this mess. Molly knew Augie was just stalling. He hoped that by her repaying Leno, the money would appease him, and keep him off Augie’s back. Of course, she wasn’t about to pay him, but the calls continued.
Eight months had now passed since Augie had gone to prison, and Molly hadn’t heard from him. Molly and Augie’s baby, Hope Amelia Bradford, was the one shining light which came out of this ordeal. She was the reason Molly got up every morning and steeled herself with courage. Every day brought a new struggle, such as when the water heater went out in cottage number five, and when the man in cottage number six arrived drunk one night, throwing beer bottles at the cottages. But Molly was young and resilient. A survivor. And she had no other choice but to make this life of hers work.
Hope Amelia was two months old, and she and Molly were doing just fine. Standing behind the green Formica-topped counter in the motel office, Molly could hear the baby cooing in the back room. She thought about how far she’d come these past eight months. She was a successful business owner, and a proud and loving mother. Her cobalt eyes shown brightly. Yes, she was doing just fine ... as long as her friends didn’t pry. And why should they? They never really talked to one another.
In two hours, Elizabeth, Tilly, Iris, and she would be sitting across the table from one another at Annie Rose’s. As friends. Not as friends. Another Tuesday. A day Molly Bradford had come to dread.
Bernard
People lived their lives at Annie Rose’s; I can testify to that. Just north of the cove, the small restaurant was nestled onto the corner of Beach Drive and Avenue U. It stood among older and newer motels turned condominiums, kitty-corner from The Gull Cottage Motel, and one block east of the Pacific Ocean.
From the beginning, Annie Rose’s had been a resounding success. The elegant and trendy eatery in Seaside’s quiet end of town was packed every day and into the night. Reservations were required. Patrons poured out their lives and hearts over steaming bowls of creamy carrot chowder, sizzling thick pepper steaks, and sugar-glazed blueberry tarts. They came to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, and to enjoy excellent food, great wine, and company.
And, of course, there was more than just the innocent tryst. Much more than that, indeed. How else could it be explained that Evan Fiedler dined at Annie Rose’s every Friday evening with his lovely wife, Joanna, only to arrive with another woman requesting an intimate table every Wednesday evening? One had to wonder. As recently as just this week after the sudden death of Sprout, her twenty-two-year-old feline, Amy Trousse cried her eyes out over a chocolate double mocha. The hot brew made her feel better. Of course, I put my arms around her, and I held her closely, though she hardly noticed. I think that helped, too.
I must say, the thought of a restaurant where my friends and family could gather and be nurtured was a stroke of genius. It made me wish I’d thought of it sixty years ago, but then I wouldn’t have been the clever apparition I am today. It takes years of practice and maturity ... even for a ghost.
I knew the kitchen staff intimately. I knew they shared a secret they never spoke about. They were too busy living their lives in this lifetime to ever dwell on the previous ones, but secrets remained there just the same. Deep inside. Coming to them through dreams and visions that took them to another time and place, but always returned them to Seaside.
Everyone there shared secrets from the past, of being brought back to this small beach town because of their love for a place called Paradise. Whether they remembered it or not. These women were connected, you know, though just how will have to wait.
Was it something in the air or in our hearts that allowed us to fall in love with a place and call it our Paradise? Our true home on earth. A special, magical place where people love to come and hate to leave. Where generations have flocked for one hundred-fifty years to share the good times. To live life to its fullest.
Of course, I had a hand in a lot of what happened around here. In time, I would bring everyone home to this paradise. It was the timing of a life. It had to be like that.
Lunch At Annie Rose’s
Marcia Stevens was standing at the front desk taking a reservation when Caroline entered the restaurant. Marcia’s slender frame was dressed in a pair of black crepe slacks and a backless top, a single strand of pearls about her neck. Simple and elegant; Caroline regarded her with approval.
Caroline cared about all her employees. Marcia, who recently married, had been with Annie Rose’s since it opened the previous year. She was a good worker, friendly, with a beautiful smile — all must-haves for a charming restaurant hostess. Up until last month, she’d been the perfect employee. Prompt, never giving Caroline a moment of worry. Then she’d shown up at work one day with extra make-up applied under her left eye. Though Marcia had done her best, she couldn’t completely hide an obvious bruise. On another day, Marcia simply had not reported to work. Now, Caroline was concerned. She was keeping an eye on her.
Marcia nodded at her boss as she scribbled down a name and time in the reservation book, her voice pleasant on the telephone. Caroline gave her a quick wave in greeting, and scanned the attractive dining room. The space was already crowded, buzzing with luncheon guests. Gentle music nearly obscured the soft din of conversation and tinkle of crystal and silver. She recognized many locals who frequented the restaurant, including Robert and Laura, an elderly couple who dined there twice a week. Laura looked especially lovely today, Caroline thought, dressed in a navy pantsuit with a large gold neck chain and matching dangle earrings. Robert wore a sport shirt and tie and a smartly cut navy blazer.
There wasn’t a particular dress code at Annie Rose’s. A tourist here for the weekend would not be likely to bring a cocktail dress or suit, but most patrons acknowledged the fact that Annie Rose’s was a cut above other eateries in Seaside, and dressed accordingly. However, if an occasional customer entered the restaurant in blue jeans or khakis, he was welcomed just the same.
Joe and Lisa Cramer sat at a table along the front row of windows. At a neighboring table, sat Michael and Janice Teller. And a young couple Caroline didn’t know sat enjoying their rib-eye steaks and salads. Probably tourists, she guessed, as she knew most of the locals who patronized the restaurant.
Caroline studied the reservation book for a moment, and noticed Robert and Laura were celebrating their forty-eighth wedding anniversary today, which explained their taking extra care with their appearance. Turning, she entered the large stainless kitchen to make sure all was running smoothly there, too.
The space was humming with efficiency. Nancy was grilling two thick New York cut steaks and brushing a dark, rich demi-glaze over each. She smiled up at Caroline.
“Hi, honey,” she exclaimed, plating the steaks and spooning golden pilaf and asparagus spears alongside. “Up for table two,” she called out. Donna, the waitress, responded by picking up the plates and whisking them out to the dining room.
Mertle Roe and another staff member were at the side counter tearing leafy salad greens into a huge stainless bowl.
“It’s the Chandler’s forty-eighth wedding anniversary,” Caroline stated. “See that they get a bottle of wine on the house.”
“We’re ahead of you. A bottle is already on its way,” Hilly Brewster called out. She was arranging slivered almonds on top of a luscious Blitz Torte, its baked meringue, creamy custard, and layered yellow cake were beautifully tiered on a glass cake plate.
“Mmmm, that looks nice,” Caroline said, peering over Hilly’s shoulder. Her baking skills were genius. Caroline had been so fortunate to find this woman. For many reasons.
