My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(83)

She sees me, a combination of hopelessness and annoyance warring on her tired face. “Good luck. We’ve been here five minutes with no sign of a waitress.”

I freeze. If I back out now, I can leave. I’m not scheduled to work.

The bell at the window rings. Ted was short, like me, so he never used the order window. We always had to go into the kitchen to get it. “Order up!” a cheery tenor calls.

The woman sees my reaction and narrows her eyes.

“I—uh—I work here.” You had to admit it, didn’t you, Maria. “Be right back with some menus.”

“Thanks.” Her voice is tight.

I approach the window to find a miniature box of Cheerios, three kids’ cups of chocolate milk, one large Coke, and a deep dish filled with—baked macaroni? I lean forward, breathing in, and … wow. I’m not huge on pasta, but this smells like comfort smothered in cheese. There’s a bread-crumb layer on top that’s baked a perfect golden brown. The whole thing is still steaming.

I get on my tiptoes, but my view into the kitchen is limited. “Hey? I work here? Who is this order for?”

“Table two,” the voice calls. I look out to double check. There’s no one else in the restaurant. Just the crazy family.

“She said no one has taken her order yet. Is Candy back there?”

“It’s for table two.”

Frowning, I walk the tray over. “Here’s your food.”

The woman huffs in exasperation, prying her hair out of the baby’s fist. “No, we haven’t even ordered. Can we—wait, what is that?”

I’m already swinging the tray away, but I pause mid-action. “I think it’s baked macaroni. Do you at least want the drinks? No charge.”

The woman pushes her glasses up on her head, finally noticing the missing lens. Her laugh surprises me. It rings through the room. “Well, that’s embarrassing. And shows you what kind of birthday I’m having. You know, it’s the oddest thing, but this macaroni looks and smells exactly like what my mom used to make us on our birthdays.”

“Gramma?” the oldest child asks, perking up.

The mom’s face softens. “Yeah.” She touches the edge of the pale yellow dish. “This even looks like one of her baking dishes. That’s so strange! You know what, we want this.”

“Yeah?” I ask, confused.

“Yes. If we could get some plates?”

“Of course!” I rush behind the counter and grab four plates and silverware sets. The mom is in the middle of telling some story about a birthday treasure hunt. Everyone has calmed down—the older ones have stopped whining, the baby is eating the Cheerios, and the toddler is satisfied with his chocolate milk. The mom looks about ten years younger than she did when I walked in here.

“Can I get you anything else?”

She gives me a happy shake of her head. “This is perfect, thanks.”

I retreat, relieved but puzzled. Why did the new cook make that? Maybe someone else was here? I push through the door to ask what’s going on. And then I’m grateful my mouth is already open, otherwise I couldn’t have covered my jaw-drop.

Because the new cook is not some paunched, sixty-something, chain-smoking deadbeat.

He’s tall, a ridiculous chef’s hat making him even taller. Lean, with shoulders slanting inward so he seems to take up less space than he really does. Thick, dark eyebrows. There’s a single line between them that should make him look like a worrier, but there’s something inherently pleasant about his face. Maybe it’s the way his nose has the slightest off-center curve, like it was broken into a sideways smile.

Oh, and he’s not old. Maybe twenty, tops.

Oh, and he’s not unattractive.

“Hi!” He looks up from something boiling on the range. And there—when he smiles, his whole face lights up. It’s like his other expressions are placeholders.

I realize I’m beaming back. I tame my own mouth so I don’t look like a total idiot. “Hey. So. You’re the new cook?” Oof, yes, ask the guy cooking if he’s the new cook.

“Yeah! Isn’t this place amazing?”

“There … was no sarcasm in that statement. I’m confused.”

He laughs. “I couldn’t believe my luck when they hired me.”

Maybe I don’t know him well enough to understand when he’s joking. Surely he’s not sincere. He removes the pot from the stove, wipes his hands dry, and then holds one out to me. “I’m Ben.”

“Maria.”

His hand is big, but not in a meaty sort of way. I let go before he does, self-conscious. I don’t know what I look like right now. I didn’t bother checking myself in a mirror before coming over, because again: this is not what I expected to find.

There must be something wrong with him. Like, seriously wrong. It’s the only explanation for why he would consider himself lucky for getting this job.

The front door jingles as Santa insults another customer. Ben returns to whatever he’s making—for no one, apparently—and I walk out and scan the restaurant. It’s still empty except for the family, who seem to be having a great time. After checking to make sure their drinks are filled, I go back to Ben. I lean as casually as I can manage against the counter, but the kitchen is weird now. No comforting sameness. Ben has transformed it into an unknown quantity.