Page 4 of Scarred Trust

Chapter 3

“I’M HERE. SORRY I’M late,” I stated, hopping on one foot into the kitchen while trying to adjust my other shoe. The raucous voices and hum of clinking glasses at barely 5pm on a Saturday told me the pub was already busy. As soon as I got off the ‘L’, I ran to my apartment to change out of my suit and into my black t-shirt and pants, the uniform for the restaurant. Yes, even on Saturdays, my bosses required us to be in the office and professionally dressed. They stated that one never knew when a client would need a meeting. But those of us eyeing the lone junior partner position were aware of the cut-throat competition the Partners provoked.

“Trina, you’re just in time. Everyone seems to have come in at once.” My mom, Siobhán, assured me, using my family’s nickname for me. With a kiss on the cheek, she tied a white apron around my waist.

“Such a long day for you. Those bosses demand too much of you.” Grandma Sorcha knew how determined I was to make this promotion happen, but she was still concerned. She squeezed my shoulders, and I wrapped an arm around her waist, grateful for my family’s support.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Gran. I’ve got it all planned out.” I pulled a new order that rattled through the printer for a two-top at table eight, and aligned it on the ticket rack after the earlier ones. I had gotten the job at ABS right after I graduated law school with the contingency that I passed the bar exam. It had been a dream come true and still was, even with all the good-ol’ boy challenges. If I was ever going to have my own firm, I needed to make sacrifices, but my family wasn’t one of them.

“You don’t sleep enough. And when did you last eat? Here, let me fix you a bowl of stew.” While Gran’s stew cured almost all the ails of the world, there simply wasn’t enough time during the dinner rush. There just wasn’t enough time in the day to take care of everything.

“Table 12 is up.” Davy, the sous-chef, announced from the other side of the pass-through, sliding the entrees under the heat strip.

“Gotta go.” I shrugged innocently, arranging the four plates in my hands, and kissed Gran on the cheek.

“Take a bite.” My dad, Brendan, held a slice of buttered brown bread to my mouth, knowing the way to bypass any discussion. I took a mouthful, anticipating the warmth of the bread fresh from the oven and the homemade salted butter melted between the pillowy dough. I smiled with a sigh as I swallowed it before entering the dining room to serve the meals.

Even with a staff that worked like a well-oiled machine, we were still falling behind on orders. Maybe it was that we were down a couple of line cooks, or maybe everyone in town wanted to celebrate the first warm 80-degree Fahrenheit day of the year by going to Duffy’s. Hours later, even when we had caught up on orders, new problems arose, like running out of menu items.

“Trina, I’ve got this. I need you to take table 42.” Just as I had entered the kitchen again, Mom handed me an order tablet before giving Dad a set of dishes to take to the dining room.

“Isn’t that Claire’s section?” As our largest table, it fit ten people, twelve if they wanted to get to know each other really well. It also meant a big bill and hopefully a great tip. My parents paid the staff well, but the servers still strived to make bank on their tips.

“Yes, but she’s in the weeds, especially trying to clear the tables from the platform.” To turn as many tables as possible, my parents found they could fit a few where the band would play later in the evening. But sometimes, like tonight apparently, there was difficulty getting the customers out before the setup happened.

“No problem. I’ll handle it until Claire can take over.” I called over my shoulder to Mom as I headed to the dining room.

“Good evening, my name’s Cate. Welcome to Duffy’s. Can I get you something to drink and some appetizers while you look at the menu?” I had taken a cursory look at the table, enough to note all the chairs were filled and had menus.

“Well, well, well. Still waiting on people hand and foot? Seems fitting.” Monica, the head cheerleader, had always sounded disinterested in anything she talked about, like it was such a bore. I guess it had worked for her if she had kept up the act after all this time.

“Knew you would never amount to anything.” Jorge had been the hanger-on. He hadn’t fit in, but they had found him and his car useful.

“Peaked at seventeen?” Mitch had been a part of the entitled football team. His dislike of me started when I wouldn’t let him copy my answers on the Spanish test.

“Changing your hair can’t hide the fact you’re a loser.” Carol was the teenager whose mother had sent her to school in conservative clothes and then changed in the bathroom into whatever Monica had deemed fashionable at the moment.

“Look who’s still stuck here?” Blaine was the wealthy one whose parents had never been in town. He had thrown his daddy’s cash around as long as his sycophants pleased him.

I looked up and surveyed the dozen faces that had made my time in high school hell. All I could do was hold my smile in place. I wouldn’t let them see what effect they had on me.

“Just like you said,” I said, staring at the emerald green eyes of Weston St. James. The same man who saved me from the non-fire had been part of this pack. Unlike the others, he was an outstanding student and drove me to work harder to beat every score he made.

“Whoa, I said nothing of the sort,” he retorted, seeming confused by the derisive remarks around him.

“You certainly agreed with all of them,” I circled my hand, indicating the group.

“Him? He always had his head in his phone talking to some girl.” Monica’s comment was true, if not a little revealing of her jealousy at not being one of those girls.

“Did you really think he would have wasted his time on you?’ Blaine jeered.

“It sounds like you all gave her a lot of thought, and still are. I’m regretting not having paid attention.” Wes said, throwing me a wink.

“Did you want to order now, or should I come back?” I asked politely, like the entire conversation hadn’t just happened.

“I’m ready. I’ll have Sorcha’s Irish burger and a ginger ale,” Wes gave his most dazzling smile while the silent table stared at him.

“Uh, I want the seafood chowder, but without the shellfish or potatoes. Oh, and make it skim milk instead of cream,” Monica sneered.