South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [34]
Paul let her in the front door. “I just got here myself. Give me a minute.”
Madeline nodded, but he was already gone. Her eyes wandered to the chalkboard. The Nietzsche quote had been erased. She studied the setup behind the counter while she waited for him to reappear. There was a juicer, a Bunn, an ice machine, a milk shake maker, an ice cream freezer—a little bit of everything. She was peering into the ice cream case when she heard music come on in the kitchen—something Latin and salsa-y—and then Paul came back out. He went straight to the chalkboard and wrote, That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. F. Nietzsche.
“Having a rough day?” Madeline asked, meaning to be funny. Paul gave her an inscrutable look and didn’t answer. She bit her lip.
He wiped the chalk dust from his hands. “Okay, then. Here we go.”
When he’d shown her the basics—the equipment, the kitchen, the register—and turned the sign to “Open,” he offered her a cup of coffee and sat down in the nearest booth.
“So, you always open at noon?” Madeline asked, sliding in across from him.
“Yeah. I work down at the prison in Crosscut Until eleven, so I can’t really get here any earlier.”
“You have this place and you work at the prison?” Gladys and Arbutus hadn’t told her this, only that he owned the pizzeria.
“I’m off there on weekends, so it works out.”
“But that’s, what? Ninety hours a week, at least, between the two? And commuting? You must be exhausted.”
Just for a moment she saw in his face that it was true. But he shrugged and said, “It’s not bad. I don’t open Up here on Mondays, so that’s a day off. Half a day. Gives me a chance to do other things. Pay bills, do laundry.”
“That’s crazy.”
“It’s what I signed Up for.”
Madeline studied him over the rim of her coffee cup, thinking that this attitude was at least in part a front. “You’ll kill yourself, nobody can keep that Up.”
Paul gazed at her, his brows slightly lifted.
“Sorry. None of my business.”
He nodded.
“What do you do at the prison?”
“Cook.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s a paycheck.” He seemed to not like how this had sounded and added, “It’s all right. Somebody has to do it.”
“Have you been there a long time?”
“Six years.”
“How long have you had this place? You know, I always think of pizza guys being Italian, but Garceau sounds French. I guess here it doesn’t matter, right? I mean, not so many Italians to go around, and who doesn’t like pizza?”
“Garceau is French. Acadian, actually. I’ve been here nine years. And pizza was just something I fell into. The guy who was in here before me tried it but gave Up. I thought I’d have better luck.”
“Oh,” Madeline said, nodding and smiling. “And have you?”
“Sure.” Paul took a long swallow of coffee.
Madeline stayed quiet then, which was awkward, but everything she’d said so far had been worse.
After a moment Paul said, “You’ll need a T-shirt, they’re in the case beside the register. Take whatever color you want, it doesn’t matter. What I’m thinking is, you can get here a little before me, get things set Up, open the door. Then when I get here we can start serving.” He glanced at the clock. “Speaking of which, it’s time I got going in the kitchen. So, what’d I leave out?”
Madeline shook her head. “I don’t know yet. Probably a lot, I’ll tell you later.”
“Sounds fair. So I’ll just throw you in and we’ll either sink or swim. That okay?”
Madeline was about to say that was fine when the doorbells jingled and Randi Hopkins came in. Despite the cool day she was wearing a short, vividly green dress with satiny spaghetti straps. Madeline felt her lips compress in a prissy disapproval that made her roll her eyes at herself—since when did she censure clothing? The dress showed off Randi’s shoulders, which were perfect somehow, neither too bony nor too fat.
“Hey, Paul,” Randi said in her husky voice. “You open?”
“Just.” Paul stood Up, smiling and heading toward her. “How’s everything? How’s Greyson?”
Randi laughed. Shook her braids so the beads and bells clacked and jingled. “He’s good. He’s a doll.