They perused the overcrowded aisles as a team. Shelves upon shelves of knickknacks crammed together with little sense as to how they were organized. On any given shelf, a baby monitor sat next to a stack of picture frames. Water-stained board games occupied the space between copper cookware and VHS tapes. Nick plucked a Rambo VHS and glazed over the summary on the back of the box. Rosalie folded her arms, eyebrows high on her forehead.
“Really? Rambo? I forgot we’re here to rent a movie.”
“Hey, I’d be buying it.”
They moved on to what looked like the furniture section. The open space featured a collection of sunken sofas, a mismatched dining table set, and office pieces like a heavy oak desk and bookcase. Rosalie walked up to admire the dining table set. He wandered between the furniture, noting the price points dangling off the tags.
“What do you think if we went for a less traditional look?” she asked suddenly.
Confusion scribbled across his features, resulting in a blank stare. She took pity on him and launched into an explanation about her vision. Standing by the mismatched dining table set, she talked about going for a less dated, more eccentric style. Her eyes glinted passionately and the breathless lilt in her voice endeared him.
“We could make it work, give Ady’s a cozier, homier feel. Paint the furniture different colors. Arrange things mismatched to make it quirkier. I noticed diners like Clementine Browning order stuff like coffee and dessert. What if we had a small dessert section? Just some armchairs and coffee tables so she can read her book, eat her banana pudding, and chill by the window,” Rosalie explained. She moved on to the tufted armchair she had in mind, its fabric colored a berry wine. “Obviously, it might take a while. We haven’t streamlined your budget yet—”
“This armchair is thirty bucks. I don’t think that’s gonna break the bank.”
Sort of. His reply was the truth if he meant the modest inheritance he received from Mom. On the other hand, if he meant the profit from Ady’s, he was lying. Ady’s hadn’t turned a profit for months now. Most months they barely scrapped by, breaking even. Once or twice less than that.
“Pick out what pieces you like and we’ll add it to the list,” he said, burying his hands in his pockets. “Maybe later we can sit down and map out what you think should go where.”
Once they were done window shopping, they hopped back in his truck and started for Ady’s. He could tell by the sideways glances Rosalie was casting that there was something else on her mind. Whatever it was, it wasn’t about their trip to the thrift store, but he sensed it did have to do with Ady’s renovation.
“You look like you’ve got something to say,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.
He expected Rosalie to dismiss his observation, but to his surprise, she laughed.
“Was I that obvious?”
“The sideways glances might’ve been a clue.”
“There’s a part of Project Fixer-Upper I didn’t mention.”
“What do you mean?” Nick asked as he turned onto Main Street.
“The Autumn Festival is coming up next month.”
The subject seemed random, but he had to admit he was curious. He snuck a glance at her and said, “I didn’t think that festival would be your kinda thing.”
“It’s not. But then I saw the restaurant competition they’re having.”
“Rosalie—”
“Hear me out,” she interrupted stubbornly. She had dug in her purse and retrieved what looked like a pamphlet on the festival. “It’s for local restaurants in town. There’s a cash prize, but you realize what first place means, right?”
“Some plastic trophy bought at the Save Mart?”
“I’m being serious. Think about it. First place gets news coverage town-wide for their restaurant. That’s free advertising. What better way for Ady’s to make a new debut than for us to compete at the festival and take first place?”
He didn’t answer her. Her rationale was sound, but he had no intention of entering any competition. Project Fixer-Upper was enough of a major change for him. Adding an entire competition felt like too much pressure.
For years, Mom had dominated that same competition. Ady’s was undefeated back then, its reputation flawless. He could never re-create that success. He could never begin to compare.
“Nick, we’ve got a shot. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t cook for Ady’s anymore.”
“We’ll have Jefferson prepare the menu.”
Nick shot her a sideways grin. “I remember somebody saying Jefferson fumbles toast.”
“What other choice is there? He’s the only other person who knows the menu.”
“Or you,” he said in jest. “You can enter and represent Ady’s.”
Rosalie snorted. “I already told you I’m not a big cook. I barely make spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti, huh? Maxie could probably cook spaghetti. She’s five.”
“Go ahead and drag me for it. I can’t even act like I’m bothered. Did I mention I use the spaghetti sauce from the jar?”
Nick groaned out of culinary umbrage. “Out of the jar? Really? You know that stuff isn’t made fresh?”
“Neither are half the dishes at Ady’s,” she shot back.
“That’s a low blow.”
“You insulted my spaghetti first.”
“Fair enough,” he admitted. He pulled into the parking lot behind Ady’s and nabbed the first spot open. Turning off the truck engine, he twisted in his seat for a straight look at her. “Tell you what. I’ve got an idea. You want Ady’s to compete in the Autumn Festival’s restaurant competition? I’ll teach you the menu.”
Rosalie stared back at him, lost at the proposal. “And you think that’s a better plan than you cooking it yourself?”
“Already told you. I’m not interested in competing. But what’s the difference who it is if it’s the same recipe?”
“I can’t cook, Nick. I’m not playing when I say that.”
“Anybody can cook. It’s not about who the person is. It’s about the skill they have. Are you up for it?”
She sighed and slowly conceded his point with a nod. “If you say so. We’ve got a deal.”
Chapter Nine
“How you liking St. Aster?”
Henry turned up in the kitchen, much to Rosalie’s vexation. She went through great lengths to avoid him. Most of the time she managed. The only challenge was that he was always home.
Jobless, useless, and broke, he had nowhere else to go during the day. She couldn’t look him in the eye. He didn’t know it, but he was the men of the past. Difference in appearance aside, he was exactly like the others. She looked at him and saw Terrance from when she was seven years old. By the next blink, he was Chris, the man who lived in their home during her high school years. His lethargic murmur sounded startlingly like Andre’s low drawl, another man from Ma’s gallery of rogues.
She gathered a breath, shoulders braced, and stuck to basic pleasantries. “St. Aster’s good. No complaints here.”
“Heard you’re having a rough time at Ady’s?”