The Game Changer, стр. 4
My childhood home in Chicago was filled with my mom and her twin sister, Ruta. Mom and Aunt Ruta were one and the same and neither were fluffy in any sense, nor could either make gravy—or much more than toast—to save their lives. But they were tough and scrappy and never let me get away with feeling sorry for myself over anything. They were all pick yourself up by your bootstraps and rub dirt on it and there are no white knights or horses here, sister, so don’t bother with that damsel in distress bit. I’d repeated that last one to myself a thousand times while adjusting to Parkwood.
Boy, did I miss those women. I made a mental note to give them a call later.
“Yep, I’m back,” I said, making my way to the counter while flashing what I liked to think of as my reporter smile—all teeth, confidence, and sincere, trust-me eyes. The smile I used to have to rely on to get an experienced police officer to give up the goods on an investigation I was now using to get a chef to give up the goods on a recipe. “I just can’t get enough of that gravy, Esther.”
“Oh, you’re too kind. Did you know I had to whip up an extra batch this afternoon? Yesterday, I ran clean out before the dinner hour even got here.” She leaned in and whispered. “I’m telling you, it’s the giblets that have people begging for more.”
I slid onto a stool at the counter and Esther immediately poured me an iced tea. “I heard old Wickham’s giving somebody the business out on Tutor,” she said.
I took a sip of the tea. It was so sweet, it made my uvula recoil. Esther served two flavors of iced tea—sweet and syrup-sweet—and I was still trying to get used to it. “I got caught up in it. Looked like he was fit to be tied.”
She clucked her tongue. “That Wickham’s been looking for trouble since the day he was born, and one of these days, he’s going to actually find it. You mark my words about that. You having the turkey sandwich again, honey?”
My stomach growled. Turned out Mary Jean was right—I was hungry. “Sounds great. Has he never been in real trouble before?” With Wickham’s temperament, I found this hard to believe.
Esther scribbled something illegible on a pad of paper, ripped it off, and pressed it through a window. A meaty hand pawed through and grabbed it. I’d never seen the chef attached to that hand. I’d often wondered who it might belong to, until my neighbor Daisy told me it was good that I didn’t know; some mysteries were best left unsolved.
“Small-time trouble, sure,” she said. “But his daddy got himself in real hot water once. Caught some teenagers throwing rocks at a dog. Well, Jeffrey Birkland loved animals and didn’t take to that very kindly. Beat the living tar right out of those teenagers. All three of them, single-handedly. Put ’em in the hospital. Two of ’em were never the same again. He showed no remorse. He went to prison, spouting ‘eye for an eye’ the whole way there. Most people think that’s why Wickham is the way he is—learned it from his daddy. Maybe they’re right. I’m no brain shrinker, so I couldn’t tell you. Personally, I suspect anger is just in the Birkland blood.”
I thought about how red Wickham’s face was as he shouted and waved around the front of his car in that intersection. If it was possible for anger to run in blood, Birkland blood seemed as likely to hold it as any.
“‘Hup!” a deep voice called from the window where Esther had passed the order earlier, and a plate appeared. Esther hurried to grab it.
“Voilà!” she said, setting it in front of me while refilling my tea with the other hand. “Open-face turkey sandwich, extra gravy for my extra special guest this afternoon.”
I took a deep breath, inhaling the intoxicating scent, then picked up my fork. “Speaking of the gravy,” I said, digging in. “Mmm…you really outdid yourself.”
“You like it?” Esther’s whole face lit up when she smiled, and in that smile it was easy to see why everyone wanted to be at the Hibiscus, even if they had the same dishes in their recipe boxes at home.
“I love it.” I swallowed. “And speaking of—”
The door opened, and a child’s shriek interrupted me, followed by sheer, utter chaos. My next-door neighbor and best friend, Daisy Mueller, and her entourage of children, were making the entrance they made everywhere they went.
“Willow! I swear, if you don’t stop doing that, I will take you home and let the dog babysit you, and I mean it this time. Brant, do not walk on the booth tables. I said get off of there! And where did your shoes go? Lucas, what on earth are you doing? Come help me with your sister! Where is Jake? Jake? Jake! Darn it, Jake, did you put muffin up your nose again? How many ER doctors have to tell you that could go to your brain? You ever see someone with Blueberry Brain? It is ugly, son. Really ugly. Just—here, blow it out. Brant! Get down from there! Hey, Esther, sorry to be late. These guys got into some chocolate and have been a sugar and caffeine tornado ripping right through my house all morning.”
To me, Daisy’s house seemed to be a tornado all the time. Then again, I was childless, so what did I know about kids and caffeine?
She handed Esther a basket of Mueller Muffins—her fledgling baked goods side business. So far, Esther was her only client, but she was a good client. Daisy’s muffins fairly flew off the shelves at the Hibiscus.
“Oh, hey, Hollis. I didn’t