Iced Romance Read online

“Are there laundry facilities here?”

  “You have your own washer and dryer right in this closet.” Dolores walks to the other side of the living room and pulls open a closet door. A washer and dryer sit there mournfully. They’ve seen better days, but at least my clothes shouldn’t get dirtier by being put in them, right?

  “The kitchen comes with the microwave, fridge, and stove. They are only asking seven hundred a month plus utilities. A very good deal for this neighborhood.”

  I bob my head, glancing around at everything. “I like it.” Then, for the second time in twenty minutes, I say proudly, “I’ll take it.”

  I swallow hard. I did it. My very first business transaction in my new life. The first decision I’ve made on my own in a long time.

  This is perfect.

  And as soon as she leaves, I’m going to go out, find some furniture (somewhere?), and get a job. It’s all coming together.

  Chapter Seven

  After signing the papers with my realtor and paying the first month’s rent, I haul my suitcases into the bedroom then lock the door and wander down the front steps, ready to explore my new neighborhood.

  I walk two blocks north to the downtown main street, smiling at people passing, shoulders back, and my face in the sun. Even though everything is still sweltering with the added humidity, I feel refreshed and invigorated.

  The very first shop I pass is a consignment shop with a gorgeous leather couch in the window. Obviously I have to go inside to check it out. A couch is, after all, a necessity.

  Once inside, the craziest thing happens. They have couches! Beds! Dressers! Lamps! Everything I could ever want. Apparently a woman’s house just went into foreclosure, and she was getting rid of a bunch of furniture. I can’t believe my luck!

  Five thousand dollars later (plus an extra five hundred for them to deliver), I have completed my second business transaction of the day. Man, I feel so cool and urban! I promise to return in an hour or so with the money and the man who helped me said his guy would deliver all the furniture to my house tonight around seven. When I walk out of the store, I feel awesome.

  I have furniture! I have a home! I can’t believe it! Who knew that a thrift store could be such an amazing place to shop?

  My apartment is only a short walk away, so I decide to go find some lunch before I head back for the cash. Just down the street I see a little restaurant with Mama’s Home Cookin’ in neon lights. I approach, sniffing the air as I go. If it smells good, it’s bound to taste good.

  It smells delicious, like melted butter and fried chicken and all sorts of scrumptious things. I haven’t had fried chicken since my freshman year of college. My sophomore year I turned vegetarian. It seemed the right thing to do. University kids, trying to change the world and be cool by being different. And then when I began hanging out with Todd’s circle of friends, all the women were dieting and either self-diagnosed celiac, proud vegan, or, at the lowest end of the totem pole, merely vegetarian.

  Today, however, my seven year stretch of vegetarianism is seriously being tempted.

  I push open the diner door and look around. Though dimly lit, the place is clean and comfortable. Booths with plush cushions line the walls, but it’s the smell that has me hypnotized.

  “Kin I help ya?” A large African woman with perfectly plucked eyebrows and an ample bosom appears at my left. Her arms are folded and she has the whole Beyonce-attitude thing going on. I am impressed.

  “Sure, a table for one, please.”

  I’m led to a booth in the corner and sit down, admiring the woman’s self-assuredness. When I’m a waitress, I need to be just like her. In fact, I think with a jolt, I could work here! I could work at Mama’s!

  The waitress hands me a menu and I flip it open. She asks if I want a drink, and I order a Sprite. Then, with a forced nonchalance, I say, “So, I don’t suppose you are hiring here, are you?”

  The woman appraises me, her eyes looking me up and down. “Ya wanna work here?” The corners of her mouth twitch as if I said something funny.

  I shrug, as if it’s no big deal and pick up the napkin on the table, spreading it out over my legs. “Yeah, sure. Are you hiring?”

  She laughs loudly, displaying her bright white teeth and says, “You wait here, honey. I’ll go git Mama.”

  She turns and walks away, her hips swinging back and forth. She has attitude, she has gumption. I like her.

  I sit in my booth, watching people walking in. I am one of the only Caucasians in here, I notice, and feel a little strange about it. I’ve never been a minority before.

  A couple of men wearing construction overalls are arguing at the booth beside me, their hands waving. One man spears a piece of fried chicken with a knife and waves it in the air, coming close a few times to taking out his friend’s eye. A mother and two little girls are at a far booth, talking in low voices, but every now and again I hear one of the daughters burst out laughing.

  The door chimes and I turn to see three policemen, one female, the other two male, enter. All are in good spirits and the other customers inside smile and wave. There is such a feeling of camaraderie here, I can’t help but feel a little jealous.

  A large shadow appears to my left in the corner of my eye and I jump a little.

  “You were askin’ ’bout a job?”

  It must be Mama. She is beautiful, probably in her forties or fifties and, like the waitress who first greeted me, is very large. Big shoulders, big hips, and big hair. Her eyes are glinting in her ebony face and I can’t help but feel small and very white.

  “Um, yes, I was wondering if you’re hiring any waitresses?” In the face of these confident women, I must come across pitiful and insecure.

  Come on, sell yourself. I sit up a little straighter in my seat and smile brightly.

  “You got any experience?”

  My stomach sinks a bit, but I keep smiling. “No, not as a waitress.”

  “But you worked in a restaurant?”

  I lick my lips and shake my head. Honesty is the best policy, right? “Uh, no, ma’am, but when I was in college I worked at a bowling alley and I’m sure it’s similar. Customer service and all that.”

  Sure, I only worked there for a week before the smell of bowling shoes got to me, but I don’t have to get into that.

  “Customer service at a bowling alley makes you think you a waitress?” Her voice sounds skeptical and she puts her hands on her hips. “Handing out bowling shoes don’t make you able to wait a table.”

  “Of course not, but I know I can do it,” I chuckle, hoping that if I seem to be laughing at myself she’ll think I’m funny and ignore the fact that I have zero experience. “How difficult can it be, really?”

  “Right. What if a customer gives you attitude?”

  “I would simply ignore it and continue waiting on them to the best of my abilities.” There, that sounds like a good answer.

  “You would.” She says it more like a statement than a question.

  I nod, feeling stupider by the moment.

  “Do you even know what waitresses do?”

  I look desperately around, hoping that somewhere in sight will be a waitress doing whatever waitresses do.

  “Uh, greet a customer, show them a table, take their order, uh, bring them like a fork and their food and all that?”

  Mama laughs as if I am a comedian on Saturday Night Live and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, honey. We ain’t hirin’ newbies right now. But you come back on Sunday and I’ll give you a discount on our hash browns, ya hear?”

  I am strangely disappointed but try not to show it. “Okay, well thanks anyway.”

  Mama leans in closer and whispers, her head just a few inches away from my own, “Next time you apply for a job, don’t tell ’em you ain’t got experience.
Tell ’em you’re the best they’ll ever have. Sell it, girl.”

  She straightens up and pats my arm. Still chuckling, she walks away, shaking her head and muttering, “Bring them a fork. Ha.”

  A few minutes later my waitress returns and hands me my soda. “I think they hirin’ at Maxie’s, by the way. He’s not as picky on quality as Mama. Ya might git on there.”

  “Thank you.” Despite the minor jab about me not being ‘quality,’ I feel slightly better. I lean forward and take a sip of my Sprite while perusing the menu. I look for something familiar, anything familiar actually. I read the menu again, now with a bit of panic. Although the restaurant smells delicious, I have no clue what some of these things are listed in the menu. Chitlins? Grits? Bread pudding? Boiled peanuts? Black-eyed pea soup (isn’t that a band?), fried green tomatoes, and fried dill pickles. I have no clue what to eat.

  Finally, I decide on a jalapeno grilled cheese sandwich, which should guarantee I won’t be getting a nasty surprise. When it comes a few minutes later, I eagerly sink my teeth into it the moment the waitress’s back is turned. Delicious. Crispy bread, warm, melty cheese, and—holy crap, that’s hot! My tongue, lips, and throat light on fire as I bite into a thick and juicy jalapeno pepper. My eyes water and I frantically grab for my soda on the table. The cool liquid barely registers on my screaming taste buds.

  I take another gulp and gaze at the sandwich thoughtfully. It’s delicious, but oh so painful. To eat or not to eat, that is the question.

  The deliciousness wins out over the pain. I polish the sandwich off, down my entire Sprite, chew the ice chips in a vain effort to calm my burning mouth, and feel proud of myself. If it’ll take eating the spicy Southern food to make me like a native Floridian, so be it.

  Thirty minutes later, I am on my way back to the apartment to get the money to pay for my furniture and then off to find Maxie’s, a place that supposedly will take a wash-up like me.

  ❄ ❅ ❄

  “So you want a job, huh.”

  I nod, cross my legs, and sit up taller in the small, metal chair. I’d gone back to the consignment shop, paid and given them my address for the furniture delivery. Then I put on a new pair of heels, pulled my hair back with a Lululemon headband and hurried out the door to meet the owner of Maxie’s.

  And now I’m in an actual interview, in the back of the diner in a tiny, dimly lit office.

  Max smiles at me, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. He glances at my legs and I nervously re-cross them to the other side.

  “You a good worker?”

  I draw a deep breath and nod a second time. “Absolutely.”

  I’m prepared for this interview. On the walk over, I’d come up with a whole list of all the reasons why I’d be a good waitress. “Sell myself” like Mama had said. My reasons are pretty decent, and the moment Max asks me why I would be a good waitress, I’ll be able to rattle them off. I go over them again in my head, just to make sure I haven’t forgotten any.

  I’m a people person. Case in point? Emily Poole is the most annoying woman I’ve ever met and yet I am always polite to her.

  I have a good sense of balance. My kickboxing instructor told me that one time. So I could totally carry a pile of trays at once.

  I don’t mind standing for long periods of time. Once, at the press conference when Todd got traded to Denver, I had to stand in the background, smiling, for an hour and a half. I couldn’t bend my knees without his manager shooting me a dirty look. So working an eight hour shift should be no problem.

  I’m punctual and reliable. Back in my university days, I was never late for class. Well, except for my eight o’clock American Government class. And that Spanish course that I hated. But other than those, I was always on time.

  I never get sick. Seriously. I had the chicken pox in second grade, and I know I’ve had the flu once or twice, but other than that, I’m healthy as a horse. So no worries about me calling in at the last minute.

  See? Perfect reasons for why I should get the job.

  Max hasn’t noticed that I’ve been lost in thought. He is still gazing at my legs and nodding his head slowly, as if he’s mulling over my answer that I’m a good worker. Abruptly he looks up and scratches the stubble on his chin.

  “Great, you’re hired. Can you start tomorrow?”

  I stare at him dumbly. Really? Two questions, me nodding my head, and I’ve got the job?

  “Sure, I can start tomorrow.” I feel my cheeks lift into a smile.

  “The girls will give you an orientation when you get in. Work starts at nine. See you then.” With a final glance at my legs, Max stands, shakes my hand, and escorts me back through the restaurant to the door.

  I thank him again and, as the door closes behind me, I throw my head back and beam into the sunshine. I have a job! I have furniture! I have an apartment!

  Despite not being a praying person, I whisper a quick thank you to the heavens and head on home.

  1 Unread Message!

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Kennedy,

  You still haven’t responded to my offer!!!!!!!!! I have no problem coming with you for any TV or radio appearances. I’ll even stand by you for the magazine interviews, although I know those are not as stressful!! *laugh* Just tell me when they are!!!!!!!! Plus, you really need to stop hiding in your condo. The more you hide away, the more people will think you’re ashamed!!!!

  And just remember: A little affair never hurt anyone! Don’t act so hurt by it all. It’s making people talk!!!!!!

  Kisses!

  Emily

  Chapter Eight

  “Hi there!”

  I step out into the bright sunlight of the morning and am locking my front door when I hear a young voice. I squint across the front steps and see a little boy with dark, curly hair, trimmed short around his round face. He looks about five years old and is wearing a shirt that is much too big for him.

  “Hey,” I reply, putting my key in my purse and lifting my hand in a brief wave.

  “What’s your name?” he asks, stepping on something crawling across the sidewalk. I look away. As much as bugs creep me out, watching them die is even more disturbing.

  “I’m Kennedy. What’s your name?”

  “My name is Carlos. Are you my neighbor?”

  I nod my head, not really sure how to talk to little kids. I’ve never had much interaction with them before. I babysat once, when I was thirteen or so, and the kid had a tantrum, threw toys at me, and locked himself in the bathroom. Then he couldn’t get out, so I called the police and they came over at the same time the parents got home and—yeah, not a pleasant memory. But at least I got paid twenty bucks for my efforts.

  My little neighbor is talking again. “Cool. Your hair is pretty. Mama says that people who wear shoes like yours are rich. Are you rich?”

  This kid jumps all over the place in conversation. I glance down at my feet. I’m wearing high heels, a last season model by Gucci, but nothing that a boy would recognize.

  “What makes my shoes special?” I ask, curious.

  “How they are so tall. Mama says that rich people wear tall shoes and poor people wear shoes that are not tall.”

  I laugh. “Well, maybe some rich people wear high heels, but I’m not rich, I promise. I just like them. Besides, you can buy cheap high heels. They don’t cost any more than normal shoes.”

  Carlos wipes his nose on his arm and squints at me. “Really? Cause my mama never wears shoes like that.” He looks skeptical.

  I nod and begin walking down the sidewalk. “Well, maybe she doesn’t like how they fit. Sometimes tall shoes hurt your feet.”

  “Like walking on tiptoes?”

  “Exactly. Only you never get down from it.”r />
  He seems satisfied with that. “Where are you going?”

  “To work. It’s my first day, so I’m a little nervous.” I haven’t admitted this to anyone other than the mirror and hearing the words aloud makes me even more anxious.

  “I like work. Mama says that one day I’ll be able to work and earn money. And then I’m gonna buy all the candy in the world. Like sour soothers and gum balls and chocolate and—”

  Carlos keeps going, rattling off a million different candy types. I glance at my watch again.

  “Great,” I interrupt, stepping down the front walk. My heels make an important clicking sound on the pavement and I can’t help but feel even more beautiful and elegant now that I know a five-year-old kid is admiring me. “I’m going now. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  Carlos waves goodbye and I walk briskly away. Carpe diem. Seize the day. I feel sort of invincible, like Superwoman. Waitressing can’t be all that difficult, can it?

  ❄ ❅ ❄

  I arrive at Maxie’s just before nine with aching feet from the ten minute walk in the high heels. I can’t help but think that maybe Carlos’ mother is right. Only rich people wear heels. Poor people in the working class are much better off in something comfortable. But I really wanted to make a good impression on my first day, and all the hostesses at the fancy restaurants Todd and I used to eat at wore designer clothes and high heels.

  The front door is unlocked, even though the lights are off and the sign says Closed. I enter, pushing open the door and taking a couple small steps inside. I’m ready for this so-called orientation that Max promised yesterday in the interview.

  It is silent and I don’t see anybody. I might be the only person in here.

  “Hello?” My voice is small but it seems loud in the quiet room. “Is anyone here?”

  There is a crash in the back and a deeply-tanned girl in her early twenties with bleached blonde hair in dreadlocks and bright red lipstick pokes her head around a door marked Kitchen.