Terri Osburn: Up to the Challenge

As if noticing the truck for the first time, Lucas stared at the dash, blinking. “This is your truck?”

What the …?

“No. I’m stealing it. Did you hit your head on your way over there?”

“What year is this?”

That did it. First thing was to check his bag for drugs. “Have you had this memory problem long?”

Lucas shook his head. “Not this year. The year of the truck.”

“Oh. 1985. Restored her myself. If you ever decide to get in, I’ll show you how well she runs.”

He finally climbed into the cab, then skimmed a hand over the dash. “You did this?”

“I didn’t build the dash,” she said as she pulled out. “But I put her together.” She swung the truck onto the ramp for the next floor. “Don’t act so surprised.”

“I knew you could fix boats. I didn’t know you knew cars too.”

“Anything with an engine. Dad had me fixing lawn mowers by age eight. Helped him build a go-cart when I was eleven.”

Lucas continued to take in every detail of the cab. “I’m impressed.”

A smile split her face. When she turned it on her passenger, he looked poleaxed. “What?” she asked, glancing in the rearview for something stuck in her teeth.

“Nothing,” he said, rubbing the center of his chest.

“You’re not having a heart attack too, are you?” That’s all she needed. Though Sid worked out, no way could she carry Lucas back into the hospital. He had her by a full foot and though thin, his frame looked solid.

“A little heartburn. I’m fine.” He squinted out the window. “My car’s the second to last up here on the right.”

Sid came to a stop behind the silver BMW. Too flashy for her tastes, but the vehicle fit Lucas’s style. Expensive. Sleek. A statement on wheels. He’d always been a gem among pebbles, which was what had drawn Sid to him in the first place. Lucas was that brilliant, out-of-reach star she could admire from afar but never catch.

Sid’s mother had shared the same quality. Removed. Special. Untouchable. Qualities Sid found mesmerizing, mostly because she was the complete opposite, best described as nothing special .

Within a minute Lucas had popped the trunk and thrown his duffel bag in the bed of the truck. If an expensive-looking leather bag could be called a duffel. They drove through the garage in silence, but not the comfortable kind, which made Sid antsy. Four blocks down Main she’d had enough.

“Took ’em all by surprise back there, didn’t you?”

“Took who by surprise?”

“Your family,” she said, jerking her head back as if his family were sitting in the truck bed. “No one expected you to step up and stick around.”

“I may not come home much, but I’m still part of this family,” he snapped. “Mom and Dad need me, so I’m here.”

She’d found a nerve. “Sorry. I guess expecting you to turn tail and leave them flailing is insulting. You deserve more credit than that.”

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I know how it must look, but I have my reasons for avoiding Anchor.”

“I know why you avoid it now,” Sid said, posing the question she’d been pondering for years. “But I don’t understand why you didn’t come around much before.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose I should be ready for the look .” He glanced over and Sid lifted a brow in question. “The one that says, ‘Poor Lucas. How does he hold his head up like that?’”

Not exactly an answer to her question, but he’d opened the door for another. Sid couldn’t resist the temptation; time to find out if there might be an ulterior motive to this visit.

“I’d be more ready for the gossipers assuming you’re here to win her back.” Sid held her breath, not sure if he’d answer. If she wanted to hear the answer.

“People can relax on that front. There’s no winning Beth away from Joe. Joe always wins.” Staring into the darkness to his right, Lucas added, “He always has.”

Silence loomed again. Sid felt something shift, but not under the hood. The idea Lucas felt in any way inferior to Joe had never crossed her mind, but it did explain his quick escape and long absence from the island. That he’d shared something so personal with her, in such close quarters, gave the moment an intimate feel. Which scared Sid enough to let the subject drop.

Nothing like spilling your guts to a prickly boat mechanic with the bedside manner of a spitting cobra. Lucas didn’t even know where the words had come from, but he appreciated his chauffeur’s apparent willingness not to pursue the topic. Maybe Sid had a heart after all.

Time to change the subject.

“I’m about to run a restaurant full of people I don’t know. Tell me about the staff.”

“Sure,” she said, keeping her eyes on the deserted road. “Where do you want to start?”

“Who does the cooking?”

“Day cook is Flynn O’Mara. He and Vinnie switch off now and then, but for the most part, Flynn handles the days.”

“An Irishman and an Italian?”

“Hungarian.”

“Excuse me?”

Sid turned right onto Highway 45, leaving the lights of Morehead City behind. “Vinnie is short for Edvin. Edvin Varga. First-generation American according to gossip. Doesn’t say much so who knows for sure.”

“A Hungarian named Vinnie?”

“Yep. Two sous-chefs. Chip and Nova. They switch off too, but I think Chip handles days most of the time.”

“Okay, that’s the kitchen. Up front?”

“Three waitresses are full time. Annie Littleton, Daisy Johannes, and Georgette Singer.” Sid gunned the truck to shoot around a slow-moving Hyundai that appeared out of nowhere. “Annie is a native, but young. You probably wouldn’t remember her. Daisy and Georgette are transplants, but have been on the island long enough.”

Lucas knew what “long enough” meant. The natives respected the tourists because they kept the island afloat, so to speak. But anyone who showed up and stayed was subject to an unofficial probationary period, during which the islanders sized them up, asked lots of questions, and decided whether to accept them or not.

“Good to know everyone has approval.” Lucas grabbed the dash as Sid swung around another car. He tried to check the speedometer, but couldn’t get a straight view to the other side of the steering column. “I won’t be running anything if you kill me before we reach the ferry. That pedal stuck?”

Sid coughed something that sounded like “chickenshit.”

Ignoring his comment, she went back to the staff. “You’ve got two bussers. Mitch and Lot.”

“Lot? Who names their kid Lot?” Not that he’d thought about naming kids of his own, but what the hell?

“His name is Brandon Sandoval. Kids called him Sand in elementary school and that rolled into Sandlot. At some point the Sand part dropped and Lot stuck.”

Sid turned up the radio. An announcer was reporting on a hurricane working its way across the Atlantic.

“We’ve been lucky for two years,” Sid said, “but this one is making me nervous.”

“You think it’s headed our way?” Lucas hadn’t been in a hurricane since high school. “How much time do we have?”

“A week to ten days maybe. Might curve off, but I’m keeping my eye on the reports.” The station went back to music and Sid lowered the volume again.

“So four in the kitchen, two bussers, and three waitresses. Not much staff for this time of year.”

Sid shrugged. “Tom pulls in part-timers when necessary. Beth runs a section most weekend evenings, and I grab a tray now and then. Joe clears when it’s really busy.” She shot him one of those smiles that felt like a punch in the sternum. “We can handle it.”