Lou stared at the crammed shelves. She pulled all the books off and stacked them according to cuisine, sneezing twice from all the dust launched into the air. This time she made it to the kitchen to get the Pledge and dust rag she kept under the sink. When she bent down to open the doors, a whiff of spoiled milk from the dirty dishes hit her unsuspecting nose. She only had enough dishes to go a few days without cleaning them, but it had been a while since she ate at home—last week, if she remembered correctly. That milk was at least a week old. Nasty.
Lou turned the water to its hottest setting, which was way past the recommended 120 degrees. She’d convinced the super a few years ago to crank up her water heater because she liked to use really hot water on her dishes. They felt cleaner. When steam rose from the sink, she put on her purple rubber gloves and started rinsing the dishes as she neatly stacked them, emptying the sink so she could fill it with sudsy water.
As the sink filled, she stared out the window overlooking her patio. What should she do about Luella’s? She could contact the paper and demand a retraction, maybe bring in a meal to their offices to demonstrate their error. A. W. Wodyski would have to eat his words. That was a delightful thought. His line “When I found a seemingly properly cooked bite, the fish tasted of cindery hate and cheap wine” still stung.
Sigh. But the damage was done. If she had a little more money, she could keep the restaurant open longer, but the four banks she’d contacted had turned down her loan requests. Well, not technically. She needed someone who could pay the loan if she couldn’t. She didn’t know anyone with extra money lying around. Except . . . Lou glanced at her phone and the text she had received earlier in the night.
Suds rose above the edge of the sink. Lou turned off the faucet and added dishes into the steamy basin. She stared out the window again but continued to wash, rubbing the cups and plates with a washcloth, then setting them on the other side for rinsing.
What about Devlin?
She yanked off a glove, flinging white bubbles into the air like snowflakes, and swiped to read the text.
Elizabeth. Once you close the restaurant, we should think about setting a date. Call me tomorrow.
Lou snorted. He had skipped over needing her forgiveness and now proceeded as if nothing had changed. Lou rolled her eyes. Ass.
Delete.
Her phone whistled with another text. This time, she turned it off. In the morning, she’d block all his numbers.
So the answer wasn’t Devlin. If she even asked, he’d use that as leverage. Devlin never gave away anything. He even sold his old suits on Craigslist rather than donate them to Goodwill. Only a miracle would save Luella’s, like an amazing review in Saveur or winning the lottery. But Lou didn’t believe in miracles. The restaurant would close. Accepting that filled her heart with lead.
Lou reached for more dishes but found them all clean. If only more chores got done that way. She rinsed the sudsy dishes and emptied the sink, hung up her gloves and dishcloth to dry, and tried to remember where she’d left off. Dusting—that’s right.
She grabbed the dusting supplies and returned to the living room. What a mess. Books covered every flat surface, gravity threatening to bring down some of the larger piles. This was absurd. In large swipes, she removed the worst of the dust, then put the books back on the shelf. She couldn’t fix everything in one night.
The lights flickered a little and Lou peered out the window to see lightning flash. She wrapped herself in a cozy robe from the bedroom and went out to the deck; it was the best place to watch a storm roll into the city. The pleasantly warm night stirred from the breeze ahead of the storm, puffing pockets of chilled air. Lou tugged her robe tighter and sat in one of her Adirondack chairs.
Without cleaning to distract her, the loneliness settled on her like dense fog, isolating her. Every sound seemed muffled and distant. Sigh. She had no fiancé to come home to and talk to about her day. Soon she’d have no job where she could share her thoughts, dreams, and jokes. What would she do for money? She’d never made much at Luella’s, but she had always been able to pay her bills. She could go back to working the line at someone else’s restaurant, but one job rarely covered living expenses, and she was getting too old for double shifts in the trenches.
Lou had really believed she could make her restaurant a success. Never mind the humiliation of failing; now she faced having to get a roommate or move to a cheaper apartment. She curled her legs into her chest and put her head on her knees. She needed to find a solution.
But not tonight. Tonight, she would wallow a little in her misery, letting disappointment fill the empty spaces left by her burst dreams and rocky future. She could blame her misfortune on Devlin for never supporting her business, or A. W. Wodyski for his scathing review. But that didn’t sit well with Lou. The fault was hers and hers alone. Taking responsibility gave her control. Taking responsibility gave her hope she would find happiness again.
Judging by the staggering gait of the few pedestrians on the sidewalks below, bar time had come and gone. The air whooshed by with the cool front moving in over the lake. A few more flickers of lightning flashed like a distant pinball machine. Clouds raced, lit by the city below. She crossed her legs and rubbed her sore feet. Working in restaurants, Lou knew constant foot pain, but walking in heels tortured her feet in an entirely different way. But they’d just looked too cute with her dress, and she wanted to look cute for Al.
Al . . . With her time opening up, she could see him more. But should she? She was still dealing with Devlin—granted, mainly by ignoring him, but he was still a presence. Luella’s demise and her uncertain financials made her vulnerable. But she was lonely, and a little rebound might be the pick-me-up she needed. They definitely had chemistry. She’d thought they were going to kiss when that car barely almost hit them. Lou touched her lips for a moment, then stuffed her hands in the robe’s pockets.
Her heart couldn’t take another loss right now. Best to keep it friendly and light, like a frothy meringue for dessert—enough sweet to end the meal on a happy note, without the substance to make you feel stuffed.
There, that was a productive session. She’d cut the restaurant loose, find a new job and maybe a roommate, and keep Al firmly in the friend column. So why didn’t she feel settled? Instead, she felt like her apartment—a little tidier on the surface, but still a mess underneath.
• • • • •
Al sipped his morning tea, hoping to jolt his synapses alive. He spread his notes out, turning them different directions to decide which way was up.
“So you suck at nineties movie references,” John said. Al swiveled in his chair to see John leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers steepled in front of him.
“What?” Al asked.
“I glanced at your notes from the restaurant on Sunday. Nineties movies references. They go right over your head.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Al didn’t like feeling like an idiot.
“Meel-ee-wah-kay? The Good Land?”
Al stared blankly.
“Dude, we have got to watch some movies together,” John said.
“Is this your obnoxious way of asking how this weekend went?”
“Sure. If you insist on talking about it. How did the date go?” John grinned.
“It wasn’t a date.” Al sighed.