Fire

There was no fire the night Gloria Albright’s house burned down. At least, no fire in the usual sense: no candles flickering too close to billowing drapery, no sizzling pan of oil left unattended on the stove, no faulty wiring sparking and smoldering behind the cover of sheetrock, no cigarette dangling from a careless hand. There was no hint at all that Gloria’s life was about to change so dramatically.

On that fateful Tuesday night ―a Tuesday night like any other― heavy clouds rolled over Mt. Equinox from the west. They rumbled and crashed into each other with enormous booms of thunder, settling over the small town of Manchester. Residents grabbed umbrellas and raced for cover. But before a single drop of rain had fallen a bolt of lightening shot from the sky. Careening downward with what appeared to be single-minded purpose it pierced Gloria’s roof. Shingles blasted in all directions. Sparks ricocheted higher than the thirty-year-old cedar that graced Gloria’s front yard.

Neighbors who lived nearby claimed the house was engulfed in flame within seconds. By the time the fire department arrived the roof and floor joists had already collapsed. When Gloria returned from Price Chopper (with her beloved Bassett hound, Chester, tucked safely in the back of her Subaru wagon), there was nothing left of her home of thirty-odd years but a pile of smoldering embers. Gloria stepped out of her car and stared. Then, when it was too late to do any good at all, the sky opened up. Rain began to pour down in sheets, drenching her.

Gloria ―who believed nothing in life happened haphazardly― was convinced the fire was a sign. The universe had spoken. It was time for her to realize her lifelong dream. She cashed the insurance check. She went shopping for real estate. She bought tables and chairs and hired cooks. She painted walls and tested recipes. Three months later she placed a help-wanted ad in the local paper.

She had everything she needed except waitresses.

The universe supplied four.

Tess

As a rule, it’s hard to make desperation look attractive. Unless one finds oneself in the kind of situation depicted in your standard Hollywood action movie, where a desperate act (like flinging yourself out of a soaring plane or down a flaming elevator shaft) might just save your life ―as well as the life of your totally hot costar― it’s generally best avoided.

Unfortunately, desperation is patient. It can smell fear and uncertainty. It loves vulnerability. It can worm its way into a girl’s psyche bit by bit until it’s driven out the calm, cool, collected reputation a girl has spent her entire high school career building. In fact, if a girl didn’t totally watch her ass, she could end up making the kind of rash, stupid, panicky decisions that people driven by desperation tend to make.

Tess Larsson had no intention of making rash, stupid, panicky decisions. But neither could she pretend any longer that desperation wasn’t dogging her. Lately it seemed to sneak up and hit her out of the blue, with almost no warning whatsoever. The trigger today had been the center ad in the September issue of Vogue magazine, a two-page spread for Tommy Hilfiger jeans.

A young couple stood in the center a very messy, very girly bedroom. They were both naked from the waist up, bodies locked in a sweaty embrace, jeans artfully unbuttoned and loose about their hips. They wore twin expressions of alarm, as though the viewer had just stumbled upon their secret tryst. Ignoring the voyeuristic aspects of the ad, or the larger question of why the image of a half-naked young girl getting caught in her bedroom with an equally half-naked guy would compel anyone to rush out and buy a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans, Tess turned her attention to the models.

The male model ―aka Mr. Perfect― had olive skin, chestnut brown hair with artfully placed gold streaks that screamed insanely expensive Manhattan salon, and a bod so tight and toned it looked like he’d stolen it from a statue of a Roman god. He’d been around awhile. She’d seen him lathered up in ads for Gillette razors, pared down to tighty-whiteys for Jockey briefs, strutting out of corporate boardrooms in Armani suits, and once, just recently, the loving husband in a TV commercial who surprised his wife with a gift-wrapped box of odor-free kitty litter. (Was that really all she’d hoped to get for her birthday?)

Either way, he was unbelievably gorgeous, but he was old news. It was the girl who caught Tess’s attention and set off her current pangs of impending doom.

Don't Laugh

She was definitely a new face, Tess thought, eyeing her critically. Her body was thin and long-limbed, her hair cascaded in thick, dark waves down her back, her breasts (from what she could tell, given the way they were squished against Mr. Perfect’s chest), were toned and pert. So no flaws there. But her face was far from ideal. Her eyes were a little too large, her mouth too wide, her nose too prominent, her cheekbones too pronounced. Still, there was no denying that the girl, whoever she was, perfectly captured the current rage in female models.

“You’re way prettier than her.”

Tess spared Julie Churchill, her best friend, a glance, then returned her attention to the magazine. “Maybe,” she allowed. “but she’s got that look, you know?”

“It doesn’t matter. It won’t last. She’s too masculine or something. You ready?”

“How old do you think she is?”

Julie peered at the ad. “Um… I don’t know. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen.”

“She looks younger than that to me. Don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Look. So what if she is fourteen? What could that possibly—”

“So you do think she’s fourteen.”

“Oh, my God.”

Most top models entered the industry at the age of ten or twelve. Some as early as two. Certainly no later than fourteen. At seventeen, Tess was already years beyond her prime. Biting back another tirade over her parents’ unfairness for insisting she graduate high school before attempting to launch a modeling career, she gave the Vogue a frustrated shake. “I mean, just look at her. She’s in middle school and she’s already in Vogue, for God’s sake—”

Julie snatched the magazine from her lap and tossed it aside. “I know, I get it. She’s a baby and you’re ancient. Your parents just don’t understand how the industry works. Blah, blah, blah. There’s nothing you can do about it now, right? So quit worrying, stand up, and let’s get moving. Let’s at least try, all right?”

Tess ground her teeth in irritation, biting back a stinging reply. There was the real world, and then there was Julie’s world, where things just magically happened because you crossed your fingers, checked your horoscope, and hoped really hard. And even though she was one-hundred-percent convinced Julie’s plan wasn’t going to work, she had to at least try. She stood and stationed herself against the wall between the window and the bed. “How’s this?”

“Good.” Julie clicked the shutter and waited. “Well? Do something!”

A nervous bubble of laughter escaped Tess’s lips. “This is stupid. What am I supposed to do?”

“How would I know? You’re the expert. Do whatever models do. Toss your hair around or something. Purse your lips so you look annoyed and glamorous at the same time. Oh, wait— that reminds me...” She punched a button on her CD player. A rough cut, garage band version of Do You Think I’m Sexy? filled the room.

“Oh, my God. This is so embarrassing.”

Julie lowered her camera with an annoyed sigh. “Okay. Let’s just pretend for a minute that every guy you’ve ever met doesn’t stop and stare at you when you walk into a room. That waiters and waitresses, grocery store clerks, even total strangers in the street, don’t stumble over their words when they try to talk to you. That you haven’t known since sixth grade that you were destined ditch your unbelievably fabulous best friend —moi— and become a totally rich, stuck up supermodel who only hangs out with rock stars and Hollywood celebrities.” She smiled. “Now. Will you please quit freaking out and get your gorgeous butt moving?”

“Fine. Just don’t laugh.”

The Wade Mackie Agency

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and slowly let it out. She might look like a complete idiot, but at least she was doing something to get a career going. Besides, even if this didn’t work ―it wouldn’t― at least it was good practice for when she got in front of a real photographer. She swayed left, then right, loosening up enough to shift from straight-on smiles to head-tilted-serious-looks to over-the-shoulder glam as Julie clicked away, attempting to capture it all.

After about twenty minutes, she slumped down on the bed. “That’s enough. I quit. Oh, wait— one more.” She pulled Julie down beside her, grabbed the camera and held it in arm’s length in front of them, tilting her head until their temples touched. “Cheese!” She pressed the button and the shutter clicked. “There. At least we’ll have one that’s worth keeping.”

“They’re all going to be perfect,” Julie predicted brightly. “You’ll see.” She crossed to her computer, plugged in the memory card and pulled up the images, running through them one at a time.

Amateur. There was no other word for it. The lighting was way off: too bright on her right side and shadowed on her left. Plus, her makeup wasn’t as well blended as they’d thought. Her blush was all streaky and her mascara looked like spiky black globs. Then there was the background. The window with the blue-and-yellow daisy curtains Julie had had since first grade, her corny poster of the couple sucking face in front of the Eiffel Tower, the shelf crammed with hockey trophies. Somehow all that junk set a racy mood in the Hilfiger ad; in these shots it just looked sloppy. Exactly as Tess had predicted.

“Some of these aren’t too bad,” Julie finally managed. “I can photoshop the background a bit and—”

“Hmmm.”

“You hate them.”

“No! Jules, I didn’t say that. They’re good. They’re really good. It’s just… if I want a New York agency to sign me, I’ve got to send in something more professional.”

“Fine. We’ll do it over tomorrow. These were just practice shots, anyway.”

“We could, but… let me show you something.” Now it was her turn. With a surge of excitement, Tess slid the keyboard toward her and punched up a photographer’s website. Wade Mackie Images. “This guy’s in Albany, only an hour away.” The screen filled with glamorous images of male and female models. Slick and professional. No comparison to the cheesy, awkward shots Julie had just taken. “I already checked him out. He works with all the best agencies in the city, and he only charges three hundred an hour—”

“Three hundred—”

“Plus you have to pay for each photograph separately. His website says to
expect a fee of about fifteen hundred for an initial sitting. But that covers everything,” she rushed on, “hair, makeup, wardrobe, everything.”

“Fifteen hundred? Are you serious? There’s no way your parents are going to pay for that.”

“Obviously. But if I pay for it, they’ll see how serious I am about the whole thing. I mean, they’re not going to stop me if I pay for everything myself, right?”

“Well, maybe. But how are you—”

“Simple. We’ll both get jobs.”

Local Girls Preferred

Julie’s expression shifted, tightened. Tess knew without asking she was remembering last summer and the first real job they’d ever had outside of babysitting: selling handbags at the Kate Spade outlet in town. They’d been fired within a month for showing up late, goofing off in the stockroom, and generally acting like a couple of immature pain-in-the-asses. Although they’d laughed it off at the time, spending the rest of the summer taking turns firing each other any time one of them screwed something up, Tess knew Julie had been as embarrassed about it as she was.

“I don’t know…” Julie began.

“Jules, listen. I’m not talking about some stupid outlet job this time. I found something that’ll be great. We can make money and still have fun.” Tess retrieved the local paper from her backpack, opened it to the want ads and read aloud: “Grand Opening: Mo’s Diner. Waitresses wanted for breakfast and lunch shifts. Good pay and great tips. Apply in person. Local girls preferred.” She gave a light laugh. “How perfect is that? We’re girls, and you can’t get more local than us.”

“But waitress? I’ve never—”

“It doesn’t say you need experience. How hard can it be? You take an order, bring it to the table, walk away. Plus, look: breakfast and lunch. That means we’ll still be able to hang out with Spence and Colby at night.”

Another mistake-- mentioning Colby. Julie shook her head. “You hate getting up early. And summer just started. I thought we’d chill out and have fun, work on our tans, whatever. At least for a little while.”

Tess swallowed hard. Julie’s resistance, mild as it was, sent a fresh wave of panic washing over her. It wasn’t as bad as the time when she was twelve and she’d jumped off her dad’s boat at Lake St. Catherine, only to have the current catch her and pin her beneath the hull, holding her there until her brother dove under and pulled her free. But the sensation of being trapped, the soul-sucking urgency of needing to act now, before it was too late, was almost the same.

“Jules,” she said, “I can’t wait around anymore. It’s never gonna happen if I don’t do something. I have to start working now or I’m going to miss my chance forever. You know how important this is to me.”

“But why do you need me―”

“Because if you’re involved, my parents won’t ask any questions. They’ll think it’s a great idea. But if it’s just me, they’ll assume this is just another stupid plan.”

Julie

True, Julie thought. Tess’s parents were like that. Mostly because Tess was the queen of impulsive, forge ahead and ignore the consequences schemes. But trying to stop Tess once she had her mind set on something was like trying to take a sip of water from a fire hose. Still, Julie hesitated, looking for middle ground, for a way out that fell somewhere between of-course-I’ll help-you and no-way-do-I-want-to-be-stuck-in-a-greasy-diner-all-summer.

But she hesitated too long. Choosing to interpret her silence as assent, Tess clapped her hands in excitement, beaming. “It’ll be sooo much fun working together! You’ll see. It’s going to totally work out. I already called and spoke to the owner. She sounds really nice. She’s accepting applications tomorrow morning at 10:00. My mom said I can borrow her car, so I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty. She thinks my applying for this job means I’ve lost interest in ‘that modeling thing’, as she calls it, which just shows how clueless she is…”

Julie nodded absently, only half-listening as Tess gathered up the things she’d brought for their ‘photo shoot’. She shoved her cell, clothes, and makeup into her backpack, hesitating only when her hand skimmed past Julie’s camera.

“Do you think you can take that back now and ask your parents to get you that iPod you really wanted for your birthday?”

Right, Julie thought. Now that she’d pried the camera out of its bullet-proof plastic packaging and used it, along with the software, and her mom had no doubt tossed away the receipt, she was sure the store would be delighted to take it back. She shook her head. “No. That’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s actually pretty cool.”

Tess wrapped her in a tight hug. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. You’re such
a good friend.” She practically skipped out of the room, calling behind her, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning— don’t be late! Isn’t this so exciting?!”

That's What Best Friends Are For

Julie didn’t answer; she didn’t need to. The sound of the screen door slamming downstairs told her that Tess had already left. Her gaze drifted back to the Wade Mackie website, wondering what Tess saw there that she didn’t. Sure, the photos were glossy and professional, and the lighting was balanced, but there was a slick sameness to the shots, a Styrofoam sexiness that reminded her of vacant mannequins and over-processed hair. As she touched the mouse to click off the computer the memory card came back to life, bringing up the last image the camera had taken: she and Tess smiling into the lens.

Julie paused, studying the photo. As Tess had predicted, it was a keeper, the only one of the bunch. In fact, it was almost identical to her current screensaver, a photo her mother had taken of the two of them in third grade. One of a succession of many, actually. Though the setting and their ages varied, the pose was nearly always the same: Tess’s arm thrown over Julie’s shoulder, leaning together so their temples touched, beaming into the camera. The sort of cheesy best friends picture they both laughed at but Julie secretly cherished.

She clicked through the collection of photographs quickly, like viewing an age-progression simulation. Or a tortoise and hare competition. In grade school Julie, with her thick auburn hair and hazel eyes, had always been considered ‘the pretty one.’ Tess, the product of a Japanese mother and Swedish father, had looks that their classmates had termed ‘interesting.’ Wide, ice gray eyes and straight black hair, kittenish features that were too large for her face, gawky limbs that seemed to go on forever.

But everything changed after middle school. As Tess grew up she developed
the kind of outrageous natural beauty generally only allotted to supermodels, Disney princesses, and Cameron Diaz. In contrast Julie’s looks —her face, her body, her hair, everything— could be summed up in one detestable four-letter word: Cute.

Irritated, Julie shut off the computer screen. In truth, she rarely noticed Tess’s looks anymore and usually remained mildly amused by other people’s reactions to them. But now that Tess was so intensely focused on breaking into modeling ―all right, obsessed with― it seemed like that was all they talked about. Apparently it wasn’t enough that she was drop dead gorgeous. Now she wouldn’t be happy unless she was paid for it.

The newspaper Tess had brought sat beside the computer, neatly folded to the want ad section. A waitressing job. Julie briefly considered refusing to even apply, but immediately brushed the disloyal thought away. What if the situation were reversed? What if she’d been given Tess’s looks and that was the only thing in the world she really wanted? Tess would help her, wouldn’t she? Of course she would.

That’s what best friends were for.

Karly

It is rumored that Native Americans were the first people to reject Benton, Vermont. Indian tribes established settlements all over southern Vermont, upstate New York, and western Massachusetts, but there was no sign of settlement of any kind on the land that comprises modern day Benton. Local anthropologists studying the matter declared that the reasons for this varied— the rivers flowed uphill; the winds blew from the wrong direction; the grasses smelled sour. Whatever the specifics, it all came down to one thing: unlucky ground.

Not only did that information make perfect sense to Karly Hughes, she found tremendous comfort in the way it deflected personal responsibility. Her life was more than the sum of bad genes, bad luck, and bad choices. The ground beneath her feet was actually cursed.

She rolled over in bed and studied the ceiling. The old Victorian in which she and her mother lived might have once have claimed a quirky sort of charm, but as the neighborhood steadily deteriorated it had been left to fall into a state of dilapidated neglect. Their current landlord had bought the place in the late eighties and, with the sole intent of maximizing rent, divided the house into thirds using the architectural equivalent of an egg slicer. The resulting triplex was made up of tiny kitchens, dim hallways, narrow bedrooms, and drafty ceilings.

On the plus side, the paper thin walls eliminated any need Karly might have had for an alarm clock. The couple next door could always be relied upon to greet the day noisily. Sometimes it was the sound of their metal bed frame squeaking and knocking rhythmically against her wall that woke her. On those mornings, she’d dive under her pillow in embarrassment to block out the mental images that accompanied the sounds— she had to wave hello to these people for Godsakes.

Usually, however, what woke her were the sounds that carried over today: the sounds of fighting. Not physical fighting, fortunately. No need to get the cops involved. Just the ordinary arguments that resulted from waking late and rushing off to miserable jobs, having too little money, too many bills, and too little time. The sound of being squeezed so tight that fights weren’t really fights at all, but operated more like steam letting air out of a pressure valve before it exploded.

Rituals

Karly got out of bed and padded into the bathroom for a quick shower. She dried her long brown hair and pulled it back into a neat ponytail, then applied her makeup. Just a touch of eye shadow, a little mascara, a soft smear of lipstick.

That accomplished, she began her daily ritual of squishing herself into a B cup bra that was nearly stretched past its breaking point. Pity the poor guy who tried to unhook it― like handling a loaded gun. (Not that she had any guys hovering around. But still.) Wrestling with her bra every morning was admittedly stupid, but Karly was too stubborn to give in and buy a C cup. She harbored a serious suspicion that there was a direct link between cup size and grades. Her sister was a D cup and look where that got her. There was also the troubling matter of semantics. It seemed the larger her breasts grew, the less they were referred to as breasts at all, but boobs, a word she detested, or —God Forbid— tits.

She slipped into a plain white blouse and sandwiched her hips into a black denim skirt. The fabric pulled against her thighs, inching up rather than staying modestly above her knees but there was nothing she could do about it. When interviewing, dress as though you’ve already got the job, she’d read somewhere. White blouses and black skirts were what waitresses wore. She gave the mirror a quick glance, lied to herself that she looked fine, and left her bedroom for the kitchen.

She found her mother in her familiar morning stance: standing with her back to the room, staring out the kitchen window as she smoked her first cigarette of the day. Her mother had rituals of her own, and Karly knew better than to interrupt. Her mother worked two jobs, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays her schedule was especially rough. The receptionist’s desk at the assisted living facility from nine to four, followed by the swing-shift at Walmart, cashiering from four-thirty to midnight. This was her only quiet time of the day.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice and sipped it silently as she waited to be acknowledged. Finally her mother exhaled a thick stream of smoke and turned. “You going by Linda and Ronnie’s?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I picked up a couple of things for them. You can drop them off.”

Karly glanced at the kitchen table. An enormous package of diapers and a coupon for Ronnie’s favorite beer. Perfect. “If they don’t have money for diapers, what’s he doing buying beer?”

“Don’t you start on him, Karly.”

“I’m not—"

“Yes, you are. I don’t hear you complaining when he keeps that pickup of yours running for free.”

True enough. He was a good mechanic. She’d give him that. Karly swallowed her retort about the more obvious failings of her sister’s husband. It was a pointless topic to pursue, anyway. No matter what she said about Ronnie, her mother’s response was always the same: At least he married her, didn’t he? As though knocking Linda up and not immediately leaving town somehow qualified him for sainthood.

She steered the conversation into what she hoped would be a more productive area. “I’m applying for that job this morning. Remember the one I told you about? At that new diner in Manchester?”

“Seems a waste to drive thirty miles. There are waitress jobs right here in Benton.”

“Yeah, but they won’t tip the way the tourists in Manchester do.”

“I guess that’s so.”

Her gaze moved over Karly’s skirt and blouse. She took a last drag, exhaled deeply, and then ran the cigarette butt under the faucet before tossing it in the trash. “You’ve got the right build for tips, that’s for sure. Never did care much for waitressing myself, but I guess it’s as good a way as any to earn money.”

“I should make enough to pay for those drafting classes I’m taking down at the CCV. Then with whatever’s left I can help out around here or maybe put some away for college.”

“College is expensive.”

There was a long pause and Karly thought her mother was going to say more, but in the end she simply shrugged. “Well, good luck, baby. If it don’t work out, something else will. I got a bus to catch.” She picked up her purse and left.

Not exactly an inspiring motivational speech, but Karly hadn’t expected one. She grabbed the diaper package, her purse and keys, and headed out the door, pausing only long enough to crumple Ronnie’s beer coupon and bury it in the kitchen trash.

Blue Eyes

Karly strode briskly to the corner, moving past New England Victorians nearly identical to her own. Years ago, when she and her mother and sister had first moved in, she’d thought the Victorian was magical. Like something out of a storybook. Now she saw the neighborhood for what it really was: peeling paint, tiny yards framed by chain link fences, sagging porches covered with frayed Astroturf where junked sofas were
parked like abandoned cars.

She reached the corner of Monument and Main. The Green Leaf Café. In the winter the place was so packed it was hard to move, but now that it was summer and the weather was nice tables and chairs spilled out onto the sidewalk. A group of Benton College students sat huddled together, laughing and talking and sipping seven dollar Chai teas.

Karly surveyed the group and felt her heart skip a beat. He was there. Blue Eyes. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt featuring the logo of a local brew, his feet tucked into a pair of Columbia sandals. Standard Benton College attire. He looked cool and relaxed, his arm draped over the back of an empty seat, maybe just a hint of boredom in the way he drummed his fingers against the chair back. His posture told her everything she needed to know. He came from money. It was impossible to sit like that if your bills were late. It took money —a lot of it— to be bored at eight-thirty in the morning.

She fought a sudden impulse to turn around and find a different route to Linda’s. Ridiculous. She’d never even spoken to the guy. Just seen him around town a few times. Yet she couldn’t stop her gaze from moving back to where he sat, as though pulled there by some invisible force. Before she could drag her gaze away he shifted slightly and his eyes locked on hers. A half smile curved his lips and he gave a small nod of acknowledgement. A jolt of surprise shot through Karly, leaving her momentarily immobile, unable to do anything but return his stare.

Finally, she let out a shaky breath and turned away. You don’t even know him, she scolded herself. Just keep walking. Play it cool. Yeah, right. Like that was even possible when you were packed into a skirt one size too small and carrying a super-sized box of Luvs, extra-absorbent.

Peyton

At the very minimum, Peyton St. Germaine expected a private interview. When she’d asked her dad for money for gas ―gas, for God’s sakes, not clothes, not shoes, not a designer bag or a weekend in New York with her best friends, but just a few bucks for gasoline― and he’d handed her the help-wanted ads (the ad for Mo’s Diner circled in red), she assumed he had at least called the owner to arrange a one-on-one. He owed her that much, didn’t he? Couldn’t he at least try to make the whole ordeal just a little more bearable? Apparently not. Instead she found herself dumped in a room with three other job applicants like she was a complete nobody. Like she’d just wandered in off the street.

She shifted in her seat, barely containing her simmering resentment. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Not to her, for God’s sake. In her old life, she wouldn’t even eat here, let alone work here. Exercising what she considered remarkable restraint, she forced her anger aside for the moment and trained her thoughts on what Gloria Reed, the owner of Mo’s, was saying.

“Everything we serve comes from farms within a fifty mile radius,” Gloria said, explaining the diner’s ‘locally grown’ philosophy. She was tall and fit, attractive in that Vermonty sort of way: no-make-up, hand-dyed silk pants, Peruvian sandals. Dark eyes and dark, curly hair, cropped pixie-short and just beginning to show signs of gray. Peyton guessed her to be somewhere in her early fifties. “We buy local, we sell local, we hire local. Saving the planet, one hamburger at a time.”

Fabulous: an aging hippie with a mission.

Mo's Diner

Peyton lowered her gaze to the menu Gloria had handed out earlier. Lots of new-age comfort food. Prices high enough to milk the tourists, but not so high they’d drive the locals away. Gloria explained each entree in excruciating detail: who ran the farm where the ingredients were purchased, how the butter was made, when the lettuces were grown, where the livestock was butchered… Peyton focused for as long as she could, then let her attention wander to the restaurant itself.

She had expected to find typical diner kitsch: Formica countertops, quarter-gobbling jukeboxes, booths with cheap vinyl seats that stuck to your thighs and made embarrassing squishy noises when you slid inside. Instead she had been pleasantly surprised to discover a grand Victorian (painted a creamy shade of pink that should have been awful but was somehow perfect) with a white picket fence framing an outdoor patio. Clusters of blooming plants, mismatched chairs, and round tables topped with pretty pink linens were invitingly arranged between the house and the street.

Inside was a spacious foyer with a wooden podium which would serve as a hostess station. Four dining rooms fed off the foyer, each with its own marble fireplace, assorted antiques, outrageously healthy plants in handcrafted pottery, and lots of local landscape photography displayed in sleek metal frames. Witty wisdom (the sort usually plastered on the rear bumpers of Volvo station wagons) was scattered all around the restaurant: Dare to Believe! Truth is the daughter of time. Never miss a good opportunity to shut up. Peyton’s personal favorite hung over a doorway that led to the kitchen: If God didn’t want us to eat animals, he wouldn’t have made them out of meat.

All in all, it was an eclectic, homey mix— sort of like a hip grandmother lived there. The kind of place you wanted to sink into and stay for a long time.

Haunted

As Gloria continued to march item-by-item down the menu, Peyton shifted her attention to the other job applicants. A girl named Karly sat nearest to her. She had an awesome body― the kind of body her father’s third wife had paid Manhattan’s finest plastic surgeon big bucks for. But despite the abundant curves, Miss Hot Bod was in desperate need of help in the packaging department. She was a perfect candidate for one of those late-night makeover shows: tight, tacky clothes, hair the color of mouse fur ―imagine what a few a few strategically placed copper highlights could do― and horrible makeup. Whoever told her bubblegum pink lipstick and violet eye shadow worked on her was just plain cruel.

Karly shifted slightly to tug down her skirt and her gaze caught Peyton’s. She turned away without a hint of a smile. Peyton gave a mental shrug. Fine by her. She wasn’t there to make friends either.

Her focus moved to the other two applicants. The taller girl, named Tess, was genuinely stunning: flawless skin, luminous gray eyes, and silky dark hair. She had a touch of something foreign about her, like an exotic Snow White. In contrast, her friend Julie could have easily won the title of America’s Sweetheart. She was a cheerleader type with thick auburn hair pulled up in a bouncy ponytail and a smile that lit up the room.

“Now,” Gloria said, wrapping up her dissertation on how Mo’s grilled cheese sandwiches were produced —local Cabot cheddar, nine-grain bread from Wyndam Bakery in Pawlet, served with a side of purple cabbage slaw from Tellion Farms and homemade potato crisps sprinkled with organic sea salt— “does anyone have any questions?”

The girl named Julie actually raised her hand, like she was sitting in a classroom at school. “I’ve been trying to figure out who Mo is. If it’s not you, and it’s not either of the cooks, is it him?” She pointed to the sad-eyed Bassett hound who shuffled along behind Gloria, trailing her every step.

Gloria laughed. “Him? No. That’s Chester.” She hesitated for a moment, as though thinking it over, then gave a light shrug. “Mo. Well, why not? I guess now’s as good a time as any to meet her. C’mon, follow me.”

She led them up a wide staircase to the second floor hallway, from which branched four bedrooms and a bath. Two of the rooms had been converted into storage space, one into an office, and the fourth into what looked like a bedroom. It was attractive but sparse: double bed, nightstand, dresser and mirror. The only other item of note was a small wooden chest, which appeared to have once been painted red, but had faded over time to a dusty pink. On the top, in worn gold leaf, were the initials M O S.
“That’s Mo.”

Following the direction of Gloria’s finger, they turned toward the nightstand. An old-fashioned photograph of a dark-haired girl in a high-necked gown stared back at them. “Margaret Olivia Sanderling,” Gloria supplied. “I found that hope chest of hers in the basement and looked her up in the town records. She lived here back in the 1880’s.” She gave a light shrug. “I thought it was only fitting that I name the restaurant after her since she’s been here all this time.”

“Been here?” Peyton echoed. “You mean she’s buried somewhere on the property? Isn’t that illegal?”

“Oh, I don’t mean physically here. I mean spiritually here.” Gloria smiled and ran her fingers over her bare arms as though warding off goosebumps. “She’s with us right now. I recognized her presence the moment I entered this room. You see, she died in this very house, probably in this very room, shortly after her seventeenth birthday.”

“Wait a minute,” Karly said, looking alarmed. “You mean, this house is haunted? And you bought it anyway― for a restaurant?”

Gloria frowned. “Haunted is such a negative, judgmental term. If someone doesn’t move on after they die, the question you have to ask is why. In Mo’s case, her hope chest gave me the answer. Unfulfilled dreams. Her life ended before she could really live it.”

Peyton looked around the room, seeing the confusion and unease she felt
reflected on the faces of the other girls.

“Wait a minute…” Tess said. “Is this for real?”

“Real?” Gloria blinked in surprise. “Of course it is. Why would I joke about something like this? Here, look, she kept a journal,” She crossed the room, opened the lid of the hope chest and retrieved a small, yellowed notebook. “Feel free to look at it if you’d like. I don’t think she’d mind.” She lapsed into a thoughtful silence, her gaze focused on the old-fashioned photograph. “Times may have changed, but young women haven’t. You may be surprised by what you discover.”

And that was it. Gloria dumped the ghost bomb on them as casually as she’d described the house specialty ―chicken fried steak on a bed of field greens with gorgonzola, roasted pecans, and dried cranberries, served with a raspberry vinaigrette― tucked away the journal, turned and left the room.

Now, waiting tables Peyton could handle. Barely. But bonding with a dead girl wasn’t gonna happen. Not for minimum wage plus tips. She gave the photograph a glance, then looked around to see if anybody else was buying it. Karly looked genuinely spooked. Julie and Tess were holding back giggles and mouthing ‘crazy’ to one another.

Peyton wasn’t so sure. She could see the NY Times weekend getaway column now: Charming Vermont Victorian (painted such an audacious pink you truly can’t miss it), specializes in locally grown comfort food served by a staff of bright young waitresses. Of particular note is the ghost of a wistful seventeen-year-old turn-of-the-century beauty, who is rumored to drift through the dining rooms.

When you got right down to it, it was actually brilliant. All the elements were there for Gloria Reed to make a fortune. She shook her head and offered a silent piece of advice. Enjoy it while it lasted.

Capri Calling

Her cell phone rang as she was crossing the parking lot. Peyton’s heart gave a tiny leap. Porter, finally. She’d reached an all-time humiliating low in leaving him three unreturned messages last week. She frantically rifled through her bag, grabbed her phone, then took a deep, steadying breath and lowered her voice to one of studied nonchalance.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. Are you in the middle of your interview?”

Her ten-year-old sister Capri. Peyton felt the last bit of hope rush out of her like the air leaving a balloon.

Capri had had the bad luck to have been born when the hot trend was to name your child after the place he or she was conceived. Hence the multitude of little Dakotas, Romes, Madrids, and even Yankee (as in Yankee Stadium —apparently the handicapped stall was surprisingly commodious— although who really needed to know that?) running around the choicest private schools in Manhattan. Fortunately for their offspring, most of these parents had divorced so many times over it was impossible to imagine them in the same room together, let alone intimate enough to conceive a child.

“Did you get the job?” Capri’s voice cut into her thoughts.

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Cool! Do my friends and I get free food?”

“No.”

“Hmm... Maybe just an ice cream or something, right?”

“What do you want?”

“I need a ride to the pool at the rec.”

“Let Dad take you.”

“He’s got a meeting with his lawyer. He said you said—”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Silence. Peyton could picture Capri on the other end, her brows knit together in a frown. She was six years younger, but an uncanny miniature of Peyton herself: petite, golden blond hair, big blue eyes. This, despite the fact they had different mothers. Breeding, her grandmother had called it. Good bone structure. Right. More like an insatiable, serial appetite on her father’s part for marrying petite, blue-eyed blondes with hefty trust funds.

“Are you still p-i-s-t at Dad?”

Peyton sighed. “Pissed at Dad about what?”

“For losing all his money. Putting the apartment in the city up for sale. For having to get a job.”

“Capri—”

“Well? Are you?”

Peyton slid behind the wheel of her car but didn’t start it. She watched Karly fire up an old pickup with more rust on it than paint and pull out of the drive, heading south.

“Pey?”

“I’m not mad. It’s complicated. And besides, he didn’t lose all his money. You know what he said. This is just a temporary ‘cash crunch.’ Everything will be fine once—”

“I could care less if we’re poor. I’m not like you.”

Peyton gave an inelegant snort. “Yeah, right. Wait till you can’t do your back-to- school shopping at Abercrombie or get front row passes for your little tweener concerts. You think that was all free?”

Another silence. Peyton immediately regretted the dig. It was a knee-jerk reaction, but she knew better than to take her frustration out on Capri. None of this was her fault. “Capri, listen—”

“Did Porter call today?”

Peyton’s breath caught. “What? Porter? No, why? Did he leave a message for me at home? Why didn’t you tell me—”

“I didn’t think so.” In the background, the muffled sound of paper and pen. “That’s eight days in a row, you know.”

“What?”

“I’ve been keeping track, in case you weren’t. You left him at least two messages, right? I told you he was a jerk. He’s obviously dumping you. You have to break up with him first.”

“Are you kidding me? That is so completely none of your business—”

“Plus, his name isn’t good for you. Porter. What a stupid name. Put it with yours and say it three times fast. Porter-Peyton. Porter-Peyton. Porter-Peyton. Sounds like Porta-Potty, doesn’t it? Why would you want to date a toilet?”

Twisted Cinderella

Before Peyton could reply, she heard a shuffling noise in the background and the sound of the phone being dropped, followed by doors opening and slamming shut, the squeal of high-pitched, excited voices.

“Allyson and Tori just got here,” Capri announced when she came back on. “I told them you wouldn’t mind taking all of us to the pool, since you were taking me anyway. Oh, and I promised Tori’s mom you’d stay and make sure we don’t drown. So I’ll see you when you get home. Hurry up, all right? Everybody’s waiting. Bye.” She hung up.

Peyton snapped her phone shut and took another deep, steadying breath. She turned the key and started the engine. Her car (a VW bug in an elegant cream, with matching honey-toned, saddle leather interior) had been a birthday present last fall, back when money was flush. Or so she’d believed, she thought bitterly. Apparently the leaves on the St. Germaine money tree had been withering and dying long before her dad let on there was a problem.

Before she could pull out two guys screeched into the lot in an old BMW convertible, did a donut —wheels spinning and dust flying, for God’s sake— then wrenched the car to a stop before Julie and Tess. After some playful shouting back and forth the driver jumped out, threw Tess over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and tossed her into the front seat. Laughing, Julie jumped into the back next to his buddy and they peeled out.

What a cliché. If her friends were here, no doubt they’d find it as low-class and amusing as she did. But her friends weren’t here. And alone, Peyton couldn’t drum up the contempt she so badly wanted to feel. Instead she was swamped by a massive surge of self-pity.

Why do you want to work here?

The only question on the application she’d left blank. What answer could she possibly give? While my friends are sunning themselves on beaches in the Hamptons, dancing in clubs at night and playing tennis during the day, I really want to hang out in a crappy Vermont town ―in a haunted house, no less― serving organic cheeseburgers to fat tourists and their bratty kids.

She’d done nothing wrong. Nothing. Yet here she was, the star of some twisted fairy tale. Cinderella. Only in her case, the story was being played out in reverse. The injustice of it all rolled over her like a wave, threatening to drown her.

At least she wouldn’t have to worry about suffering the humiliation of running into somebody she knew. She was living in a Stratton Mountain ski lodge in June, for God’s sake. She’d been dumped by everyone. Her friends, Porter, everyone. The only calls she got these days were from her ten-year-old sister.

On the back of the menu Gloria had given each of them to ‘study’ was one of her little quotes: Do What You Love and You’ll Never Work a Day in Your Life. Peyton considered that. What did she love? Easy. She loved being rich. Not exactly a lot of jobs looking for that qualification.