CHAPTER FIFTEEN ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER by B. A. Linhares

At last, my classes are starting to settle down even with the onslaught of new kids. The Principal keeps getting on the PA, asking everyone to help the new students fit in, but some are struggling and want to exchange blows. I keep to myself. It seems to be the same gang and a few football players.  During second lunch, they got into a shoving match outside the food court and the police were called.

I see Palmer between classes and turn my back. He does the same to me during first lunch. We seem to be avoiding each other like the plague. I look forward to seeing my new pal––namely Josh––in Mr. J’s class. Without him in my life right now, I think I’d feel detached. Like at the end of my junior year I felt like I was in a helium balloon floating above the other students.

Every chance I get, I strain my brain trying to remember as many details of the week in Austria as possible and write them down. The effort is leaving me mentally exhausted, but when the dismissal bell rings in Ms. Fergus class, I have three full pages of notes. I rush down the hall zigzagging around people. I enter the Science wing and James Beal runs over and says, “Josh O'Dell is out sick again.”

I am speechless.

“So, I guess you’re hating life now?”

“Go away.”
I push by him and go inside the crowed classroom. Mr. J is at the blackboard tell him Josh is absent, but we talked. Luckily, Mr. J is sympathetic and gives me extra time to organize our crime project. I drop my stuff on the table and sit in my assigned seat next o Josh’s empty stool. I can’t believe this. For the next hour, the weight of the world sits on my shoulders.
Mr. J comes over to my table. "Have you got anything I can look at?"
I reluctantly hand him my notebook, "I made a list...my thoughts...they're rough."
After spending a few minutes at his desk looking over my notes, Mr. J gets up and comes back over. He gives my notebook back and hands me a thick book titled Russian Espionage Spies. He doesn't say anything, just heads over to a table of students that seem to be having problems getting along. They're talking loudly.
Puzzled, I thumb through the book's stiff pages and wonder what he thinks about my investigation.

Mr. Jackson moves over to the next table and I read the first page. It’s about a spy named Alger Hiss. In 1995, the U.S. National Security Agency broke a half century of silence by releasing translations of Soviet cables decrypted back in the 1940s by the Venona Project. Venona was a top-secret U.S. effort to gather and decrypt messages sent in the 1940s by agents of what is now called the KGB and the GRU, the Soviet military intelligence agency. Did Mom work on this? The cables revealed the identities of numerous Americans who were spies for the Soviet Union, including those chronicled in NOVA's "Secrets, Lies, and Atomic Spies." I need to watch that on TV.

There are several photographs in the middle of the book. One of them is the guy that’s following me, only a lot younger, like, college age. I slam the book shut and feel like I’m going to pass out. I grip the book, take a few deep breaths and recoup my nerves. I find the picture again. Under it is the name Fredrik Koshechka, KGB’s master of disguise. I stare at the grainy black and white picture. It’s him alright. Fredrik Koshechka a member of the KGB–––blahblahblah Koshechka’s last job was with Semion Mogilevich, a wanted man–– I skim over the words, I don’t have time to read it all. After being targeted by an FBI task force, Mogilevich fled Budapest for Moscow, where Russian officials show no interest in handing him over. Okay, boring. This tells me nothing unless Mom and this guy were somehow connected… I search ahead for her name.
Zilch!

“Cookie,” Mr. J says in a low voice, and I jump.

I look up from the book.

“I mentioned that I know quite a bit about your mother’s work."

I nod and mutter, “Okay. So are you say that this book has information on my mom?”

"Not directly. Just read about some of the cases and use the data as a historical reference.”
He leaves me and I turn back a few pages and stare at Fredrik Koshechka. At least I have your name. On the other hand, the more I study the picture the more I question my first reaction. I begin to doubt that it’s actually the guy in the taxi and at Checkmart. I can't be sure. I scan about fifty more pages. Uh, if only Josh were here.
The dismissal bell rings and I slam the book shut. This is too difficult. On the way out, I smile at Mr. J but he doesn’t notice. He’s busy talking to a crowd of students hovering around his desk. I’d stick around but I need to stop by my locker and get to the pool and work on my lap time.

So much to do in so little time.

On my way to the pool, I run into Char MacDougal. She waits for Billy to come out of the boy’s gym and take her to the mall.

“I’m going there too. With my dad.” I stare at my shoes. “FYI, Sean and I broke up.”

She blows a raspberry and said, “I told you so.”

I just walk away thinking, gee thanks Char, could you suck any worse as a friend?

Stressing about pretty much everything, I hurry out to the pool and see that there are already a dozen girls doing laps. I complain to a couple of people. Coach T notices my foul mood and after swim practice, she takes me aside. I briefly explain that Sean and I broke up and my dilemma concerning my missing lab partner. I swipe at my eyes. “I’m just worried about Josh!”

“Sugar, I advised you to get on with your life. Concentrate on your swimming and studies. Not boys.”

I change into my street cloths mulling over Coach’s words. Now that’s the kind of advice I can use. Not! I like Josh and I need help with my studies. I can’t do this alone. I know, I’ll call Brook Bailey and see if she has time to tutor me on my Russian and calculus.

On my way to the front of the school, I power up my cell phone and check my messages. There’s one from Josh and none from Sean. Works for me. I listen to Josh’s short but sweet message. Hi Cookie, it’s Josh. Sorry, my mom thought it best I stay home one more day. Call me! My heart does little leaps as I meander down to the boulevard. I shade my eyes and spot Pop about five cars down. He’s sitting in my Mustang with the convertible top down. I smile and wave.

As I approach, he pops open the door and climbs out to let me drive. “Ta-dah!” he says cheerily. “Your chariot awaits.”

“Hi Pop,” I say, pecking him on the cheek. “Wow! So they fixed the AC and everything?”  

“Yes ma’am! Earl called me about one and said that they’d finished fixing everything early.”

“Sweet!”

My eyes dart around as I stow my backpack on the floor behind the driver’s seat. While bent over, I sniff. The interior smells awesome, like new leather and chemical cleaner. I straighten up and leaning over to run my hand over the new canvas top folded into a brand new cover. She looks and smells wonderful! I slide behind the steering wheel, twist around and tuck my purse on the floorboard, feeling the bone dry mats. Pop closes my door for me.

“I figured you’d like to take your Mustang shopping.” He goes around, slides into the passenger seat, and buckles up.

 “I can’t believe you don’t want to use the new AC.”

He waves his hands above the edge of the windshield. “The weather turned a bit cooler. I make a face at him with his big sunglasses and leather visor on, looking like a tourist.

“What did you do with my Pop?”

“What? I thought it’d be nice driving with top down and let my hair blow in the breeze.” He shakes his hair back, like he sees me doing.

“Okay Moondoggie.” I roll my eyes and dig my sunglass out of the glove box and put them on.
Pop just sits there smiling like a Cheshire cat.
I re-adjust the seat, check the rear view mirror and buckle my seat belt. He’s always complaining how hot summers are here compared to Ireland, which is never warmer than 70 degrees Fahrenheit. When we went to Enniskillen in Northern Ireland during August, it rained and thundered most of the time. We had one day that was sunny. The best part––weather wise––was the beautiful rainbows at dusk. I wanted to look for the proverbial ‘pot of gold’.

I fire up the Mustang, turn on my blinker and pull out into traffic when able. I actually feel more comfortable with Pop in the front seat than following me in his van. I don’t even try to turn the radio on because he’ll want to talk about school and stuff.

Pop sits back and rubs his hands together as if he’s really syked about something. Then he adjusts his girth and props an arm on the open window. "How was your day?"
"Semi-normal...allowing for an altercation or two. How was yours?"
"Oh, I can't complain. The doors are fixed. I'm thinking about remodeling."

I stop at the corner while a cross guard assist a group of people across the busy boulevard. I look over and he’s got a silly grin on his face and keeps wiggling in the seat as if he’s got ants in his pants. He takes a pen and small notepad out of his shirt pocket and writes on a fresh page. "Whew, what a day! I've got a lot to do."
“So is what’s got you so wound up?”

“Well, Lassie,” he says excitedly. “Earline Zavalla has already hired me to cater Junior’s wedding." He reaches in his shirt pocket again, and shows me a check for a grand. "That's just a deposit."

I stare at him and gasp. “Wow that was fast! It’s going to be different. I mean having you out of the house, actually working.”

Pop grins. “I know. Can you believe it? I just got my business cards and  I already have my first client!” He glances up and motions.

I look onward and see that the cross guards waving us on. I easy off the breaks and turn right on Wisconsin, heading toward the Georgetown Park Mall which is in the center of Georgetown’s shopping district. I grip the wheel and glue my eyes frontward occasionally checking my rear view mirror.On weekdays—or for that matter any day—the streets near the stylish Georgetown Park Mall are crowded with cars and bustling with people from all over the world. Everyone goes there to eat, shop, or just hang out so it’s always a zoo and the traffic is insane.

Pop continues, “Yeah, I was surprised when Earlene called the house right after I got back. We talked it over a bit and she asked if I minded her driving the Mustang over to the house when it was ready so could talk about the details with Sally present.”

“I take it Sally’s Junior’s fiancé?”  

“Yes. Sally followed Earlene over in her car. They showed up at two o’clock on the dot. Sally is a mere snippet of a girl, no bigger than a minute and a muscle. She didn’t look old enough to drive.”

A guy in a shiny black car cuts in front of me and slams on his breaks. This forces me to swerve and stop a few inches from his bumper. Pop’s hand goes to the dash. Trying not to drop an F-Bomb with Pop in the car, I wave my hand and mutter, “Freak!”

“Steady as she goes!” He says, "Give the guy in the black car leeway, he's apparently in a hurry."
"No problem."

The guy in the black car squeezes in and out of traffic. “Uh! I think he got his licence out of a gumball machine?” A city bus pulls in front of me and for a full two minuets, we’re dead in traffic with the sun beating down on us. Wishing I had a hat on, I hold my hair off my neck with one hand and grip the steering wheel with the other. Pop tugs at his shirt, and stretches his legs, resting his elbows on either side of the front seat. Now I bet he wishes we had the top up and my brand new air conditioner on full blast.

 “So,” I say when I calm down a bit and we’re moving again. “I didn’t think EJ and Sally had picked a date.”

“Aye, apparently Earlene put her foot down. They decided on Saturday September eleventh.”

“That’s only weeks away! Why so soon?”

“I got the feeling they were anxious to tie the knot afore Sally’s belly becomes too obvious.”

Pop and I glance at each other and raise our eyebrows.

I smile. I totally forgot about that little issue. I went with Pop to the Zavalla’s 30^th Anniversary party where they renewed their vows. I looked like half of Sicily flew in for the big celebration. He gives me a quick run down on what the bride and groom want regarding food, the cake sounds like a monstrosity. I nod and murmur an occasional “uh-huh”. My main focus is keeping enough space between me and the car in front of me. I’d die if anything happened to my Mustang.

“So is this going to be a traditional Sicilian wedding?” I ask, curious about how much work he’s taking on. Huh, maybe I can help someway. He could hire me.

“Of course. But Sally doesn’t think the reception needs to be a major event. She comes from a small Christian family. At any rate, they’re planning to invite only about a hundred guests to the reception.”

“That means you can count on about half of them showing up.” Pop throws a lot of dinner parties and cookouts for the neighborhood and friends. In this day and age, everybody has weekend plans and it’s difficult to round people up at one event. They drop by for an hour then go to the next event.

“Nevertheless you still have to prepare enough to feed hundred.”

Pop props his hand on the dashboard and drums his fingers. “Did I mention that Sally hails from Australia?”

“Australia?” I immediately think of Brook Bailey and Zak Shaw and their plans.

“Yes, Sydney. When Earline called, she told me in confidence that Sally and EJ met in a bar last year while on Spring Break in the Bahamas. Sally tracked EJ down at the family business, about eight weeks later, to announce that she was with his child. EJ was thrilled. And apparently, the Zavallas love her too. Earline said she can’t wait to be a grandmother.”

“Wow, that’s great that everybody is alright with everything.” It wasn’t my first impression.

We’re only a block away from where we’re going and the crappy driver that cut me off, finally turns into an alleyway. He parks and gets out. It takes all my willpower not to flip him off.

Pop keeps talking, “After the baby is born, Sally plans to start back at George Washington University and finish her second year. She came to the states on a Gilman foreign scholarship.”

Gilman Scholars are chosen from those most disadvantaged, but academically motivated to study abroad. Mom mentioned them to me last year in an email because she had two girls in Vienna, Austria that she was sponsoring. Not that I’m needy, we were trying to decide what I wanted to do about College. The hitch is that you’re forced to work for the federal government following graduation since it’s a scholarship for service program. I thought learning all those languages sounded way too difficult and boring. Besides having to promise to work for the government. It felt too controlling. I’m a free spirit. I’m not going to promise my future to anyone, especially the government. Look where it got Mom…

He says, “Sally’s studying to be a linguist like your mum.”

“Small world,” I murmur, turning my head for a second to smile at him. I come to a stop at the light at the intersection of Wisconsin and M Street. “I hope she stays safe.”

He nods. “Aye, Sally was very outspoken about her high aspirations in her chosen field. Being from the land down under, she said she had to follow Eva’s investigation via the Internet. She said that she couldn’t believe she was physically in the home of a world famous linguist. Sally was full of questions about Eva that I couldn’t answer if I’d wanted to. I was thankful that Earlene kept pulling her back to the task at hand.”

Talk about your sticky situations. “Um, so you have your first official client.”

“Looks like it,” he says, with a look of satisfaction. He points up ahead at his bank on the corner next to the Mall. “Stop in at the bank, I need to deposit this check and get some walk around cash.” He takes out his checkbook and tears out a deposit slip. “At your party, I told Maryanne Williams about my business plans and she gave me her card. She owns Hire-a-Staff franchise. I put a call in and she’s going to help me put together a crew of servers.” He clicks his pen and fills out the necessary banking paperwork. Meanwhile, I pull forward a few feet, and before turning into the bank’s tiny parking lot, have to wait for stream of Japanese people to exit a city bus.

I park and Pop takes off his seatbelt. “I figure that’s the best way to go at this point. Besides, I trust Maryanne to send me only the best people.” That said he get’s out walks to the bank’s portico and goes inside.

While Pop is gone, I recall how he met the Williams, my Godparents. When he was only twenty-six years old. They came in to have dinner in The Lady Loraine where he was working as a chef’s assistance. At the time, Mr. and Mrs. Williams both worked at the Georgetown Ritz Carlton. Ethan Williams was the President and C.E.O. and his wife Maryanne, was the Catering and Convention Manager. Mr. Williams was so impressed with his cooking and quirky personality that he offered him a position on the spot as Head Chef at the Ritz in Georgetown. He offered to move him and a lot more money than his current situation. Pop took the job with the Ritz and one year later, became a US citizen. Shortly after that, he met Mom at The Ritz during a birthday party for one of her Pentagon colleagues. They got married the next year, and approximately one year later, Moi was born.

Pop’s certificates and awards hang in the den next to Mom’s awards. There’s also a framed letter from the head master that says Christopher Alexander Blakely graduated from the Belle Isle School of Cookery in Ireland ahead of his class. Everybody he cooks for always brags about his skills and ability to charm the patrons. During his last year, he received job offers from impressive establishments throughout the United Kingdom and several British dignitaries. After much thought, he accepted a position as Head Chef of The Lady Loraine Dining Room, located in the Worthington Crystal House, in Kilkenny, Ireland. The place is beautiful. It’s where the Blakely clan holds their family reunion when we go to Ireland. I was fourteen when we went there and going through a really awkward stage. Anyway, I noticed a solid gold mixing bowl sitting in a glass case. The engraving read, Christopher Alexander Blakely “Chef C.A.B.” Ireland’s Most Renowned Chef in Celtic Cuisine. I remember saying something stupid like, “Nobody will ever use that bowl to mix up a batch of cookies.” People tell me I’m lucky to have a father who loves to cook. I think so too.

I watch him bound out the door. He gets in the front seat and I fire up the engine. “Where should I park?”

“Go ahead and park in the mall lot,” he says, gesturing. “I don’t mind paying for the shade.”

I flip on the signal and turn left, stopping to pull the ticket out of the machine. I stow it in the ashtray and circle the multi-level parking lot. I circle a couple of times and we shriek in unison when we both spot the open space. After I kill the engine, we roll up our windows and put up the convertible top with ease. I lock up the Mustang, shoulder my purse, and stow my backpack in the trunk, Pop tosses his visor in too. He rakes a comb through his red curly locks as we cross the to a side door.

He stores his comb in his pocket and yanks open the heavy glass door. We enter the 300,000 square foot mall. It’s alive with shoppers. Kiosk line the center of every walkway between the stores, stocked with any and everything you don’t need.

We take an escalator up to the second level where the music stores are located. On the way up, I see several groups of kids I recognize from school, but no one I actually hang out with. No doubt, Char and Billy are already in here somewhere. Those two practically live at the mall. I scan the vast interior. Who knows, Sean might even be here too. Uh, I hope not. I don’t run into him. That wouldn’t be good. I roll my eyes inwardly. I can just imagine how much Palmer would try to suck up to my dad. As we approach the top of escalator, I get a whiff of the Food Court smells.

“Pop, I’m starving! I could go for some pizza. You in?”

“Okay. Let’s grab an early dinner,” he says. “I was busy today, I missed my afternoon snack.” On occasion, Pop likes eating mall food. It gives him a break from the kitchen and he says some of it is pretty tasty.

Much like the crowed parking lot, we have to circle the Food Court twice before finding a fairly short line at the Roly-Poly sandwich stand. Neither of us has ever actually eaten a ‘Poly’. We watch one of the workers tear off a sheet of Roly-Poly wrap then smear thick green avocado spread on flat bread and add layers of sliced cheese and deli meat. She rolls everything up in a tight log, picks up a serrated knife and saws through the waxed paper. She arranges the four sections in a plastic basket lined with more paper and a kosher pickle wedge and a bag of chips. Smiling, she hands it over the glass counter to the customer and yells, “Next in line please!”

Pop tips his head my way and says in a low voice, “You game?”

“I guess so. Just order me whatever you get, and a small Pepsi.” I’m certainly not in the mood to stand in a long line for a slice of cardboard pizza. I admit, as food goes, I’m beyond spoiled.

Pop says, “Small Pepsi, jumbo cappuccino, two turkey and provolone.” He pays and the drink guy sets our lidded cups on the counter.

I pick them up and tell him, “I’ll look for an empty table.” I scan the crowed sitting area as I select my path across the aisle to move out of the way of the people in line for food.

I freeze and zone in on a man with a black hat and coat sitting with his back to me not ten feet away. A spike of fear pricks my heart. He get up from the chair and leaves with his cup of coffee. He turns around and I see that he has a big white beard and gold wire eyeglasses. I blow out my next breath. He looks like Santa Claus. He walks toward the restrooms. I notice his stature and gait are just like the man’s at Checkmart. The book said he’s a master of disguise.

It’s him!

I feel a sense of urgency and set the drinks down on a ledge. I quickly fish my cell phone out of my purse. I search the food court and see him strolling down the aisle, away from the food court. I zoom in and snap off pictures of him. I keep clicking off more shots until he turns right and stops between some wide columns, blocking my view. I hastily check the pictures. They’re not great, but it’s definitely Fredrik Koshechka. I strain my eyes and see the top of his hat way down at the end of the row of kiosks. His height and white beards make him stand out in the crowd of Asian people I saw earlier.

Got you creepola!

I grab our drinks and search around for an empty table, there’s one right behind me. Before somebody else nabs it, I race over, pull out a chair and sit down. I glance around the wide corridors to see if I spot him again, but the old guy is nowhere to be seen. To keep from jumping out of my skin, I sip some of my drink from a straw whilst keeping an eye out for Pop. I thumb through the pictures intermittently raising my eyes to scan the area for the creepy old guy. Most of them are blurry because my hand was shaking so badly. But the first one clearly shows his eyes. I notice a small speck, like a mole or birthmark just above his left bushy black eyebrow. When I get home, I can download the pictures into my computer and enlarge the area. I take a few deep breaths and force my feet to stop jumping around under the table. When I call Josh O'Dell later, I plan to tell him all about Fredrik Koshechka and see what he thinks and ask him what I should do about him.

At the next table, a young couple and two little tots gobbling fries off a paper napkin. They giggle every time the tots stick their pudgy fingers in a big blob of ketchup and licking it off. I’m like, gross.

I look away and see Pop looking for me. I raise my arm. I watch him carry our tray of food through the sea of red plastic tables and shoppers. Then I look at my phone in my hand and run the scenario of how it would play out if I told him about the old man stalking me. He’d call security and have the place turned upside down. I wouldn’t be pretty. I poke cell in my purse just as he sets the tray on the table, pushing the stalker issue to the back of my mind.

Pop snickers at the tots and settles in the chair across from me. He nods at the little family of four and says, “Those two look like a handful.”

“Yes, they are,” the father says, ruffling the hair of the tot nearest him.

I cross my eyes at the tots and spread a paper napkin in my lap.

I turn my attention to the food. We each pick up a basket and tear open our bag of chips. I watch Pop poke a napkin in his shirt collar. “Thanks Pop,” I say, hoping to hide the fact that I’m freaking out. “This is fun.”

He smiles at me. “You’re welcome love. I think so too.”

“You first,” I say indicating that he try the food.

He picks up a rolled section of the sandwich, peals off the paper and takes a big bite. He swallows the bite and makes a face.

“What, does it taste gross?”

He wipes his mouth with another paper napkin and examines the contents. “No, it isn’t bad. I wouldn’t give it restaurant-review-raves... The pottage is a little bland.”

“Pottage?”

“The avocado spread.” He points at the green goo in between the layers. “It could use a touch of lime juice.”

I peal back the paper on my Roly Poly and take a small bite. I roll it around in my mouth. “It’s okay for mall food.”

He finishes eating the roly-poly portion, wipes his hands, and then pops the lid off his coffee and takes a sip. I can smell the rich aroma from across the table. Reaching over, I pick up his cup and taste it. “That’s delish,” I tell him and take another sip. “I’m beginning to acquire a taste for java.” I set his cup down. “Let’s talk about me finding a part-time job.”

Pop just smiles and devours a second roly-poly section.

“Seriously, I think a job is a good thing. I want to feel useful.”

He wipes his hands. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.” Then he smiles sheepishly at me over his jumbo cappuccino. One of the tots tosses his stuffed bear in the air and it lands next to Pop’s chair. He bends over picks up the bear and hands it to the tot’s father.

“Thanks,” the daddy says to Pop. We nibble on our chips and watch them gather up their tykes and leave. The tots yell, “Bye-bye!”

Pop twists around, waves and turns back around. “Nice family.” He takes a sip of cappuccino. “You could babysit.”

I shake my head in the negative and swallow the chewed chip. “I’m not big on children…too much responsibility.” I’m aware that parents have hidden video cameras in their homes to catch people in the act of whatever. I think I’d feel guilty even if I didn’t do anything wrong.

“Well then I have another suggestion, if you’re interested.” He puts his cup down, picks up another sandwich and takes a bite.

I bug my eyes at him. “So, what’s your suggestion?”

He gestures at my barely touch food. “Finish eating, then I’ll tell you.”

Whilst we sit silently eating, sipping, and people-watching, I wonder what he has up his sleeve. He’s always planning surprises. Our Labor Day vaca to Florida next week was sort of a surprise. He planned the whole thing, made reservations and all, and then told me we were going. My surprise birthday party and the Mustang are latest and biggest to date and would be hard to top. Hum, he looks and sounds somewhat serious though I detect an upbeat tone in his voice and the old sparkle is back in his big green eyes. In fact, he seems almost ecstatic. He looks almost as happy as he did last Christmas when we left for Austria to be with Mom. I’m just thankful he hasn’t mentioned Sean or the bump on the back of my head, which seems fine now. No headache or anything. I resist the urge to touch it. I take a sip of Pepsi and scan the area for the man in the coat. He’s no where to be seen. Still, I feel like I’m being watched constantly and it’s freaking me out. I have to talk about something to take my mind off him.

I lean forward in my chair and say, “Pop, I know it costs a lot to fix the Mustang. I’m going––”

He holds up his hand. “Stop worrying about the repair bill. It was just a mock-up for your automotive records for the Mustang...”

I narrow my eyes at him. “A mock-up. What does that even mean?”

“I told Earl Sr. to write all of the repairs on the receipt so that you have a record of what was done, when, and how much it cost to maintain a car. Of course replacing the convertible top and repairing the air wouldn’t be considered regular maintenance.”

I frown. “So, what you’re saying is we—I mean you—didn’t have to dish out any money for my car today? So the stuff they fixed was free?”

Pop shakes his head. “Not exactly. The detail wasn’t included in the deal. You see,” Pop says, and peels off the paper on his last sandwich wedge.

I study his face and nod my head without commenting. I wonder how much the Mustang must’ve cost him, had to be worth several thousand dollars. Should I ask? 

 “When Earl Jr. sold me the Mustang he promised to deliver her in tip-top shape and in time for your surprise birthday bash. We ran out of time. Earl’s was booked solid and I was busy with my new venture. We couldn’t get our schedules to jive.”

“Ah. Sorry that you had to pay for another detail. I will pay you back.”

He shrugs and takes another bite of his sandwich. Some goo lands on his chin.

“Um, Pop…” I point and he swipes at his chin with a napkin. I nibble on my chips mulling over the next year and all of the decisions I have to make. I recall what Coach T likes to say, “You can make good decision and bad ones. The bad ones bite, but you learn from them.”

Pop polishes off his sandwich, wipes his hands and then picks up a flyer somebody left on a ledge by our table. He leisurely read while sipping his gigantic coffee.

“All done,” I announce, making a ball out of the wrapping paper and drop it into the red plastic basket. I place my basket on the tray and wipe my hands on the paper napkin in my lap then drop it in the basket. “So,” I say, rolling my hand, unable to wait a second longer. “Tell me your suggestion regarding me finding a job before I explode,”

“Okay, keep your knickers on!” He folds the flyer, places it back on the ledge, and then holds up a finger. I gasp. He loves torturing me. He gets up and takes our tray to nearest trash bin, dumps the paper and places the plastic stuff on the counter. He returns to his chair and places his elbows on the table, locking his fingers together and rests his chin on his hands.

I twist in my seat. “Geez, tell me already!”

“Well, frankly, with you all grown up now and dating and probably going off to college… I need to do something to fill my days. So, I started thinking about going back to work, but I didn’t want all the headaches that come with being a head chef. I did some research and came up with several ideas.”

“For the past couple of months, I’ve been preoccupied…always on the computer, making phone calls, trying out new recipes, cooking—even more than usual.”

“I suppose.” I nod and search my memory. I didn’t notice. I was too busy with my pity party.

“All of that had to do with starting the catering business.” He reaches across the table and grabs both of my hands. “But what you don’t know is that I plan to run it out of the house so I need to make some changes. I’ve talked to a remodeling company about completely gutting the back of the house.”

“Wow. When do you plan to do all this?”

He lets go of my hands and shrugs. “As soon as possible.”

Hearing this makes me remember how much he sacrificed to raise me. Then I think, oh my Gosh, this is way huge, it’s been roughly sixteen years since he quit his job as head chef at the Ritz Carlton, my entire life minus the first months when mom was on maternity leave. She left us to go back to work only coming home four times a year on two week sabbaticals. It tickles me no end to see him so eager to get back into cooking professionally.

“Here is where you come in, love.” He leans across the table, squeezes my hands again, and then lets them go.

I touch my chest. “Me?”

He nods. “Yes, you, I need an assistant, and I’d like to hire you for the job.” Pop smiles at me wide-eyed and waits for my reaction, which comes instantly.

“Wow, heck yeah! But are you sure you want me to be your assistant?”

“Yes, on the way over you said you wanted a job. Well, I need a capable, hard working—pretty—assistant to help me coordinate the catering jobs.”

I picture myself wearing a black and white uniform with a little white frilly apron and cap. Hum...cute, like the French maid outfit I wore a few Halloweens back. “I accept.” I extend my hand across the table and we shake. “I’d love to help, you’ll need to train me...um wait a minute...do I have to wear a hair net?”

“Yes, it’s a Health Board requirement.”

Over Pop’s shoulder I see a lady approaching us with a doublewide stroller balancing a loaded down tray on the top. She looks longing for an empty table. Her twins start screaming at the top of their lungs.

I push back my chair and stand up. “Um, Pop, I think we should let that lady have our table.”

“Good idea,” he says, scooting out of his chair. “It’s time to get going.”

The second we vacate, the frantic looking mommy makes a mad dash for our table, practically knocking over an elderly couple with a sack of Cinnabons and steaming coffee. Pop and I make our way out of the food court, away from the uproar, and happily toward the shops. We pause at the railing and let our eyes swim over the massive multi-level mall buzzing with people, most tourists.

Pop looks over at me and says, “When we get home, we can iron out the finer points of the catering business. You ready to shop till you drop?”