Chapter 3: Gabrielle

Chapter 3 – Gabrielle

Hannah and I stop just inside the entrance to the restaurant so I can take it all in. The dining room is spacious. I count a few dozen walnut tables and comfortable looking chairs in the main eating area. There’s a smaller dining room off to the left, with French doors leading out to a large outdoor seating area. The wood floors are worn, but they’ve been burnished over the years to a deep, golden brown. There are plenty of windows to let in natural light.

On the back wall is a long counter that serves as a buffet. Right now, there are a handful of people lined up to get their breakfasts.

Just inside the restaurant entrance is a podium, where a host would presumably stand to check in diners. Right now, there’s no one on duty. Instead, there’s a freestanding sign that says PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF.

“We’re short staffed at the moment,” Hannah says. She smiles apologetically. “We all fill in as needed—Killian, me, Tammy and Kevin. Everyone, really. Once you decide how much staff you’ll need to run the restaurant, we’ll start hiring.”

“The dining room looks pretty good,” I say. “Is there a menu?”

Hannah points to a chalkboard on the wall beside us, where the day’s options are handwritten in a charming style. “Tammy writes up the menu. She’s got the best handwriting out of the bunch of us.”

I move closer so I can read it.

Breakfast – buffet (eggs, bacon, sausage links, toast, cereal)

Lunch – deli sandwiches (turkey and cheese, ham and cheese, or BLT) and potato chips

Dinner – Chicken noodle soup or chili

Dinner sides – side salad, mashed potatoes, steak fries, steamed broccoli, green beans, warm rolls with butter

Dessert – blackberry cobbler a la mode and brownies

Beverages – soft drinks and coffee; wine/beer for dinner

“Is this it?” I ask.

“Afraid so,” Hannah says.

“Does the menu change daily?”

Hannah shakes her head. “This is about all Nelle and Betty can manage.”

“Who?”

“Nelle and Betty,” Hannah says. “They’re two local ladies who kindly offered to work in the kitchen until we get it renovated. It’s a lot of work for two people to manage. They do the best they can.”

I stare at the incredibly limited menu. Just when I think things couldn’t get any worse, they do. Spectacularly. I’ll be starting from scratch here, pardon the pun. Everything needs to be revised—the menu, the staffing, and of course the kitchen itself. “As soon as I can go shopping, I’ll pick up some ingredients to cook some hot meals. Just easy stuff to start with—pot roast, chicken and dumplings, burgers, steaks. And of course pasta dishes—lasagna, fettuccine Alfredo, Bolognese. They’re sort of my specialty.”

Hannah’s eyes widen. “Oh, that would be fantastic. I know it’ll take a while before the kitchen gets renovated, but if you could cook some hot meals before then, the guests would really appreciate it. So would the staff.”

I nod, hoping I’m not promising more than I can deliver. “Sure. That should be doable. Where’s the best place for me to get groceries around here?”

“My friend Maggie Emerson owns the grocery store in Bryce. She can hook you up with whatever you need. There’s a butcher shop in town, too, and a farmers market two days a week, Saturdays and Wednesdays. So, there’s one tomorrow if you want to go check it out.”

“Great,” I say, giving her my best attempt at a confident smile. “That sounds perfect. Why don’t we take a look at the kitchen now?”

Hannah’s smile falls. “Okay. Just remember, it’s really outdated and, well, I guess you’ll see for yourself.”

We meander through the dining room and pass through a pair of swinging doors to enter the kitchen. I freeze at the sight of two silver-haired women working frantically to keep up.

Hannah follows me into the kitchen, keeping quiet as I look over the grill and the stoves and the ovens. Everything is rusted. There are two residential size refrigerators—not nearly big enough to run a restaurant. The one chest freezer is hardly big enough to do the job. The door to the sole dishwasher is hanging off its frame. There’s only one residential sink, and it doesn’t even have a sprayer.

“Where do you wash the dishes?” I ask, scanning the kitchen, hoping I’m missing something.

“In the sink.” Hannah points at it.

Good grief. How can they expect to run a kitchen of any size without a proper wash station with an industrial sprayer and a functioning dishwasher?

I take a look at the ovens and the cooktops. At least they have gas burners. The grill is a quarter of the size it should be. I pull out my phone and start taking pictures and jotting down notes.

How in the world has anyone been cooking in this kitchen?

I sigh.

“Is it that bad?” Hannah asks.

I look at her, but don’t say anything. My dad always says, If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I’ve always taken those words to heart.

Reality hits me like a splash of cold water in the face. I’m creating a restaurant from the ground up. It’s my dream, yes, but right now it feels more like a nightmare. “Be careful what you wish for, right?” I murmur.

“I’m sorry, what?” Hannah asks.

“Nothing.” I tamp down a rush of anxiety. I can do this.

“Gabrielle, please say something.” Hannah looks worried. “Whatever you need, just say the word and we’ll get it. Tell us how much of a budget you need to renovate the kitchen. We want it to be modern and efficient, so you tell us what you need for equipment, new appliances, food. There’s a commercial kitchen supply company in Denver. They have a design staff, and they’ll do all of the installations.”

I give Hannah an encouraging smile to keep her from freaking out. “I’ll take some measurements and sketch out a design.”

It’s a good thing we saved the kitchen for last. If I’d seen the state it’s in before I saw all the beautifully renovated spaces, I might have headed right back to the airport. The kitchen is a hot mess. There’s no other way to describe it. I’ve never seen such old and outdated appliances.

“We thought you’d like to have a say in the updates,” Hannah says. She gives me an apologetic smile. “The truth is, Killian and I know nothing about kitchens. We don’t know what kind of equipment you’ll need or how much staff. We were hoping you could figure that part out.”

I nod, but don’t say anything. Right now, I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. But I tell myself I’ve got this. I’ve been training to run my own restaurant for the past six years. I have the skills and the knowledge. I can do this. I know I can.

I nod toward the two older ladies dressed in what looks like cafeteria uniform dresses and white aprons—what I remember the cafeteria staff wearing when I was in elementary school over two decades ago. They both have short, curly silver hair covered with netting and blue eyes. I’d guess them to be in their late sixties or early seventies.

“That’s Nelle and Betty,” Hannah says. “They’re sisters. They very kindly offered to help with feeding the guests until we hired a restaurant manager. We’re grateful to have their help.”

Hannah introduces us, and the sisters give me a warm welcome.

“Betty and I worked in the local elementary school cafeteria for forty years,” Nelle says. “We’re both retired, so it’s nice being useful again.”

“From what I’ve heard,” I say, “you’ve been doing a great job keeping folks fed. And I’d be really grateful if you’d stick around while I figure out what I’m doing.”

Betty nods. “Of course, honey. We’ll be glad to stay on as long as we’re needed. We don’t have anything else to do.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nelle says. “I have book club and bingo two nights a week—not at the same time, mind you.”

I nod. “Okay.” I push up my shirt sleeves. “I guess it’s time to get to work.” I glance across the counter separating the kitchen from the dining room and see that the breakfast rush seems to be coming to an end. There are a couple of guys sitting at a table, drinking coffee, and another guy is reading a newspaper. But that’s it.

“So,” I ask, “when can I expect the next influx of hungry guests?”

“Lunch is served from 11 to 2,” Betty says. She glances at a clock on the wall. “We have an hour to clean up after breakfast and start gettin’ the sandwiches made.”

“That’s not much time,” I say. “When’s dinner served?”

“From five to eight,” her sister adds.

“When John gets back,” Hannah says, “I’ll ask him to take you into town so you can visit the grocery store and the butcher shop.”

“John?” I ask. “Who’s John?”

Hannah gives me a funny look. “He picked you up at the airport.”

“Oh, you mean Burke?”

“Well, yes. Everyone calls him Burke, but his given name is John. He’s not much of a people person, but you probably already figured that out. He’s out on a trail ride right now with some guests. They should be back by one, and they’ll be hungry. Travis and Maya took a group of ten out hiking this morning. They’ll be back around the same time—also hungry. People tend to work up an appetite around here, especially when they’ve been outdoors. There’s another group of eight out for a wilderness camping trip, but we won’t see them back for another few days.”

“What do you think your guests would like to eat?”

Hannah shrugs. “They’re usually so hungry they don’t care, but I’d guess a varied menu. The obvious things like burgers and steaks. And comfort food, of course. Macaroni and cheese goes over really well, as does chicken and dumplings. Fried chicken, chicken tenders, pork tenderloin, pulled pork, country-fried steak. Sandwiches are always a hit at lunch time. We need to offer vegetarian options, as well as some vegan ones. We get all kinds of clientele from all over—L.A., Seattle, Portland, Chicago, New York City, Atlanta, Miami—even from abroad. And for anyone who misses a meal time, we have self-serve items available twenty-four hours a day in the snack room you saw earlier.”

“I won’t have time to prepare anything for lunch, but if I can get to a grocery store this afternoon, I can have a homecooked meal ready for the dinner rush.”

Hannah reaches out to touch my arm. “Thank you, Gabrielle. Honestly, I was afraid when you saw what you had to work with you’d change your mind and return to Chicago.”

I chuckle. “I don’t back down easily from a challenge. This is what I’ve been working toward for years now—running my own kitchen. You’ll have to try harder than that to chase me off.”

“Thank you so much.” She looks utterly relieved. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some office work to attend to. If you need anything, just go to the front desk and ask Tammy or Kevin to track me or Killian down.”

“Will do.” I walk over to the buffet and pour myself a cup of coffee before I head into the kitchen. The first priority is for me to get better acquainted with Nelle and Betty. I’m sure they know more about this kitchen than anyone here.

“So, what’s the plan for lunch today?” I ask the ladies.

“Lunch today, and every day, is deli sandwiches,” Betty says. “And potato chips. For dessert, Nelle’s making brownies.”

“Can’t go wrong with those choices,” I say. “I’ll start with cleaning up the breakfast dishes. I’m hoping to go shopping this afternoon for groceries. I’ll plan to prepare something homecooked for dinner this evening.”

“That’ll be nice,” Nelle says. “I think folks are tired of eating canned soup.”

I stare at the counter piled high with dirty dishes, not to mention the pans soaking in the sink. “I’d better get on the dishes, while you two start on the sandwiches.”

* * *

The first two hours of the lunch rush are pretty quiet. But a little after one o’clock, just as I’m finishing up making some initial sketches for the kitchen renovation, I hear them before I see them. Eager, excited voices filter into the dining room from down the hallway. Four people walk into the restaurant, two men and two women. Wind-blown and a bit disheveled, they look like they had the time of their lives.

I greet them at the host podium. “Did you just get in from your ride?” I ask.

One of the women nods. “Yes, and now we’re starving.”

“You’ve come to the right place,” I tell them. “Follow me, and I’ll seat you.” That’s not hard to do as there’s hardly anyone in the restaurant at the moment, besides me, Nelle, Betty, and a few guests.

The two couples order two coffees and two Cokes. Two of them order the ham and cheese, one wants a BLT, and the other goes for a turkey and cheese sandwich. They all want chips and, of course, brownies.

While the ladies in the kitchen are filling their order, I bring a pitcher of ice water to the guests’ table. It’s funny, I never worked the front of the restaurant when I worked at Renaldo’s. I was always in the kitchen preparing dishes. But now that this is ostensibly my restaurant, I feel a sense of ownership and responsibility I’ve never experienced before. And I already like it.

Another swell of excited voices flows into the restaurant, and I go to greet the group of ten hikers and their two guides—a guy and a girl about my age, late twenties.

I push a few tables together to seat the group of twelve.

“You must be Gabrielle,” the girl says. She’s dressed in blue jeans, a hoodie, and a pair of very serviceable hiking boots. She appears Asian, although her accent is purely Midwest American. Her long black hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s petite and so gorgeous.

“Maya McKendrick,” she says as we shake hands. Her grip is firm and confident. She points across the room at the guy she came in with. “That’s Travis Hicks. We’re the climbers, but we also do hikes and overnight camping.”

Travis is maybe a few years older than Maya. He’s much taller, maybe six feet tall, with brown hair and a trim brown beard. He’s also dressed in blue jeans and hiking books, along with a white T-shirt underneath a red-and-white plaid shirt.

“How was your hike?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Fine. We lost only two guests. I consider that a win.”

When my eyes go wide, she laughs. “We found them, of course,” she adds. “But it was touch and go for a while.” She rolls her eyes. “People don’t know how to follow directions anymore. How hard is it to stay on the effing path?”

I smile, already liking Maya. She reminds me of a good friend I left behind in Chicago.

As I’m the only one available to run the front of the restaurant, I work as quickly and efficiently as possible to take everyone’s order and deliver meals and drinks. Once everyone is happily eating, I make my rounds with the pitcher of ice water and top off people’s glasses.

Hannah and Killian pop in to grab a bite.

It’s not until there’s a lull in the lunch rush that I wonder where Burke is—John. He’s got to be hungry, too. But then I remember Hannah telling me he’s not much of a people person. Maybe he prefers not to eat in the restaurant.

Once everyone is done eating and leaves the restaurant, I pack up a carry-out lunch consisting of a BLT sandwich, a bag of chips, and a couple of brownies. I leave the kitchen in the very capable hands of Nelle and Betty, who are cleaning up after the lunch rush and looking ahead to the dinner plans, and head down to the front desk.

Tammy’s on duty and currently looking at her phone. Her black hair is cut short, and she has a septum ring and an eyebrow piercing. “Hey, Tammy. Do you know where I can find John?”

“Who?”

“John. Burke?”

“Oh, him. Yeah. He’s either in the horse barn or at his cabin. The cabin’s just past the barn. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” I turn and head out the main doors. The barn and a huge fenced-in pasture are located across the gravel drive to my right.

As I approach the barn, I notice a group of horses grazing out in a field. I pause at the wooden fence a minute to study them. Then I move on to the barn. I find a side door that’s unlocked, so I let myself in. The interior of the barn is cool and smells like a mixture of sweet grain, the tang of horse sweat, and leather.

“John? Are you in here?”

I walk down the center aisle, glancing at the horses in the stalls on both sides of me. I do a quick headcount—there must be at least two dozen horses here. Most of these appear to be quarter horses. There are a few palominos, a bay, and one huge black horse at the end of the row. I know my horses. I used to collect horse figurines when I was kid, during my I want a pony phase. Fortunately for my parents, I eventually outgrew that stage.

There’s a light on in what I presume is the tack room. The door is ajar, and I hear faint country music coming from inside. I push open the door and poke my head inside. “John—oh, sorry.” I quickly back out of the room and look away.

“Shit!” comes his muffled response, followed by a rustle of clothing.

“I’m so sorry,” I say loud enough to be heard through the door. “I should have knocked.”

I got a bit of an eyeful. It wasn’t anything R-rated—he had his jeans on—but I got a good look at his bare chest as I caught him in the act of changing his shirt. I saw lots of skin, golden and tanned, and well-defined muscles. I couldn’t miss the bold tattoos above his pecs, leading up to his broad shoulders. I also noticed a silver chain around his neck and a pair of dog tags. Former military, I’d guess.

But that’s not all I noticed. His hat was off, and I finally got a really good look at his face—all of it. The left side of his face was badly burned at some point. His left hand is scarred, too. The poor guy. “I brought you some lunch. I figured you’d be hungry after your ride.”

My cheeks are burning. As a redhead, I’m not good at hiding blushes.

The door swings open and John steps out. He has a different shirt on, and his cowboy hat is perched on his head once more, and there’s a leather glove on his left hand. He subtly positions himself so that I see only the right side of his face.

I hand him the bag. “You didn’t come to lunch.”

He shakes his head. “I was busy.”

“Well, I brought you something anyway.”

“Thanks. Everyone calls me Burke, by the way.”

“I noticed. Is it all right if I call you John? Calling you by your last name seems so impersonal.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

He’s not a man of many words.

I point back toward the door I came in. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to your lunch then.”

As I turn to walk away, he says, “Thanks for the food. Gabrielle.” He adds my name as if it’s an afterthought.

I glance back at him. “You’re welcome, John.”

As I walk back to the lodge, I can’t help feeling sorry for him. Whatever happened, it must have been awful. I wonder if his leg was burned, too. That would explain the limp.

When I return to the lodge, I run into Hannah and Killian just as they are coming out the front doors.

“There you are,” Killian says, waving me down. “Just the person I wanted to see. Would you like to go into town and meet Maggie Emerson? She owns the grocery store. You can check out the butcher’s shop, too.”

“And while you’re at it,” Hannah says, “pop into the diner to say hi to Jennie. She’s an amazing baker. You might want some of her cakes and pies for the restaurant. And next to the diner is Ruth’s Tavern. Stop in and see her if you have time. Jennie and Ruth, and of course Maggie, are good friends of mine. They’re anxious to meet you.”

“I would love to meet your friends,” I say.

“I’ll ask Burke to drive you into town,” Killian says. “We have a spare Jeep for you to use, but it’s in the shop at the moment getting brakes and tires. It should be ready for you in a few days.” Killian points to a wooden bench outside the lodge doors. “Have a seat. I’ll let Burke know you’re ready. He’ll pick you up here.”

“Thanks.” As I take a seat, I find myself watching in the direction of the barn for a certain surly cowboy to appear.