Send Down the Rain(57)



I saw the return address, so I had a pretty good idea things were about to get interesting. I stood and walked down the steps to the edge of the dunes and the path that led to the beach. I could hear the kids laughing along the water’s edge. She opened the envelope as I watched.

She pulled out the paid-in-full notarized receipt for her back taxes and other liens, along with a paid-in-full notarized receipt for the satisfaction of her mortgage, along with the stamped and recorded deed to the Blue Tornado.

She stared at the papers. Reading. Rereading. Turning them sideways. Once it sank in, she crumpled and turned into a puddle on the porch. A pretty good reaction.

After she composed herself, she looked my direction and held up the papers. “I thought we had agreed you were just going to pay the back taxes. Make interest payments.” She made quotation marks with her fingers. “‘Get me on my feet.’”

“Correct. I paid back taxes. And made”—I held up a finger—“one interest payment.”

She shook the papers at me. “Along with all the principal.”

“It was easier to write one check.”

Calmly she placed the papers back in the envelope and laid them on the porch table. Then she started racing toward me. “Joseph Brooks!”

Allie chased me through the dunes and out onto the beach where the kids found her hysterical screaming and my laughing rather comical. Rosco ran in circles around us. We weaved down the beach, then back up. I was laughing so hard I was having a tough time putting one foot in front of another. Finally she caught me along the edge of the water. When she did, I picked her up and carried her into the waves, where we fell into waist-deep water. She stood, soaking wet, hair matted to her face. I pushed it back behind her ears. She cupped my face in her hands and kissed me square on the lips. Then again. “I can never pay this back . . . you know that, right?”

“It’s a gift. You don’t pay those back.”

Her face took on a serious look. “Are you broke?”

“Why? You trying to decide if you still like me?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like—”

“No. I’m not broke.”

“I can’t believe you did that.” She studied me. Head tilted. “Why?”

“Sometimes . . . our debt is more than we can pay.”

“But . . . ?”

“Long time ago, a friend gave me a gift I can never repay. The longer I live out the reality of that gift, the more I come to understand the enormity of what I owe and what is required to wipe the slate.”





34

Opening day was an explosion of people, color, lights, sound, and a good bit of chaos thrown in for good measure. When the restaurant opened at eleven a.m., a two-hour wait was lined up at the door. We’d set up a bar on the porch along with a walk-up window with a reduced menu for people who wanted just appetizers or something to eat with their drink on the porch.

Allie reminded me that the tension with any great restaurant is how to produce a product so good that folks are willing to stand in line to get it while not making the people feel rushed who, sitting in their seats, are enjoying the product. New technology allowed us to text people when their table was ready. That meant they weren’t tied to the front steps and could make their way to the beach where the sea breeze, sunshine, and waves gently rolling across the shoreline added to the ambience.

Allie was in her element. And if anyone knew how to run a restaurant—which included anticipating problems and fixing unanticipated problems—she was a pro. She never looked frazzled, made people feel welcome, and yet had a keen eye for presentation, food quality, timeliness, service, customer satisfaction. She could multitask on a level I couldn’t comprehend. And somehow, in the midst of this exercise in controlled chaos, she found the wherewithal to actually sit down at tables with patrons and check in on so-and-so’s momma or daddy or distant relative in Siam or Topeka.

I figured I was of the most help behind the scenes. Washing dishes. Mopping floors. Stocking the bar. Cleaning bathrooms. The less people interaction the better. I knew if I just kept my head down and focused on the systems or machines that helped us operate, I’d be fine. When the lights and the noise and the number of people grew too much, I’d stop and count forks or plates or sketch a face in a booth or some stranger sitting on a barstool. My stack of index cards was never far away.


WHILE THE CARNIVAL WAS still a work in progress, Manuel, Javier, Peter, and Victor had succeeded in reassembling the merry-go-round on the edge of the parking lot. Along with a few toss-and-throw games and the Paul Bunyan hammer swing. We’d strung lights and laid down hay for people to walk on. Gabby and Diego offered free lemonade and popcorn. The added distraction helped occupy those waiting.

We finished Saturday’s shift about two o’clock Sunday morning. We’d been up close to twenty-four hours, and yet Allie was still smiling and darting around like the Energizer bunny. The entire staff had yet to go home, and yet we were scheduled to be back in the restaurant in seven hours to start prepping.

Even the kids were still awake. Gabby lay on the floor using Rosco as a pillow. It was a good picture. I propped my feet up and transposed it to paper. As I was finishing my sketch, Allie thanked the staff and then said with a sly smirk, “Make sure you tell your friends to come tomorrow. Should be an interesting evening.”

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