Bittersweet

  Bittersweet

  With Special Thanks to Sareeta Domingo.

  Copyright © 2014 Sunday James.

  Published by Hothouse Fiction.

  eBook set by Hothouse Fiction.

  Cover design Matt Drew. Cover image © Corbis.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978 0 9571910 5 1

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system without written permission of the publisher.

  Facebook: Click here

  Twitter: @SundayJAuthor

  Website/Blog: www.sundayjames.com

  In Memory of Michelle Richards – we did it!

  Bittersweet

  Chapter One

  As the sun finally begins to sink lower in the sky, I stare at the piles of trash neatly stacked up in the dumpster with a smile on my face, drawing in a last breath of the warm summer air before I head back inside. Sure, the relentless heat from today is kind of making the garbage start to reek, and my feet already ache even though I’m only on the first break of my shift, but I actually feel kind of content. Being out back of the restaurant, with all the bustle going on inside, is weirdly my happy place—though I guess it won’t be all that happy for long if Joe comes looking for me.

  I ease the back door open wider, stifling a yawn and cursing Maxine again for picking out such a comfortable new couch when our old one finally gave up the ghost three weeks ago. I fell asleep this afternoon with the Dogwood Observer stuck to my face, and it took me ten minutes to get the print off my cheek when I finally woke up. I think I’m still a little dopey, and I need to be with it for the dinner rush.

  As I head back down the short hallway, the aroma of clam chowder hits my nostrils. Dad’s favorite. He must be in a good mood tonight or he wouldn’t have put it on the menu so early in the month—he likes Bob to use fresh clams from the bay, and it costs us. Lord knows we ought to be thrifty lately, but he always says our customers deserve the best. I keep trying to suggest that we should try something a little lighter on the menu for the height of the Virginia summer—gazpacho maybe? But Joe’s eyes damn near popped out of his head at even the thought of cold soup. I bite back my smile again as I knot a white apron over my sleeveless navy shift dress. There’s a lot of chatter as I head to the floor—the place is kind of busy for so early on Wednesday night, and I know I’d better hustle when I hear Joe weaving in between the tables and barking out even more orders than usual.

  “Jenna, could you give table eight another wipe-down, hon? And nine wanted sweet tea refills. And… Where the heck is Cathy? She still on break?”

  “Uh, I’m right here, Dad,” I call as sweetly as I can, stuffing my order pad into the front pocket of my apron. He raises one caterpillar-eyebrow at me. Calling him “Dad” was a low blow, I know, but he’s so used to hearing me say “Joe” that I know it softens him up when I don’t. He shakes his head but gives me a grudging smile. He makes a point of treating me the same as everyone else at the restaurant, but we’re all kind of like family here anyway. The telephone rings over the noise of the jukebox, and Joe pats my shoulder as he squeezes past me toward the kitchen.

  “Would you get that, sweetheart?”

  I nod, and cradle the phone under my chin as I start to fill water glasses at the drinks station for the table of high school kids that just sat down.

  “Hello, Joe Johnson’s…”

  An hour later and it feels like I’ve barely had time to catch my breath. Three new tables, ten covers, including two local wannabe-beauty queens who want literally everything on the side, not to mention taking down two take-out orders that would feed a family of eleven. When I first started working for my dad I was a freshman in high school, and the weekends were the only time I’d catch a double shift. Joe always made sure I had time to study. Back then I was so eager to help out, it almost felt like a reward that he would let me wait tables when I wasn’t looking after Carl at home. Little did I know that I’d be twenty-one years old and still be answering to “Order Up!” like it was my given name.

  Not that I’m mad. Much as he likes to play it tough, I know how grateful Joe is to have me around here. Mom left us when I was just a girl and Carl was barely out of diapers. Dad was a mess after it happened, and deep down I know he still is. I see it in his eyes sometimes, and it breaks my heart. And his heart almost gave out on him just as I was setting up to leave for college—a cardiac arrest put him in the hospital for weeks. It scared the life out of me, and nearly took his, so here I am. I can’t leave Dogwood now, and honestly, I wouldn’t want to. I love this little town. Besides, walking away is for cowards, and I swore I’d never be like my mother. How many times have you heard that, right? Difference is, I really mean it.

  As I drop the change from my section into the tip jar, I glance over at Carl, hunched over in the corner with his advanced algebra textbooks spread out on the table in front of him. I don’t know how my little brother studies here with all this noise, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I stride over and grin down at him.

  “How’s it going, lil buddy?” I reach over to ruffle his already artfully messed-up dark hair. Annoying him is one of my favorite pastimes.

  “Hands off, Catherine,” Carl mutters, swatting at me. I’d love to say he regards me with the humble respect that my practically-raised-him status should afford me. But I guess fifteen-year-old boys are fifteen-year-old boys, even if this one’s smarter than most college freshmen.

  “You want another milkshake?” I reach over to clear his glass.

  “Uh, Jenna said she’d bring me one,” he replies, blushing a little as he glances in the direction of my fellow waitress. Apparently fifteen-year-old boys are endlessly horny too. I roll my eyes.

  “You know you could just go get it yourself.”

  “I’m fine. It’s fine. She’ll bring it when she’s not busy…”

  I chuckle as he buries his head deeper in a book to hide his embarrassment. But hey, who am I to judge? When I was Carl’s age, I was busy making googly-eyes at Jeff Maxwell, the most gorgeous guy on the football team, a year older than me and seemingly totally out of my league. By some miracle he asked me to the homecoming dance, and the rest, as they say, is history. Ancient history now—it’s a year since we broke up. After three years of him being away at college and us supposedly making it work long-distance, he told me that we both needed to move on and go our separate ways. I was devastated, but I kind of had to agree; it was hard with him so far away. I had my suspicions that being around lots of nubile sorority girls played into his reasoning, but I think it was for the best. So far I haven’t had much in the way of new romantic options though—fish-in-the-sea-wise, Dogwood’s kind of a shallow pool.

  I’m just heading over to hand in another order to the kitchen when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of crimson heading straight toward me.

  “Cathy!” Maxine cries, rushing over to me and squeezing my middle. My best friend and roommate is surprisingly strong for five-foot-nothing, and her bright-red hair (rose-red, not copper; she always makes sure of that) tickles my nose as she lifts me momentarily off the ground. She’s still wearing the uniform from her beauty salon, and she’s even more excitable than usual.

  “Hey!” I manage to choke out, laughing, as she finally puts me down.

  “Joe, she’s going on break,” she calls out to my dad.

  “Oh, but I only just—” I begin, but Joe waves and shrugs, flashing five pudgy digits at me to show how many minutes I have. He can’t resist Max’s charms. She’s like a bouncy little pu
ppy, if bouncy little puppies had tattoos in interesting places and could pound back a bottle of J&B without blinking.

  “OK,” she begins as she drags us out front and lights a cigarette. She allows herself one per day, after work—she’s weirdly disciplined like that, but I guess that’s how she ended up running a successful business by the time she turned twenty-one.

  “OK,” she says again, then takes a long pull on her cigarette. “OK…”

  “OK,” I repeat, a half-smile betraying my mocking. She narrows her eyes at me, but then they widen again as she exhales a cloud of smoke into the darkening sky.

  “OK. So. I’m locking up The Salon.”

  “Yup.”

  “I turn, I look down the street.”

  “Uh huh.” I’m still messing with her. She ignores me.

  “And I see a truck, right? Like a weird truck, high sides, kind of big. I look at the side of it, and it has a logo. Screen/West.” She stares at me expectantly.

  I stare back at her blankly.

  “Screen/West, Cathy! The TV production company? They’re responsible for, like, every TV show I’ve ever loved in the last five years! Garret Academy? The Siren Sisters? Freaking Dangerous Obsession?” She raises her eyebrows at me. I do remember that one—she’d been so dangerously obsessed with monopolizing the TV that I thought I’d never see the news again. She sings a little jingle at me and it does start to ring a bell.

  “Oh, right. Screen/West. What are they doing in Dogwood?”

  “Exactly. Exactly! The rumors must be true!” Maxine exclaims.

  “There were rumors?”

  “Jeez, Cathy. Do you live under a rock?”

  I shrug. I do kind of feel like a hermit crab sometimes. Do they live under rocks? Maxine rolls her eyes, takes several quick puffs on her cigarette, then drops it and stomps it underfoot to put it out.

  “Come on…”

  She drags me back inside the restaurant to a corner booth and pulls her iPad out of her purse. She’s lucky we just got the Wi-Fi fixed or I think her head would have exploded. A few taps later, she shoves the tablet under my nose and sits back with a triumphant grin. “See!”

  I scan the screen and see a blog entry about a TV show called Bittersweet that’s been picked up for a full season.

  “They’re shooting it here?”

  “Right here in Dogwood!” Maxine says. “Can you believe it? And the best, the absolute shit-your-pants amazing part? Johnny. Freaking. Lincoln. He’s in it! He’ll be right here, close enough to touch. Close enough to… Oh, Lord. Think about it. Me and Johnny Lincoln, snuggled up here in this booth—”

  “Ew, I am thinking about it,” I say, grimacing. He was her favorite actor from one of those other shows, and from the sounds of things, clearly still the star of Max’s fantasies. If she were still a teenager, Max would have had his picture torn out of Seventeen and plastered all over the walls of her bedroom faster than you could blink. Given her reaction now, I still wouldn’t put it past her.

  “Am I wrong, or is this, hands down, one of the most incredible things that’s ever occurred in this godforsaken town? Full production starts in a few weeks, and the TV people are already starting to arrive. Cathy? Aren’t you excited?”

  “I guess…”

  “Ugh!” she grunts despairingly, and turns her attentions elsewhere.

  “Joe! Did you hear about this? They’re going to shoot a TV show right here in Dogwood!”

  My father ambles over and sets down a plate of Maxine’s favorite pasta in front of her. He perches the half-moon glasses he keeps hanging around his neck up onto his nose to squint down at the article. “Ah, yes. So it’s really happening, huh? Ray Miller over at the hardware store was telling me about some kind of state tax break for shooting pictures down here. That’s great. Should be good for business, huh, Cath?”

  I nod, but I know where he’s headed with this.

  “Speaking of which…”

  Here it comes.

  “…break’s over!”

  I shake my head despairingly at him as he ambles off again, tapping his watch. We really could use a boost for the business—although it’s busy tonight, times have been tough, and Joe’s blood pressure seems to creep up every time we get a bill. Just as I stand up and smooth down my dress, ready to get back to work, I hear a familiar voice behind me that brings a smile to my face.

  “Max-imum! Cath-arsis!”

  “Hal…itosis!” Maxine responds, grinning.

  I turn around, still smiling. Our buddy Hal never misses the opportunity for free food either—like Maxine, he’s been coming here after work since he graduated, left home (though he only moved a couple of blocks), and didn’t have his folks around to feed him any more. He’s changed out of his mechanic’s overalls tonight, at least.

  “What’s up?” I hug him briefly, and he shakes his shaggy dark-blond hair out of his eyes and slides in next to Maxine, grabbing a fork and cramming a pile of her pasta into his mouth.

  “Why do you have to be so mean?” Hal mumbles at Max, mock-offended at her earlier nickname.

  “Why do you have to be so disgusting?” she retorts. “Your hands are still all greasy.”

  “Now, kids,” I interject. “Behave. Momma has to get back to work. You want anything to eat, Hal?”

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” he says, the corner of his mouth twisting up. “Hey, is that a different shade of lipstick?” He glances at my mouth and back up into my eyes. “Looks nice.”

  “Um, it’s the same one she’s worn since we were fourteen, dipshit,” Maxine says, and we all laugh, but I do kind of wish she wouldn’t be so hard on Hal sometimes. He always has a compliment for me, and it’s a real boost when nine times out of ten I’m in a uniform and sneakers, feeling about as sexy as a loaf of stale bread.

  “Thank you, Hal,” I say pointedly, ignoring her.

  “Did you hear about the TV show?” Max says to him, their bickering forgotten for now at least.

  “Yeah. Pretty sweet, huh!”

  “Right?!”

  “What do you think, C?” Hal asks.

  “She’s unenthused,” Maxine intones.

  I shrug again. “I don’t know. I guess we could do with shaking things up around here,” I say. Maxine nods enthusiastically, her mouth full of food now, thankfully. She swallows, and as I walk away she calls:

  “So, if I marry Johnny Lincoln, you can keep the apartment…”

  Chapter Two

  “You can’t come through this way, Cathy, I’m sorry.”

  “Huh?” I have to shout over the whir of a buzz saw cutting through tree limbs. Jimmy Egan jogs over to me, pushing his helmet off his head and taking off his gloves.

  “You can’t come through this way. You have to go around,” he calls, smiling apologetically. How the kid who lived next door to my dad ended up with a baritone voice and knots of muscles up his arms I don’t know. I can still picture him falling off a log at Tindal Creek and crying until snot came out of his nose while I cleaned him up. “We’re trimming some of these trees back; they need to get a crane in here soon for some of the filming. The, uh, title sequence I think they called it?”

  Bittersweet. That damn TV show. I should have known. It was only a week ago that Maxine told me about it, but ever since then it seems like it’s all anyone can focus on in this town.

  “Well, how am I going to get to the laundromat?” I glance at my watch. “You know Gladys always closes up at seven sharp. I only just got off work.”

  He shrugs and bites his lip. “I’m sorry, Cathy. Guess you’re gonna have to go tomorrow.”

  I sigh hard, but I don’t want to take it out on Jimmy that I won’t have clean underwear if I don’t make it to Gladys’ tomorrow night. Another nine-hour shift awaits me tomorrow too. I roll my shoulders and try to take a calming breath, nodding toward the rigs and guys with power saws.

  “Summer job?”

  Jimmy nods and grins at me proudly.

  “All rig
ht. Well, be careful,” I say, and then turn to head the long way around to the apartment.

  As I walk through the streets, looking up at the trees arching their bright-green leaves over the sidewalk in the early evening sunlight, I’m kind of irritated that a stupid TV show is making Dogwood change anything. This place may be a little lacking in the excitement stakes, but its beauty is the one thing you can’t argue about. I guess that’s why they want to shoot here in the first place, but the scowl on my face is getting cloudier than a thunderstorm as I pound along on aching feet, exhausted and laundry-less. Twenty minutes later, at last I’m back on my usual route home.

  When I finally turn onto Glendale Row, I can’t help but relax my frown a little as I see Petula and Grace sitting out on their porch. The two old ladies are sisters, and were both married to the same man—one after the other. After Petula divorced him, he was with Grace for five years before he passed away. Share and share alike, I guess. The two of them moved back in together for company, and now they like to sit on their porch, gossiping about the people that go by as they eat home-made cobbler for dessert.

  “Hi, Mrs. Manningtree,” I call, and wait.

  “Well, hello, dear!” they both reply in unison, chuckling. It makes me laugh too, every time. They each lift a worn, brown hand to wave as I pass. I turn down onto Myrtle Street, thrilled to be only five minutes away from heaven’s own soft furnishings. I’m not even mad at Maxine for splurging on the new couch any more. If I could, I’d collapse in a heap on that thing and not consider moving again until I start to desiccate. Or have to pee, I guess.

  The street is quiet tonight, bathed in the burned glow of a beautiful sunset. Since it’s summer, most folk are either on vacation or already firing up the grill in their backyards. I take a breath and try to enjoy it, and I’m just about getting over my TV-show-touchiness when I notice something’s impeding my already-slow progress. I pause, bending down to fish a stone out of my sneaker, when a voice from the other side of the street makes me jump.

  “Hey!”

  I straighten up and swivel around. There’s nobody else around except for a guy standing on the steps that lead down from the train station: dark-haired, lean but toned-looking, with a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He’s not from around here, I can tell. Though maybe the fact that he’s coming out of the train station is sort of a giveaway.