pushed open the front door to The Indigo. “Would you like to come in?”
He glanced up and down the empty street. “Sure. For a minute, anyway.”
As they stepped inside, Tiffany emerged from the back hallway. “Hey, Harlow. How’s it going?”
“Good. What’s Brad doing these days?”
Tiffany hesitated. “Uh…not much. He’s between jobs.”
Harlow laughed. “Me, too.”
The front door opened again. Emma saw the boy freeze, then turn slowly to face the newcomer. She wondered what he expected Jimmy to do to him.
But a heavyset man stepped inside, not Jimmy. “I got a food delivery. Where do you want it?”
“In the alley, please. Tiffany, would you unlock the door?”
In fifteen minutes, with Harlow helping, the boxes of groceries sat on the kitchen table. Emma surveyed what she’d done with a sudden tremor of doubt. This was a lot of food. If it didn’t sell…
Nonsense. “I should get those chicken breasts in the marinade.”
Somehow Harlow became the unofficial kitchen boy, stowing the supplies where she directed. The new dishes were delivered, and he put those away, as well, after she washed them. He worked efficiently, always whistling a tune underneath his breath. Soon enough, the kitchen was back to normal, except for a large bowl of salad greens soaking in cold water.
The daylight in the alley had nearly disappeared. “I’d better be going,” Harlow said. “Mr. Falcon’ll show up soon.”
Emma put her hand on the thin bones of his arm. “Let me make you something to eat first.”
“That’s okay. I’m good to go.”
“But you’ve done a great deal of work this afternoon. Please, it’s the least I can do.”
He shook his head. “I’d like to, Emma. Your cooking is the best. But I don’t want to be here when the boss comes in. That’ll be bad for you and me. I can take it, but you shouldn’t have to.”
“Well, then, at least let me pay you. I won’t feel right if I don’t.”
Again, that sweet grin. “I wouldn’t want you feeling bad. Just a couple of bucks for a burger is plenty.”
He’d worked for two hours. She gave him forty dollars—twice what she got paid, but her savings would make up the difference. In any event, she hadn’t taken this job for the money. “Have a really good meal tonight. Vegetables, too.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He saluted her from the door to the alley. His smile faded and his expression turned somber. “You’re something special. Thanks.”
Emma stared out the screen door for several minutes after he disappeared. Jimmy had warned her about Harlow, and his friend. But the boy she’d seen today seemed neither desperate nor dangerous. Just in need of help. Almost eager, in fact, to be helped. Perhaps he wanted to change his life and didn’t know quite how to begin. Or how to ask.
“If we wait until we’re asked to help,” her mother had said more than once, “many good people with too much pride will be lost.” Not long after Emma turned fifteen, Naomi Garrett had given her life for those good people—a victim of dengue fever, contracted while nursing the critically ill. Emma’s dad had suffered recurrent malaria attacks for years, thanks to his work in Africa studying tribal dialects. Between them, they’d left her a very big example to live up to.
If anything positive were to come out of the end of her university career, Emma thought it might be the chance to provide the kind of help her parents had modeled for her. At least, she could try.
She smiled ruefully, thinking of her father’s jokes about Emma-Knows-Best. Perhaps her penchant for meddling in other people’s affairs could finally be turned to good use.
THE MUSIC WAS HOT and heavy by the time Jimmy showed up at the club. He made his way down the bar, greeting regulars with a handshake, checking out the room in general. An okay crowd for a Thursday night. Big enough to keep him occupied somewhere besides the kitchen.
Tiffany brought him a whiskey as he leaned against the end of the bar. Darren whizzed by, carrying a loaded tray on his shoulder. “Upper-body strength,” he muttered. “I shoulda been lifting weights.”
The comment didn’t make sense until a break between sets, when Jimmy heard the clatter of dishes at a nearby table, the ping of knives and forks. The next time Darren came by, Jimmy stopped him.
“What’s the deal with the food?”
The server shrugged. “Emma said to mention salads and lemon chicken when I took the orders. We got more people ordering that now than sandwiches.” He shifted under the weight of the tray. “I gotta dump this, boss, or drop it.”
Jimmy waved him away. When Tiffany worked her way down to him again, he called her over. “Emma changed the menu?”
The bartender avoided his eyes. “Yeah. The customers seem to like the variety.”
“You didn’t think I might want to know about this?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want to get between you and Emma.”
Guilt grabbed him by the throat. He drummed a quick rhythm pattern on the bar. “You’re right, Tiff. I’m a jerk for blaming you. There’s only one person I should be talking to about this.”
In the kitchen, Emma looked up from a plate of salad as he stepped through the door and let it swing shut behind him. “Hullo, Jimmy. How are you tonight?”
“Surprised. What are you doing, Emma?”
She met his gaze straight on. “I wanted to show you how successful a different menu could be. I think the customers are enjoying the wider selection of food.”
Brains and beauty and guts. A powerful combination. The recognition expanded his irritation. “What’s the profit margin on those salads?”
“The same as the sandwiches. I don’t want you to lose money.”
He leaned against the door frame to rest his hip. “Does that include the plates and silverware?”
Her face and throat flooded with red. “Um…no.”
“Right.” Hands in his pockets, he tried to figure out the real point here. A power struggle between them? Maybe. Emma was a woman used to running a classroom, a career. But he’d established his own life, ran his club to meet his own standards. He didn’t like having decisions taken out of his hands, even by Emma Garrett.
“I meant this for the best, Jimmy.”
“I’m sure you did.” He sighed. Staying mad at Emma for any length of time had been impossible when they were kids, something between them that didn’t seem to have changed. “The money doesn’t really matter a damn.”
“I know.”
“But
