A Father's Sacrifice. Karen Sandler
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nodded, his intense blue gaze never leaving her face. “You can’t wait tables and put up orders by yourself.”
She wrapped her arms around her middle. “He’ll be here soon.”
Jameson nodded. “You’ll give my number to your folks?”
“Yes, I will.” Now go. Please.
He nodded again, then turned away. He’d nearly stepped from the kitchen when the café phone rang. Back in his alcove, Nate called out, “I’ll get it, Mommy!”
Jameson stopped, looking back over his shoulder as Nate raced for the old-fashioned dial phone on the kitchen wall. As Nate snatched up the receiver, Jameson turned to watch the tiny whirlwind.
“Nina’s Café,” Nate said importantly. “May I help you?” He listened a few moments, then held out the phone to Nina. “It’s Dale. He’s sick.”
Nina sent up a silent prayer that Dale was faking and could be bullied into coming into work. But she only had to hear the few raspy words the young man could muster to realize he was genuinely ill, victim to the latest strain of flu.
“Take care of yourself, Dale.” Nina hung up the phone, then looked out at the tables of hungry customers.
“Nina,” Jameson said.
She didn’t even think before she answered. “No.”
“Let me help you.”
She shook her head. She couldn’t think when he was here. If he would only leave she could come up with a solution to her dilemma.
Nate tugged her hand. “I can help, Mommy. I can fill all the sugar shakers and all the salt and peppers.”
“Lacey filled them already, sweetheart.” Nina put her arm around her son and led him back to his alcove. “I’ll bring you your cookies right now.”
She hurried to the dry store shelves and pulled out the plastic container of homemade cookies. She grabbed a handful and put them on a paper plate, then stopped in the walk-in refrigerator for a carton of milk. She brought cookies and milk to Nate, then found his cartoon cup.
“I’m going to call Grandma,” she told him. “She’ll take you to her house tonight.”
She couldn’t impose on her mother to come in to work, but Pauline would never pass up a chance for a visit from her grandson. Leaving Nate munching cookies and drawing on an art pad, Nina returned to the kitchen.
A glance out at the floor told her the crowd had grown, three new parties staking out their own territory in the café. As she watched the latest arrivals settle in, she remembered the item in the Sacramento Bee about a church convention in Reno this weekend. It seemed every congregation in the Central Valley had made the detour to her café on their way up Interstate 80.
When she didn’t see Jameson, she felt grateful and anxious all at once. So he’d left. That was just what she wanted, right? It was crazy to feel so abandoned.
Grabbing the phone, she dialed her parents’ house. She focused on her father when he answered, heard the tiredness in his usually hearty voice.
“It’s bingo night, honey,” Vincent Russo reminded her. “Mom won’t be home until ten.”
Nina rubbed at the tightness between her eyes. Thursday had been bingo night for her mother for at least a decade. Jameson’s presence had so scrambled her brain, she’d clean forgotten.
“She’s got her cell, hon,” her father said. “You can call her there.”
“That’s okay, Daddy. I’ll call her later.” The last thing she wanted was to deprive her mother of that small weekly pleasure.
Hanging up, she returned to Nate’s cubby. “Grandma’s busy tonight. You’ll have to stay here, sweetie.” She turned on the TV-DVD combo.
“Yay! A video!” Nate went down on hands and knees to search the DVDs on the bottom bookshelf. He pulled one out. “This one.”
Nina set up the Disney movie and gave Nate the remote. “Finish your snack first. Then you can start the movie.” She hurried back out to the kitchen.
She nearly stumbled when she saw Jameson at the prep counter, a white apron tied around his waist, his deft hands slicing tomatoes. “I think they’re ready to order.”
“What are you doing? You can’t be here.”
He speared her with his gaze. “You’ve got nearly thirty customers out there and you don’t have a cook.”
She looked out on the floor and saw three more families had arrived. “I’ll find someone else.”
“You don’t need to. I’m here.”
Panic flared inside her. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk that he might guess. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to protect Nate. “You need to leave.” She bit out the words, her fear making her harsh.
“I know you don’t want me around your boy.” His shoulders tensed, his hands stilled. “I’m the world’s lousiest role model, I know that. If he was my son…”
He’s not! He’s not your son! She wanted to shout the words.
“I just want to help.” He looked back at her. “I won’t talk to him, okay? I’ll keep my distance.”
A heaviness settled in Nina’s stomach. It felt wrong to let him believe she wanted him to go because he was an ex-con. Yet how could she tell him the truth when it left her so vulnerable?
The noise level out on the floor increased as another party entered. Jameson stared at her, waiting for her answer. She nodded. “I’d appreciate your help.”
She saw a flicker of gratitude in his eyes before he turned away and sliced the last of the tomato on the prep counter. “Anything new on the menu I should know about?”
“Blackened catfish. The spice is there.” She reached past him for a small shaker.
He should have stepped back out of her way, he knew that. But somehow, the temptation of being near her rooted him to the spot. When her shoulder brushed against his chest it took everything in him to keep from reaching for her.
The contact was obviously unwelcome. She jumped back, the plastic shaker slipping from her fingers into the aluminum square full of tomatoes. When she would have grabbed for it, he plucked it from the juicy red slices and set it aside.
He wiped the blade of the serrated knife on a paper towel and placed it out of the way. “Just the catfish, then?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Her hands fluttered like birds as if she didn’t know what to do with them. He could come up with at least a dozen suggestions, most of them involving naked skin and hot passion.
She must have seen something in his face because she backed away from him and escaped the kitchen. He watched her through the pass-through as she snatched up an order pad and headed for the largest table of customers.
Jameson tore his gaze from her and focused on the prep counter. He quickly surveyed the familiar layout of makings for cold sandwiches, gravies and sauces for hot food, the griddle and grill behind him. He’d only worked here a year, yet that time stood out with greater clarity than any other in his life. Because of Nina, surely, and their incandescent night together. But also because of her parents, their kindness and trust in him.
Nina put up the first orders on five separate tickets, only pausing long enough to give him the briefest glance before she hurried back out to the next table. He didn’t have time to think then, unless it had to do with grilling a hamburger patty or dropping a basket of fries into the deep fryer. They were slammed hard with a steady stream of customers, and he was glad to have his hands and feet constantly busy.
But then the old rhythm settled in