Bad Girl Page 3

  “And they know it,” he’d explained seriously. “They will learn. They will be a reflection upon my greatness. I must be firm because all will know it is my kitchen in which they learned their skills.”

  She opened the door that led to a long, narrow hallway connecting her two restaurants. The trip down the hall did more than transport her to another business location. It took her to another world. Whereas Hush Money was all about elegance, perfection, and peak culinary experience, the Ten-Ten was…relaxed. Burgers, pizzas, craft brews, and strong drinks. A vintage jukebox playing the best classic rock and Motown tunes. Long wooden tables populated by people who earned their livings running toward the disasters created by others. In honor of her father, Sydney had hoped the Ten-Ten, named after the scanner code for Off Duty/Private Time, would become a favorite of Madison’s first responders. Now open six months, she was pleased the place had become just that.

  “Hey, Roscoe,” Sydney called out to the former cop who now managed the place for her. She glanced over the space. There were fifteen or so people in the dining room, with another three sitting at the bar. In less than twenty minutes, she knew every seat in the place would be filled. “You got it covered for dinner?”

  Roscoe pulled the tap on a local craft brew and slid it to a man standing at the end of the bar. “We’re good, Syd. Got Jill and Jose in the kitchen. And the A-team’s serving. I figure we’ll need them. Folks will be eager to get out after spending a full day with their oddball families stuffing themselves with turkey.”

  She laughed and walked the length of the room, stopping to greet people she knew, thanking them for coming by and asking how their Thanksgiving went. Finney Colson instantly launched into a story about his aunt Tulla trying to instruct her youngest grandchild on the proper form for an Irish jig.

  “You shoulda seen her, Syd. Hundred pounds soaking wet and seventy-eight on her next birthday. Drunk as a sailor on payday after all my dad’s toasts to souls gone past. There’s Tulla, hands stiff as boards at her sides, trying to kick up her heels for little Maddie. No sooner does she get those bony knees up where they need to be, but my sister’s dog, Barney, comes barreling through the room with a half-eaten turkey leg in his mouth. Poor pooch is running as fast as he can to get away from my sister, who’s now in hot pursuit of the little bandit. Well, Barney attempts to make a roundhouse turn, comes up short, and takes out Tulla like he was a defensive lineman for Green Bay. Tulla goes up. Everybody makes a dive for the nearest wall. I grab little Maddie and pull her in the clear. Tulla comes down. Ass over teakettle. Clothes this way and that. And there—probably giving little Maddie a memory she’ll be scarred with forever—tucked into the wrinkles and crinkles of septuagenarian flesh…the entire family discovers Aunt Tulla has a passion for skimpy lingerie.”

  Sydney groaned along with everyone sitting at Finney’s table.

  “Red silk they were,” Finney continued. “Lacy. With that thong thingy disappearing into the deepest recesses of her soul. I’m telling you, I may need some psychiatric rehabilitation after what I saw last night.”

  A cold blast of air chilled her as the front door swung open. Instinctively, Syd, still laughing at Finney’s story, turned. The man who entered caught her eye, nodded, then made his way to the bar. Sydney patted Finney on the back.

  “I don’t know about therapy, but I think a story like that deserves a beer on the house.”

  She left the table accompanied by a rousing chorus of appreciation. She asked Roscoe to send over a pitcher of whatever Finney was drinking, then went to stand beside the man who’d just come in.

  “How was your Thanksgiving?” she asked.

  Rick Sheffield turned his stool toward her. “It was good. Jocko and I swung by the senior center early in the day. Jocko’s a ham. He loves giving those good folks a show. After that we went to my neighbor’s. Her kids are grown and scattered. She does what she calls an Orphans’ Thanksgiving. Nine folks showed up. We ate our fill.”

  “Where’s Jocko tonight? You should have brought him.”

  “You serving dogs in this place now?”

  “Jocko’s a sworn member of the Madison Police Department, Rick. And we welcome every officer. Canine or human.”

  Rick’s dark eyes locked onto hers. His gaze was a mixture of warm and hot. When he spoke, his tone was tinged in soft melancholy. “Maybe I’ll bring him by. I brought one of your special burgers home for him once. He was okay with that.”

  “Tell him next one’s on me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Each held the other’s stare. Sensing the awkwardness, Sydney offered a smile. “Mind if I sit and have a beer with you?”

  “This your way of asking if we can be friends?” The wistfulness in Rick’s voice was replaced by a husky rumbling.

  “I’d like that.”

  He took his time scanning her from head to toe. She felt a heat spring up from her core and melt its way through her body. “I’ve got plenty of friends, Syd.” His pause was long. “I’m holding a whole different place open for you. Till the time comes you’re ready to step into that slot, I think it might be best if we keep alcohol out of the mix.”

  Her heart hurried its pace. She nodded. “See you around.”

  He picked up his mug and took a long pull. “I’ll be here,” he promised.

  * * *

  —

  Both restaurants were busier than she would have anticipated for the day after Thanksgiving. It was nearly midnight when Sydney was finally able to send the last of her Hush Money staff home. The Ten-Ten would stay open till two a.m., but Roscoe was a pro. She never had to worry about closing down that place. She thought about going straight home, but was still too energized after the long evening. Instead, she traded her high heels for snow boots and walked the two blocks to the Low Down Blues. After the hustle at her own restaurants, she wasn’t surprised to see the club nearly full. She heard the soft sounds of a jazz étude coming from the Steinway onstage, where Clay played with a casual mastery. Sydney walked over to stand next to the bar, giving herself a perfect view of his performance. She greeted Francie, Clay’s trusted second-in-command, who welcomed her with a smile and a nod. Then she pulled out her phone, scrolled to Clay’s number, and texted him.

  I’m watching you do what you do best. Pretty damned sexy, I might add.

  She signed it Number One Fan and hit send. A second later her attention was drawn to a phone next to her on the work station lighting up. She was surprised to see her name on its screen.

  Francie reacted to the look on Sydney’s face. “It’s Clay’s phone,” she explained. “He always keeps it there when he’s working. Saves him from losing it…like he’s done more times than I can count before I trained him to drop the thing right here when he first comes in. I keep an eye on it and let him know if something important crops up.” She read the text and smiled at Sydney. “He’ll want to see that one, for sure.”

  Sydney’s cheeks flushed with an embarrassment she knew wasn’t necessary. Still, she was glad to hear Clay finish his piece and graciously accept the audience’s applause.

  “You’re very kind,” he told the crowd. “But how do I know it’s really me you like? Maybe you’re all so grateful to be away from the shopping malls you’ll applaud anything.” The audience responded with good-humored shout-outs. “Hey, I don’t care what the reason. I’ll take it. But you’re not here to hear me, I know that. Sit back, relax, and in about three minutes you’ll have One Eye Charlie right back here, ready to bring some Mississippi blues.” He left the stage, waving Sydney over to a table at the side of the bar.

  “Hey, you!” Clay kissed her cheek and signaled to Francie behind the bar. “I’m glad you’re here. Have a seat.”

  Francie brought over two glasses of pinot grigio. When she left, Clay reached out to take her hands in his. “Whoa! It must be colder than I th
ought. You’re freezing.”

  “How’s your night?”

  “Busy as hell. Yours?”

  “Same.”

  “Is it okay to talk about last night?” Clay asked, after they’d discussed their days.

  “I thought the toothbrush was charming.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He pulled her right hand to his lips, gave it a soft kiss, then let go. “You left in a hurry last night. What was that about?”

  “I figured you and Steel had a lot to catch up on.”

  Clay leaned in. “I can’t think of one single scenario where you’d be in the way, Sydney. Not a one.”

  “How late did the two of you stay up?”

  “Way, way too late. That kid of mine. Where he gets his bravery I’ll never know. He’s been all over Europe. Hand to mouth. Picking up odd jobs to fund his adventures. And, man, what adventures they are! I’m sure he’s only telling me the father-approved tales, too. When I think of what I was doing when I was his age…”

  “When you were his age you were raising an infant.” She touched his knee and let her hand linger. “Do you miss never having the chance to do what Steel’s doing? Tromping about the world, footloose and free?”

  A faraway look crossed Clay’s face. For a moment, he appeared to be in another place. “There’s a million ways to be, Sydney. Steel’s having his way, I had mine. All I experienced when he was…hell, when we both were kids…I wouldn’t trade that for anything.” He looked around the Low Down before allowing his eyes to settle once again on hers. “And I sure wouldn’t trade my life now for all the adventures of Marco Polo.”

  “So what next?”

  “You mean with Steel? This fits his pattern. My kid’s my own private boomerang. He flies off, he comes back. He didn’t tell me anything definitive, but my guess is he’ll be here for a few months. Pick up a job. Earn some cash. Plot his next move. I’ll come home one day, and he’ll have a big pot of chili cooking. We’ll chow down on a few bowls, and he’ll tell me he’s leaving the next morning.”

  “You think he’ll ever settle down?”

  Clay considered the question. “I think he’ll settle down. But not soon. He’s not yet twenty. Sometimes it seems like he’s been doing this a long time…this globe-trotting…but it’s because I miss him so much when he’s gone.” His voice grew serious. “My boy’s chasing something. Looking for something. I don’t know what it is, and I’m sure he doesn’t have a clue, either. But it itches at him. He’s got to scratch it, and I’ve got to let him.”

  “What’s Steel up to today?”

  “We had breakfast. More like lunch if you looked at the clock. I’d forgotten how much a skinny kid can pack away. He marched through that stack of leftovers you sent home with me like Sherman through Atlanta.”

  “Has he been by the club tonight?”

  “Not yet. He had a few friends he wanted to catch up with. He dropped me off and took my car. He’ll be here around closing to pick me up. Maybe you can stay? Visit a little. He thought you were gorgeous, by the way.”

  Before she could respond, One Eye Charlie came to the stage. Sydney squeezed Clay’s hand and shifted in her chair to take in the performance. It didn’t take long until One Eye’s rendition of an old blues number telling the tale of poison on the bayou pulled them both away from thoughts of whatever next steps might be necessary. Forty minutes later, One Eye ended his set.

  “That wraps it up for me this evening.” The bluesman’s deep Southern drawl rumbled into the microphone. “I reckon it’s gettin’ to be that time you good folks head on home, too. You be good to Miss Francie and her girls. Tip ’em like you remember it’s the holiday season. And should you be so inclined, c’mon back tomorrow night. I’ll be here. So will Mr. Clay. We’ll be servin’ up the blues, and we’d be mighty glad for you to come and sit a spell.”

  The lights in the room brightened as servers busied themselves with last call. People started leaving. Staff started cleaning. And just after one o’clock Steel Hawthorne came through the front door. He waved from the entry and made his way to the table where his father and Sydney sat.

  “Hey, Dad.” Steel gave his father a big hug. Sydney was once again struck by the near-identical features in the two men. “Hello to you, too.” Steel turned to offer his hand to Sydney. “What would you like me to call you? Sydney? Miss…I don’t know your last name. But if you tell me, I’d be happy to use it.”

  “It’s Richardson.” Sydney liked his openness. Steel reminded her of a seven-month-old Labrador. All arms and legs. Eager to greet the world without one whiff of guile. “Please, call me Sydney.”

  “Cool name. Not expecting a Sydney to be a girl.”

  “Like I wouldn’t expect Steel to be a human.”

  “I know, right? Like what were my folks thinking? They set me up for a lifetime of Superman jokes.”

  “So what have you been up to all day, son?” Clay asked.

  “Not much.” Steel’s eyes danced with an appealing mischief. “Called Pete and Sammy. They came over. We jammed. Played some poker. Cleaned out your refrigerator.” He turned to Sydney. “My dad says I have you to thank for all the food. So, thanks. It was great. It’s gone now, but we loved it.”

  “What’s got you grinning?” Clay asked his son. “Am I going to find a new puppy in my laundry room when I get home?”

  “Hey, a dog would be nice, huh? Something to keep you company in your old age.”

  “I’ve heard forty’s the new twenty.” Clay laughed. “Don’t sign me up for the home yet.”

  The Low Down’s front door opened again. Sydney looked over to see a woman enter. She wore a sweeping black wool coat that accentuated her pale blond hair. She stood in the doorway, taking in the space with a poise that suggested she was keenly aware of the appraising looks she drew from others. Even from across the room, Sydney could see she was breathtakingly exquisite. Her pale skin, flushed from the cold, painted her with a vulnerability that added to her beauty. She carried herself with a sophistication more familiar to a major coastal city than to the Midwestern casualness of Madison. Sydney looked to Clay.

  His eyes were locked on the woman at the doorway.

  “Do you know her?” Sydney asked.

  Steel called out and waved the woman over before Clay could respond. “Mom!”

  Chapter 4

  SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

  Miranda Greer let her eyes feast on the colored photos of pancake stacks, three-cheese omelets, and French toast. She hadn’t eaten since the morning before, and the mere sight of food on the diner’s greasy menu was enough to make her stomach call out for attention. She flipped the placard over to the Sides section.

  Geez, $1.95 for two slices of toast? It’s bread! How do they get off charging so much for bread? Big city prices, I reckon.

  The poster in the diner window promised free refills on coffee. But that meant she’d have to cough up another dollar for the first cup. Miranda pulled her wallet from the pocket of her faded jeans, looked around the restaurant to see who might be spying, then furtively counted what was left of her stash: $11.87. All she had left from that last festival in Big Rapids.

  Man, that was a cool one. Music everywhere. People smiling. Friendly. Laid-back and ready to talk about what really mattered. Sold every last one of those bracelets I made. Walked away with a cool fifty bucks.

  Some on-the-fly financial planning distracted her while the waitress came by with water and coffee. Miranda had enough string left over to rebuild her inventory, but she was getting low on clasps and beads. She’d seen another fair advertised as coming up on the campus quad in three days. If she set aside five bucks for what she’d need at the garage sales, she’d have about two bucks a day to eat on. She stared at the cup of coffee in front of her.

  There’s a buck gone already. And you know that’s gonna jump
up another dime once the government slaps their cut on.

  She pondered the worthiness of investing an additional two bucks in the toast.

  “You ready?” The waitress stood by her table, pen poised over her notepad. “Cook says I’m supposed to push the corned beef hash, so there you go.”

  Miranda looked up at her. Thin. Unsmiling. With orange-red hair adding another two inches to her already substantial height.

  “Just the coffee’s all.”

  The waitress looked directly at Miranda, not bothering to hide her disappointment. “Let me guess. You’re gonna plant yourself in my booth for a couple of hours. Keep this valuable real estate away from folks who might actually order something. Take the tips that might have gone into my pocket and let ’em slip into the other gals’ aprons. That your plan?”

  “The way I see it is I can order toast and not leave you a tip, or relax with my coffee and leave you a little something. As for me, I wouldn’t mind one bit having some toast and jam. But it’s your call.”

  The waitress stared at her hard for a heartbeat or two. Then she spun on her heel and left.

  Miranda poured three packets of sugar into her mug. She preferred her coffee black, but learned a long time ago that extra sugar helped quiet an empty tummy.

  A male voice came from the booth next to her. “That was quite the show.”

  Miranda looked up. She saw a man sitting alone. Chestnut hair with touches of gray on the sides. Nice enough smile. Wearing a blue polo shirt with jeans. Miranda was no good at guessing ages, but she figured this guy was old. Maybe even close to fifty.

  “You talking to me?” she asked.

  “I am. I believe a good performance deserves to be rewarded. You handled the waitress’s rudeness quite well. I applaud you.”