The Wishing Season (12 page)

Callie patted her shoulder as she passed. “It’s okay. Cole handled the steak—it was perfect. The risotto was spot-on. Nate did his thing with the presentation. It’s all good, I promise.”

PJ looked between them, settling last on Cole. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said.

She blew out a breath, the anxiety falling from her face. “All right then. We have a ton of orders, so let’s get back to it.”

“Thanks, guys,” PJ said as the last of her staff went out the back door. “Good job.”

“See you in the morning.”

The door shut and PJ went to lock it. Morning. There was so much to do before they opened for brunch. She couldn’t think about any of that now, though. She only wanted to bask in the success of the evening.

The electricity had held out the rest of the night, but she’d called an electrician friend of her dad who was coming tomorrow
morning to have a look. She’d sneaked an Ativan at her first opportunity. Zoned out she could live with. Panic attacks she could not.

She glanced around the kitchen, making sure all was in order. Her cookware was bright and shiny and hanging overhead. They weren’t the Bourgeat, but they’d worked just fine.

She should be tired, as late as it was, but the excitement of the night lingered, making her jittery with energy. Or maybe that was the coffee she’d drunk while counting receipts. Another reason for excitement. She’d raked it in tonight. Of course every night wouldn’t be so profitable, but it gave her hope.

The fading aromas of steak and garlic mingled with the pungent smell of sanitizer. Everything was back to sparkly new, the ceramic floor clean and still wet in spots. She flipped out the lights. She couldn’t even think about going to sleep right now, never mind that she’d have to be up at the break of dawn.

Besides, there was one more thing she had to do.

She scaled the stairs to the second floor and walked down the hallway. Things were coming along up here. Almost finished. The walls painted, the bathroom put back together. The last two rooms had become a small kitchen and dining room that opened to a living room. It was a small but cozy space where the kids could gather for TV and meals, though there were no furnishings yet.

At the top of the attic stairs a sliver of light shone beneath the door. PJ headed up, her heart in her throat for some silly reason. It was only the caffeine making her heart race, making her hands tremble.

She rapped lightly on the door.

“Come in.”

She turned the knob and opened the door. Cole was sitting on a rug, his back to the wall.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey.”

He wore only jeans. She thought maybe there was paperwork or something spread around him, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from his bare chest. The perfection was marred by a scar that ran from his shoulder to his heart.

“Congrats on your opening. It seemed like a huge success.”

She forced her gaze away, quickly scanning the room. He’d acquired a real bed and a couple pieces of furniture since her last jaunt up the attic stairs.

“Except for the little matter of losing electricity and having a full-blown panic attack in the middle of rush.”

“Both of which you overcame.”

“Thanks to you. I didn’t have a clue which switch to flip on the doohickey, and obviously I wasn’t in any shape to handle it.”

“You would’ve figured it out.”

“Plus you rescued Maeve’s filet. You don’t know what that means to me.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “You haven’t read her review yet.”

“You’re not very good at this.”

“What?”

“You’re welcome—it’s the appropriate thing to say when someone offers their gratitude.” She smiled to soften the words.

The way the lamplight washed over the planes of his face was
pure artwork. She was pretty sure it was doing the same thing to his chest, but she didn’t risk a peek.

He rubbed his jaw. “I was half afraid you’d think I’d caused it.”

“What?”

“The overload.”

She winced. It hadn’t even occurred to her. But after the way she’d jumped all over him about the cookware, she couldn’t blame him.

“I know you didn’t. And I know you didn’t take the cookware. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions before. It wasn’t fair.”

He studied her face until she felt her cheeks heating, then seemed satisfied with whatever he saw. He nodded once.

“So . . . whatcha working on?” she asked.

He looked at the papers spread around him, sighing. “Applications.”

“For . . . ?”

“Kids.”

“Kids? Oh.
Kids.”
There must have been fifty applications there. Her mouth went slack. “All of them? Those are all kids wanting to come here?”

“Yep.”

She saw the painful quandary in his troubled green eyes. In the hunched set of his shoulders. Most of these kids would be turned out on the street? The glow of her opening night dimmed.

“How are you going to choose?”

He shrugged. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Want some help?” Where had that come from?

“Don’t you have to be up early?”

“I’m jacked up on caffeine and adrenaline.”

He stared at her long and hard again before lifting a shoulder. “In that case . . .” He gathered a stack of applications and held them out. “Haven’t looked at these. Put the most promising ones in this pile.”

“Promising meaning . . .”

“The ones most at risk. No family to turn to, learning disabilities, et cetera.”

PJ took them as she settled on the rug across from him, folding her legs pretzel style. She ran her hand over the soft brown rug. “Love this.”

“Garage sale. Still had the price tags.”

“Nice.”

She looked over the first application. Seventeen-year-old boy. Been in foster care for eight years. No living relatives.

No family. Ugh. PJ couldn’t even imagine not having her family. She didn’t need to read any more. She put it in the Promising pile and started on the next one. Girl. Mild learning disabilities. Mother was a drug addict. Father was in jail. Eight foster homes. Eight. Promising pile.

Boy. Father unknown. Mother deceased. Abused in first foster home. She thought of Cole’s scar and wondered if abuse had put it there. How many knocks could one kid take? She put the file in the Promising pile.

She read through the next three, her heart tugging at each one as they went into the same pile.

“PJ.”

She looked up.

“You can’t put them all in that pile.”

“But they all need help.”

His face softened. His eyes filled with shadows. “I can only take four—and one spot is already spoken for.”

A lump formed in her throat. She hated this. It wasn’t fair. Why did she have a boatload of family, and these kids had no one? She thought of Cole and how strong he must be to come out of the system and find a way not only to support himself but to help others like him.

“I need to narrow it down to ten,” he said. “If I try to interview all fifty-seven I’ll be at it till Christmas.”

Fifty-seven.

“As it is, they’ll barely get to finish high school.”

Because he could only guarantee they’d have a place until June 1. Frowning, PJ went back to the applications.

It was amazing how fast fatigue set in once the adrenaline and caffeine faded away. Once she was making decisions that would put parentless kids on the street.

After they’d been at it awhile, a yawn sneaked up on her. But she only had a handful left.

“What time do you have to be up?” he asked.

“Five.”

He checked his watch. “That’s in four hours. Go to bed. I’ll finish up.”

She stretched, her neck and shoulders aching from sitting hunched over so long. He was right. She was going to be exhausted tomorrow, and she had her first brunch to get through. Strawberry crepes, maple-flavored bacon, quiche lorraine tartlets, and so much more.

“All right.” She handed him the few she hadn’t read and headed for the door. “Good night.”

“Night.”

At the threshold she turned. He was already bent back over an application, a frown marring his forehead. He rubbed his chin with a knuckle.

When she stopped seeing him as her competitor, she could see what her sisters saw—a very appealing man. Not just on the surface but way down deep where it mattered most.

He looked up, the frown easing away. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just . . .” PJ bit her lip, considering her words for once. “I think what you’re trying to do is really great, that’s all.” She eased away from the door, not waiting for a response. “Night.”

“Good night.”

PJ startled at the ringing sound. What? Where was she? She opened her eyes, orienting herself. The earliest rays of dawn crept through the curtains. More sleep.

Her cell phone. That was the ringing.

“Hello?” she croaked, her head falling back into the pillow.

“ ‘There’s a new little gem in town, and it sits on the corner of Main and Ruby—’ ”

“Mom?”

“ ‘The restaurant lives and breathes in the beautiful historical Wishing House, formerly the home of longtime resident Evangeline Wishing Simmons.’ ”

PJ sprang up in bed. “The review!”

“ ‘Wishing House Grille is a winner with its upscale cuisine and down-home charm. On opening night friendly staff were
outshone only by the succulent dishes prepared by owner and chef Penelope Jane McKinley.’ ”

PJ whooped. “Succulent!”

Her mom laughed. “Shhh. I’m not finished.” Her mom went on to read Maeve Daughtry’s descriptions of the “outstanding presentation,” the “tender filet of beef,” and the “crisp spears of asparagus.” By the time her mom finished, PJ wore a wide smile and was pacing the room with restless energy.

“Congratulations, honey. Looks like opening night was a huge success. Your dad says to tell you he told you so.”

PJ laughed. A few minutes later she rang off, took thirty seconds for a well-deserved happy jig, then started the shower. She had a brunch to prepare and a restaurant to run.

Chapter Seventeen

C
OLE MADE HIS WAY TOWARD THE LIVING ROOM SLASH
kitchen he’d converted from two bedrooms. He couldn’t believe his kids were finally here. The last few weeks had been chaos, filled with final touches on the house and paperwork. Knowing he’d soon be tied to the house, he’d gone to Fort Wayne to visit Lizzy last weekend. She seemed down and quiet. He hoped the girls at school weren’t harassing her again. April couldn’t come soon enough.

PJ’s restaurant seemed to be a raging success, and he was feeling the pressure. Not only to make Crossroads look successful but to help these kids who were trusting him to guide them into their futures.

He entered the living room and found them waiting for him. Zac and Shaundra sat at opposite ends of the brown couch. Josh stood behind the tweed recliner as if not sure he’d be here long enough to make himself at home. Last time Cole had peeked into Josh’s room, the boy hadn’t unpacked. He’d been moved around more than the others. Eight foster homes in three years.

Cole perched on the recliner. “Everyone get settled in okay?”

Zac nodded his chin upward.

“Is it okay if I took the dresser?” Shaundra asked.

“That’s fine. You won’t have a roommate until April. Josh?”

The boy pushed his wire-framed glasses up, a skeptical look on his face. “Who’s paying for all this? I mean, it’s gotta cost a bunch of money, right?”

“Don’t worry about that. There are donors who fund Crossroads, but as I explained in the interviews, you’ll be expected to work part time while you’re still in school. Everyone will be contributing. Think of it as teamwork.”

Cole went over the house rules, which included expectations like curfew, behavior, and chores. He’d come up with a points system that rewarded personal responsibility, saving money, and good behavior while discouraging misconduct and indolence.

He explained that he was arranging for people from the community to come in the first Monday of each month to coach them on things like balancing a budget, insurance, and home maintenance.

He reiterated that they’d have to find a job and another living situation by June 1 and assured them he’d help in any way he could. Afterward he showed them around the kitchen and pantry, going over the chore chart. When he dismissed them, Josh slipped quietly from the room.