-roasted red peppers and sun-dried tomatoes.
She had sat there long enough for a shift change. Now a tall young woman approached, dressed in another of the restaurant’s dark green T-shirts paired with an ankle-length khaki skirt. She had long sun-bleached hair pulled back in a low ponytail, masses of freckles and eyes rimmed with sandy lashes. The all-American, girl-next-door essentials were marred by a gold ring in her nose and the winged edges of a tattoo just visible on the right side of her neck. Charlotte thought the image might be a fairy or a dragonfly.
Green eyes flicked to the menu in Charlotte’s hand, then back up again, before the young woman spoke. “Hi, my name is Harmony, and I’ll be happy to get you anything you’d like.” She smiled shyly to show slightly crooked teeth.
“You know what, the eggplant provolone pizza sounds wonderful,” Charlotte said. “Is it as good as it sounds?”
“I like it.”
Charlotte ordered the pizza and a salad, and asked for a bottle of sparkling water to go with them.
The young woman took her order, then moved to the couple who had just arrived and introduced herself to them, as well.
“Harmony?” the man asked loudly enough that half the restaurant could hear him. “I bet that’s not what your mother named you.”
The young woman looked puzzled. “Harmony No-Middle-Name Stoddard, right there for all the world to see on my birth certificate. May I get you something to drink before I tell you our specials?”
“I bet you were born in Asheville.”
Charlotte was trying not to eavesdrop, but it was impossible, since the couple were so close. She knew not everyone held their mountain community in the highest regard. Some of her colleagues thought Asheville was outdated and outclassed, a frontier hippie outpost with a redneck contingent that barely kept it from tumbling off the left side of the universe. Luckily most of them kept such unpalatable sentiments to themselves, at least in public, but this man had either had too much to drink already, or too many frustrations.
The waitress looked perplexed, and the man’s companion, a frumpy brunette who looked only marginally more pleasant, intervened. “My husband’s just saying it’s not as uncommon a name here as it is in other places. He’s making an educated guess.”
“Harmony, Serenity, Moonbeam, Sagittarius.” The man picked up the wine list and waved it as if he were shooing flies. “Do you sell wine by the bottle?”
“I was born in Kansas, and no, we only sell by the glass. What would you like?” The young woman looked composed, but wary, as if she understood she’d been insulted and was hoping to get beyond it.
“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” the woman said. “Cabernet?”
Harmony nodded. “And for you?” she asked the man.
“Whatever…”
“Then shall I bring you the cabernet, too?”
He gave a curt nod.
Charlotte knew all too well what the young server was probably feeling. Years had passed since she’d waited on tables herself, but it wasn’t a time in her life that was easily forgotten. When a restaurant wasn’t too busy and customers were friendly, the work was tolerable, even enjoyable. But when customers were rude, like this man, then a shift could last forever.
Harmony returned with Charlotte’s water and promised the pizza would be ready in about twenty minutes. Then she gave the couple their wine and set ice water in front of them, too. “Would you like to hear our specials?” she asked them.
“Not if they’re low-fat, whole grain and heaped with vegetables.” The man sneered.
“You’ve pretty well described it. You might like the pot pie, though, our chef—”
“It’s an exaggeration to call anybody who works in this place a chef,” he said. “We’ll split a large eggplant-provolone pizza.”
“I have to apologize,” Harmony interrupted, “but the chef just told me he used the last of the eggplant on another order. Could I interest you in our pissaladière? It’s a white-onion pizza with thyme, rosemary and feta, and—”
“Unbelievable.”
Charlotte frowned. The girl looked pale, as if having to deal with the man’s bad humor was taking its toll.
The woman poked her menu in Harmony’s direction, as if to forestall more of her husband’s bad temper. “We’ll split a large one, and bring us two green salads, please. I’ll have the raspberry vinaigrette on the side. He’ll have the specialty mushroom blue cheese.”
“Out of eggplant?” he said loudly, after Harmony had left and after he’d taken a long sip of his cabernet.
In a few minutes Harmony returned with salads on a tray. She gave Charlotte hers first, then placed the woman’s in front of her. Just as she was about to set the man’s on his place mat, one of the children at the next table screamed and launched herself off her chair, slamming into the server, who dropped the ceramic salad bowl. Salad flew over the table and into the man’s lap, and the bowl bounced against the table edge and shattered when it struck the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” the mother at the next table said, clearly horrified at what her daughter had done. She grabbed the girl’s arm and hauled her back to her chair, while the man leaped to his feet, eyes blazing.
Harmony, who could not have avoided the accident even if she’d been an Olympic gymnast, tried to apologize, anyway, but he was furious. Dressing splattered his pants and sport coat, and lettuce tumbled to his shoes.
“You need a new profession,” he said. “Who told you waiting on tables was a good career move? Get the manager. Now!”
The young woman’s eyes glistened, and her freckles stood out in sharp relief on pale cheeks. “She…she’s stepped out. I’ll send her right back when—”
He stopped dabbing at the stain with his napkin and threw it on the table. “You think we’re staying?”
“Let me take your number, and I’ll be sure she calls—”
“You’ll be sure?” He sounded as if he was sure she wouldn’t get that right, either.
The young woman looked down at the vegetables and crockery covering the floor at their feet, the dressing oozing into a chunky cheese puddle dotted with green, and suddenly her face drained of all color. She closed her eyes, covered her mouth with her hand and took off toward the coffee bar.
Charlotte could remain silent no longer. With one smooth motion she pulled a pad out of her purse, stood and held it out to the man. “Do us all a favor and put your number there. You can leave it on the way out. And maybe you can add an apology.”
He had the grace to look ashamed, or maybe he was just worried Charlotte was going to continue. “Never mind.” He stood and motioned to his wife. “Let’s get out of here.”
He rounded the table and started toward the door, his wife close behind him.
Charlotte started to sit back down, but she realized what little appetite she’d had was gone now, and she was too upset to eat. Instead, she took out her wallet and dropped two twenties on the table before she started