plates from their table.
“These days with those tragic stories around the country, it’s got to be extra hard on you.” She looked sincerely concerned.
“It’s all in the training, I think. We’re into community policing around here, and for a small town like Sandpiper, that works.”
“Didn’t you work in San Diego for a while?”
“Yeah, right out of college, I got in their peace officer training program.”
“I bet you’ve seen it all.” Did she look awestruck?
“I’ve been in some tough situations, that’s for sure.”
“Wow. I think you must have the hardest job in the world.”
“Hardly, but it keeps me on my toes.” For an instant, he let himself feel all that. Why not, she was laying on the compliments like extra mayo on a club sandwich. He puffed up his chest just a tiny bit. Pride went darn well with pancakes. It also came before the fall. “Do you remember how we met?”
Her eyes popped open like she’d just been asked the million-dollar question on a game show, or a security question for a forgotten password. “Grade school?”
“Fourth grade, when you were a pipsqueak.” It was his turn to play with the straw wrapper. “And you know why I liked you right off?”
“I thought you couldn’t stand me.”
“That’s because you were the only girl who could beat me at tetherball.” Suddenly thirsty, he drank from his ice water. “You had the heart of a lion. That’s what I noticed.”
From her expression, he knew he’d impressed her, but the big question was why did he want to? Maybe it was carb overload madness from all the pancakes and syrup. Nevertheless, he went on. “You bothered the heck out of me, but you fascinated me, too.”
“Then why’d you treat me so mean?” she said with an incredulous stare.
Something about her brought out the tease in him. “Maybe it was your Pippi Longstocking braids.”
She covered her face, doing her best not to blush. He could still embarrass her.
Her coffee-with-cream eyes drifted to her runner’s watch, then went ultrawide. She looked at him, panicked.
“Oh, my God. Forget the shower. I need to get to the kitchen to start brunch!”
Shelby and Conor rushed through The Drumcliffe kitchen doors smack into a kitchen crew rushing around, setting up food stations, and Maureen Delaney, with an obviously anxious expression on her face.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Delaney!”
“It was my fault, Mom.”
Maureen’s concern shifted to quizzical, with one curled brow. “I was getting worried.”
“I forced her to have breakfast with me,” Conor continued. Shelby ignored him, instead focusing on everything she needed to prepare in less than an hour.
Grabbing a chef coat from a hook in her cubbyhole, she shifted into gear. “Did everyone see the menu I posted yesterday for today’s brunch?”
Mumbles and affirmations sifted through the small group. “Who’s assigned to eggs and making omelets?” Martha raised her hand. “Do you need help getting your veggies chopped and diced?”
“I’m good,” Martha said, dicing bell peppers as she answered, a stainless-steel bowl of chopped onions beside her.
“Conor, can you help her plate all of the options? The avocados are over there, and don’t forget grated cheese, sour cream and salsa.”
“Sure.” He stepped to the basin and washed his hands, impressing her with not having to be told.
“Fred, you’re the meats guy, right?”
“Already started the pork chops, sausage, bacon and ham.” Of course he had, she could smell the rich, hunger-inducing aroma before she’d crossed the kitchen threshold, even though she’d just stuffed herself with Bee Bop Diner pancakes, bacon and eggs.
“Great, thank you.” Relief swept over Shelby as the buffet shaped up. They could do this. Maybe brunch wouldn’t turn into a calamity after all, and the teamwork would save her from getting another strike on her record. She needed her job!
“Can someone put together the fruit salad? Oh, and squeeze the orange juice?”
“I can do that,” Maureen chimed in.
“Oh, you shouldn’t...”
“I enjoy getting my hands dirty. Always have. Don’t worry.”
“I can help, too,” Abby, the head server, looked enthusiastic about pitching in.
That left Shelby to prepare today’s special, the peach-stuffed French toast. She bolted to the pantry and pulled out the extra thick bread, threw it on her station counter near the large, long grill, then strode to the double-door refrigerator for a couple cartons of eggs and some cream. On a second trip, she grabbed the extra-large stainless-steel bowl of fresh peach slices she’d had the foresight to leave overnight infusing in her special mix of spices and natural juice. The preparation smelled great.
The next hour whizzed by as everyone focused on their jobs, and five minutes before ten, when The Drumcliffe Sunday Buffet was set to open, every food station was ready to go. Several times during that hour, Shelby glanced up to Conor’s reassuring smile. He knew his way around the kitchen, probably from growing up at the hotel. Even Maureen seemed content with the fare and how the well-orchestrated disorder had all turned out. “I’ve got to try that French toast,” Maureen said.
“You’ve earned it!” Shelby plated two half slices oozing with the lightly stewed peach sections, and ladled warm maple syrup over the top. “Let me know what you think.”
After one bite, Maureen let out a sigh of ecstasy. “Oh, my God, this is delicious.”
Shelby grinned and glanced to the right in time to see Conor’s proud expression. They’d all worked as a team, focused on one thing and one thing only, to make a damn fine brunch buffet for the hotel guests and locals looking for a change of pace on a Sunday morning. What could have turned into a catastrophe had become triumph.
The action was nonstop for the next two hours. Along with great reviews on the French toast that totally boosted her pride, a few mishaps were averted, and meals kept rolling out the whole time, until the last guest was served and cleanup began.
“I think that’s a new record for Sunday brunch,” Maureen said, tallying up the server receipts. “Wow.”
“Fantastic.” Conor offered a high five, and she obliged.
After a brief smile, she got down to business, taking back
