Most days, Alessandro Silva would have walked right past a place like Baker’s Dozen. He’d seen and worked in too many like it since he was fifteen—a small, local hangout that catered to the same hardworking blue collars day after day, for lousy tips and long hours. The hand-painted sign outside Baker’s Dozen advertised, Breakfast Only! Open 5 am until 12pm, Closed on Sunday.
The little coffee shop hadn’t been there three years ago, the last time he’d been in Perch Creek, but that meant very little. A lot could, and did, change in a small town in such a brief amount of time, including businesses and who owned them. Nothing about Baker’s Dozen seemed special at first glance—not until Alessandro spotted the other sign in the window, scribbled out on a sheet of parchment paper.
He’d seen a lot of help-wanted signs in his day, but this was his very first Help Needed!!! sign. All three exclamation points included.
The sign stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk. He was on his way to the larger chain steakhouse down the block to see if they needed any help in the kitchen. Bussing tables wasn’t exactly a noteworthy profession, but jobs weren’t easy to come by for a twenty-two-year-old Brazilian-American with no college education. And he needed a job if he was going to stay in Perch Creek to help Eunice with her bills and the other kids.
Help Needed!!!
The bank of windows at the front of Baker’s Dozen was tinted, so he’d have to cup his hands and press his face to the glass to get an idea of the interior. Instead of being so obvious about it, he went in. Sleigh bells jangled on the inside of the door, and he stepped into a warm room full of chatter, clanging and the wonderful aromas of coffee and cinnamon.
The restaurant was long and narrow, with a counter in the rear and a few booths and tables set up along both walls. A freestanding sign said Seat Yourself. Most of the seats were full, and a white-haired woman was bustling around behind the rear counter, lording over what looked like a giant display case of baked goods, with a line of four people waiting to be served. It reminded him more of a bakery than a breakfast place until he saw the handwritten menu board over the counter advertising daily breakfast specials and flavored coffee.
He moved a few steps closer in order to observe. The white-haired woman was actually white-blonde and younger than he’d first guessed—probably in her early thirties, with a silver hoop in her nose and several piercings in each ear. She was stout, as well. Not overweight, but not exactly slim, either. She laughed and joked with the people in line as she bagged up items from one of the trays beneath the counter, then took the bag to a cash register.
Just as she handed both the bag and change to the woman in line, a bell dinged somewhere behind her and a distant voice said, “Six up!” The woman excused herself from the next person in line, dashed to the left and reached over what must have been a hidden counter. She came back with two plates of food that she sprinted to a booth near Alessandro. As she passed, she tossed him a sunny grin and a brief, “Hey, sugar.” She sailed right back to the register and helped the next person with their order. So far, he hadn’t seen a single other person working there—the disembodied voice of the cook didn’t count.
He got in line.
Two more plates of food came out before Alessandro made it to the front of the line, and three people were waiting behind him. The scents of apples, cinnamon, sugar, and various other things made his stomach growl and mouth water, but he wasn’t here for a muffin.
“What can I get you, sugar?” the pale-haired woman asked when it was his turn.
He gave her his very best smile, slightly startled to see how blue her eyes were. “I’m actually here about the sign in the window. Help needed?”
“Yeah? You got experience waiting tables?”
“Not waiting, no, but I’ve bussed in a lot of places and done some dishwashing. I’m a quick study, though.”
“What’s your name?”
“Alessandro Silva.”
Those startling blue eyes swept him up and down, and then she leaned closer. In a low voice, she asked, “You legal?”
Alessandro had long ago given up on being insulted when people saw his caramel skin and black hair and assumed he wasn’t born here in America—which he was, even if his parents had been illegal. “Perfectly legal in every way,” he replied with just a touch of sass.
“Good. Consider this your job interview.” She reached behind her, grabbed a green apron and notepad, then handed the bundle to him. “Tables are in numerical order, one there and count in a U-shape from the front. When Rusty shouts a number, it’s the table. Get the plates and deliver. Someone sits down, take their order. Menu is on the board, and the coffee is endless as long as it’s eat-in. Got it?”
Even though his head was spinning a bit, Alessandro nodded. He stepped out of line so he could tie on his apron while she served the next customer.
“Nine up!”
That was his first cue. He stepped behind the counter and down the short hall. A chest-high counter stood between him and the rest of the kitchen, which was commanded by a single, slightly grizzled man who looked as old as dirt and glared at him with suspicion. “Rusty?” Alessandro asked.
The old cook grunted. “You new?”
“Extremely.”
“Good luck, Paco.”
“Alessandro.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“My parents were from Brazil.”
“Mine were from Poland.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Alessandro blinked first. He picked up the white porcelain plates, both heaped with some kind of pancakes and bacon, then carried them back to the dining room. He started with the first table on the left, then counted to nine. He ended at a booth on the right side of the room, where two teenage girls were sitting, playing with their phones.
“Your food, ladies,” he said. He flashed them his most charming smile as he deposited their plates, which made them both blush and giggle. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Can I order your phone number?” one girl asked with a too-confident grin.
Alessandro placed a hand over his heart, faking sadness. “Alas, my dear, my heart belongs to someone else.” To another sex entirely, as a matter of fact, but he wasn’t going to advertise that when he hadn’t been officially hired. Being nonwhite brought its own unique set of problems, as did being a foster kid; being gay, too, was just an additional layer of complications in his already complicated life.
“Too bad,” his flirtatious teenage customer said.
“Enjoy the food.” He took a moment to survey the tables and take in the details. He spotted at least half-a-dozen ceramic mugs that screamed “in-house coffee” that needed refilling. Two other tables had no food at all, so he remained alert to Rusty’s shouts. Some patrons were eating muffins or baked goods out of brown paper bags with takeout cups of coffee, so he made a note to leave them alone unless summoned.
He could do this. No sweat.
The coffeepot was set up behind the counter, with two steaming carafes ready and a third brewing. One brown handle and one orange—regular and decaf, he’d bet. He took both, then did a quick circuit of the dining room, topping off mugs and chatting idly with folks he’d never met a day in his life. While he was pouring, an older gentleman came in and settled in the place’s only empty booth.
Alessandro gave him a moment to settle himself, then came over. “Coffee to start you off?” he asked.
“Sure, regular’s good.” The man turned over his mug and Alessandro poured. “Shannon got flapjacks on today?”
He glanced up at the board just to double-check himself before answering. “Stack of cakes with bacon, yep.”
“Sounds good, with one of her corn muffins on the side.”
“Got it.”
Once Alessandro had redeposited the coffee carafes, he wrote the order down on the pad, then took it to the rear counter. “New order?” he asked Rusty.
“There.” Rusty pointed his greasy spatula at a silver wheel with little clips on it.
Alessandro attached the order, then went up to his maybe-boss. “I need a corn muffin set aside for table ten.”
“Got it,” she said as she slid what looked like an apple fritter into a bag.
Two full hours passed like that and Alessandro never stopped moving. For such a small place, it did incredibly brisk business, and as the hands on his watch crept closer to noon, the baked-goods counter emptied out and so did the tables and booths. He was able to slow down and catch his breath. His apron pocket rattled with loose change and dollar bills—tip money he’d collected from the tables he’d also bussed. He wasn’t sure what to do with it.
Only two booths were still occupied, so he grabbed a damp cloth and began wiping down the tables. By the time he’d gone around, only one booth held customers. He collected two plates and mugs from the empty table, as well as a five-dollar tip. A hastily scribbled phone number went into the pool of syrup left on one of the plates. He added the plates to the bus bin on the back counter.
“You really are a fast learner,” the boss—who he guessed to be Shannon, even though she hadn’t introduced herself—said.
“I believe in truth in advertising,” he replied.
“You did good today and you helped me out of a real jam. Thank you, Alessandro.”
“Alè, please.”
“Alè.” She pronounced it like all white folks did, like alley, but he didn’t mind. “My name’s Shannon Winters. I own the place.”
“I guessed as much. Nice to meet you.” He shook her hand. “It was definitely the most hands-on interview I’ve never had.”
“If you want the job, you’re hired.”
He blinked. “For real?”
“Yes, absolutely. It’s all morning work, though. We’re open six to twelve, so you’d work five to one Monday through Friday. I have a Saturday person, and we’re closed Sundays. You’d be doing pretty much what you just did, for six hours a day, five days a week. You game for that?”
His mind calculated the benefits of such an arrangement. Having set hours meant a schedule that Eunice could more easily work around. If she could figure out mornings, he’d be there every day when the kids came home from school. He’d have to get used to such early working hours, but he’d done worse.
“I’m game,” he replied. “I accept.”
“Fabulous. Welcome to Baker’s Dozen. We’ll do your paperwork after we close, yeah?”
“Okay.”
He kept himself busy by relying on his old busboy training—collecting dishes, cleaning tables, generally tidying up the place—as the hour hand crept toward the twelve. The last lingering guests seemed to understand they were getting close to overstaying their welcome. The pair tossed some money onto the wood table, then left. Alessandro hit the table and started cleaning.
He hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the shop’s clock before, but at noon it chimed, then began playing strains of “Closing Time.” He laughed his way through scrubbing down the table.
The front door bells clanged, and he glanced up, a little startled. He hadn’t asked Shannon if he should lock the front door. A man about his own age came inside, wearing the worn clothes of a poor college student, a canvas cross-body bag slung over his shoulder. He was slim with thick brown hair and wide, blue eyes that stopped Alessandro short. He also had the most kissable red lips Alessandro had ever seen on a man. Not really handsome, but leaning toward the cute side, and those lips…
Alessandro’s dick twitched.
He’d take a phone number scribbled on a receipt from this guy any day of the week. Too bad. “We’re closed.”
Vivid blue eyes latched on and drank him in, taking just a split second longer to check Alessandro out than any perfectly straight man would have. “My sister owns the place,” he said in a slightly mocking tone. “She won’t mind.” As if to prove his point, Shannon’s supposed brother reached back and turned the door’s lock. “Who are you?”
Alessandro squared his shoulders, not at all intimidated by the slightly shorter, much skinnier man in front of him. “Alessandro Silva. Shannon just hired me.”
“Damn, that was fast. We only hung the sign three hours ago.”
“Right place, right time, I guess.”
“I guess. I’m—”
“Jaime, hey,” Shannon said. She came down the center aisle, wiping her hands on a towel. “You’re cutting it close, kid. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Jaime replied. “I had to get some books from the library and lost track of time. You know I never miss a chance to scrounge for leftovers and harass you while you try to close up.”
“Go harass Rusty instead. Fill the dishwasher.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jaime tossed his bag onto a chair and strolled to the back of the shop.
Alessandro caught himself watching Jaime go, so he turned his attention back to Shannon. “Your brother?”
“Half brother, yeah,” she replied. “Pain in my ass, but I can’t seem to find any traveling sideshows that will buy him off me.”
He snorted laughter. The comment was sarcastic, but he didn’t miss the underlying affection in her words. “Have you considered selling him to science?”
She grinned. “Oh, I like you, Alè. I like you.”
They spent the next hour going over how the shop ran and the kinds of food they served. They were first and foremost a bakery, specializing in thirteen varieties of muffins every day, and they changed based on the time of year. Baker’s Dozen also served a variety of other baked goods. Everything was made from scratch in the morning—Shannon came in at three—and once it sold out, it was out. She also put food specials up, five dishes that Rusty could crank out quickly, and she prided herself on serving a great cup of coffee.
They discussed pay and tips, as well as his general responsibilities, while they cleaned and set up for the next day. He got a tour of the kitchen and the small back room that doubled as a break room and office space and the closet-sized bathroom. Once they sat down and started on his official paperwork, their conversation shifted from professional to a little more personal.
“So did you just move to Perch Creek?” Shannon asked.
“I grew up here, but I moved away for a few years.” His nerves jumped a bit. “I came back to help out at home.”
“Best reason to come back to a place is family.”
“Agreed.”
As he filled in his emergency-contact information, Shannon read over his shoulder. “Eunice Deforio? Hey, are you one of her kids?”
He looked up from the form, ready to defend Eunice and himself, but Shannon didn’t have “that look” on her face. That look of disappointment and suspicion he often saw from people who immediately distrusted folks who’d grown up in the foster-care system, as though the system bred criminals. She looked curious, even a little pleased.
“Yeah, I am. Eunice has been really good to me.”
“I heard about her husband passing away. I’m real sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Sullivan Deforio had been an excellent foster father and role model, and the polite platitude was a cruel reminder of the man’s recent passing.
“Eunice must be glad to have you.”
He nodded. “She’s a mighty strong lady, but she was married to Sully for forty years. It’s like losing a leg, you know? I’m doing what I can.”
“How will your work schedule here affect her?”
“I think it will work out good, actually. Eunice is home in the morning to get the kids on the bus, and I’ll be free to take them every day after school.”
“Excellent.”
They went through a few more legal documents. Shannon handed him a stapled printout of recipes. “Helps to know what you’re serving,” she said. “We don’t have gluten-free or vegan, but I do occasionally manage a low-fat muffin.”
“Thanks.”
“You got any other questions for me?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Excellent. Then I’ll see you tomorrow at five.”
“At five.”
He didn’t see Jaime again on his way out, which was mildly disappointing. But he had a funny feeling he’d see Shannon’s brother on a pretty regular basis from now on—and the idea made him smile.
