"Harley, you're the best! Thank you so much!" said the only other server on duty, grabbing his baseball cap from below the counter.
"Are you kidding me, Bud? It's not every day your wife gives birth! Well – actually, for you, it kinda is. What is this, number five?" Harley said with a grin.
"Six, actually," Bud said proudly.
"Get outa here already! And when you come back, we need to talk about finding you and Louise some outside interests, a hobby or something, or you're going to end up with six more."
Bud flushed a little at that and ruffled Harley's hair affectionately. "I owe ya one, kid." And he dashed out to find a cab.
Harley smiled after him for a second, then took a deep breath and got to work. Luckily, the lunchtime rush was slowing down, otherwise there's no way she'd be able to cover the whole restaurant solo.
Okay, Harley, time to get into Beast Mode, she thought, silently psyching herself up.
She refilled the water at tables 3 and 12, grabbed an appetizer for 6 and entrees for 7 from the kitchen in one trip, exchanged silly faces with a cute little boy at table 4, and took orders from 2 and 10. Then she blew some blonde tendrils out of her face and grabbed a menu for the woman who'd just sat down at table 5.
Harley checked her phone – 1:45. That meant less than 3 hours left on her shift, and she should be able to make it to her dad's house in plenty of time for supper.
Dad's house. That still sounded weird, even though the divorce was final over a year ago. It was hard not to say "Momanddad's house" like it was all one word. But Mom had stayed down in Florida, and Dad had just moved back to New York alone.
Well, not alone exactly. With his new wife. Whom Harley had never met, knew nothing about, didn't know she even existed until her dad had called her last week out of the blue:
"Hey, Pumpkin!"
"Hey, Pop. What's up? I have practice in a few."
"My little girl, always so busy." Harley rolled her eyes. She was a sophomore in college – nobody's little girl. But her dad only called her pet names when he'd messed up or when he wanted something.
"What'd you do this time, Pop?"
"What? Nothing! Well, something. But nothing bad."
"Seriously, I have to get going . . ."
"Okay, I'll make this quick. I have two great pieces of news. One, I'm moving back to New York!" her dad said excitedly.
"Back to Canarsie? Why?" said Harley, unable to keep her tone neutral.
Her dad chuckled. "No, sweetie – I'm moving to Ithaca! I'll be right near you!"
"What?"
If he noticed that her response was all shock and no happiness, he ignored it. "Yeah, I bought a house just outside the city. And I'll be moving into it next weekend . . . with my new wife!"
Harley was silent.
"That's surprise number 2," her dad said. Then, after a pause, "Harley? Are you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here," she said quietly.
They made plans for her to come over for dinner the following Sunday, once her dad – and The New Wife – had moved in to the new house.
Harley had ended the call and immediately burst into tears.
She shook her head on her way to table 5, remembering the whole conversation and idly wondering why she'd cried. It wasn't like she thought her parents had the love of a lifetime, or that she was super upset about the divorce. But she pushed those thoughts away for further analysis at a later time, flipping through her pad of paper to find an empty spot for the next person's order.
"Hi there, welcome to Caprese, my name's Hhh–"
Her own name stuck in her throat as she looked up from the pad she was flipping through and locked eyes with the most gorgeous person she had ever seen.
The woman was, quite literally, breathtaking. She wore a green dress with a halter top that hugged her curves perfectly, her long red hair cascading over her tan shoulders. Her green eyes sparkled with amusement and she arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow questioningly.
Her voice was sultry, with just a hint of a Southern accent. "Hhh, did you say? Mm. That's a nice name. Succinct and to the point."
Harley could tell that she was being teased. And god, she liked it.
She overcame her initial . . . whatever the hell that was, grinned and said, "It's a family name. I'm actually Hhh the Third."
The woman threw her head back and laughed. It seemed to take her by surprise, because she quickly put a hand over her mouth and got control of herself once more.
"Oh! Your menu," said Harley, just as the woman said "Ah, a menu." She reached for it as Harley was already setting it down in front of her, and she ended up gently grabbing Harley's wrist instead.
She pulled back instantly, and there was a moment of awkwardness between them. Harley saw the other woman swallow hard before resuming her placid expression. The accidental contact had sent a jolt running right from Harley's wrist to the pit of her stomach, and she realized how desperately she wanted those cool fingers to linger on her skin, to trail lightly up her arm, to graze over the sensitive skin at the inside of her elbow –
"Sorry!" Harley said quickly, coming to her senses. "I'm, um, do you want some water? I'll get you some water." And she hurried off to grab a pitcher.
Jesus, Harley, get it together! she told herself as she got the pitcher and took a minute to steady herself. She had no idea why this woman was affecting her so strongly – Harley wasn't even into girls, but for some reason she was about two seconds away from crawling into this woman's lap and ravaging her and – what? That didn't even make any sense!
"Sorry about that," Harley said as she returned and filled the woman's glass.
"You keep apologizing, but I don't know why," the woman said in that low voice that sent shivers down Harley's spine. Let's keep it that way, Harley thought.
"So, do you know what you want? Um, to order?" Harley said. Smooth.
The woman smiled. She folded her hands delicately, rested her chin on them, and looked Harley right in the eye. "What do you think I should get?"
Me on a platter, thought Harley. No, bad Harley! Bad! "Um, well, the caprese salad is pretty good – we use local heirloom tomatoes and we make our own mozzarella."
"That sounds perfect," the woman said, handing Harley her menu.
"I should have known you'd be a salad girl," Harley said, regaining a little of her cheekiness.
The older woman arched an eyebrow again. "Oh, I'm much more than a salad girl," she said in that husky voice of hers, like a mint julep that somehow learned to talk. "I just have it on good authority that I should order this."
Harley maybe squeaked something in reply, she wasn't sure, and luckily she was so busy that she really couldn't linger anyway.
When she brought the salad out, Harley hovered while the woman took her first bite. She let out a tiny moan (at least, Harley was pretty sure that was the woman and not her), and a little drop of olive oil hovered on her upper lip. Harley watched, mesmerized, as the woman's tongue flicked out to capture it. Heat rushed to Harley's cheeks, and she faked a coughing fit to cover her (super weird!) reaction.
The woman looked at her calmly – was that a knowing smirk? Then she said, "This is good," in a voice that was a little lower than usual.
Harley swallowed hard. "Um, yeah, we named the restaurant after it, so yeah. I'm glad you like it."
The woman just looked at Harley, her expression unreadable. "Water," Harley squeaked, and went off to refill some glasses around the restaurant.
And yeah, so maybe she wrote her phone number on the woman's check, but that was so normal! Right?
But as Harley was in the back, getting up the nerve to actually say something to her, the woman must have left. She paid in cash and left a very generous tip.
And she took the piece of paper with Harley's number on it.
Later, after her shift and a short drive, Harley pulled up outside a white two-story house with a green Prius and a beat-up pickup truck in the driveway. She pulled out her phone and checked the address one last time. Yep, this was the place.
She lightly hopped off her motorcycle – her baby, her one indulgence – and parked it on the driveway. Then she took off her helmet and shook out a blonde mess, which she tried to tame with her fingers, wanting to make a good first impression on her dad's new wife. She put the helmet on the back of her bike.
Then she took a deep breath, walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell.
Her dad flung the door open almost instantly – he must have been waiting for her, which made Harley feel good despite her complicated relationship with her dad.
"Pumpkin!" he yelled, pulling her inside and into a huge hug. The hug also felt good – he smelled like her childhood, of York peppermint patties and his weird pine-scented aftershave, and he had that combination of dark hair and sparkling blue eyes that had women falling for him everywhere he went. (Harley got her blue eyes and outgoing personality from her dad. From her mom, she got her blonde hair and a single-minded determination not to end up like her mother, blending in to the wallpaper, always second to her man.)
"Hey, Pop," she mumbled, her mouth muffled against his shoulder.
"It's so good to see you," her dad said. Then he yelled, "Sweetie! Harley's here! Come meet her!"
Harley knew she was in trouble the second she heard that sultry voice say just one word: "Coming!" No, she thought. It can't be . . .
And then there she was, and her dad let go of Harley to proudly wrap an arm around those gorgeous shoulders, that green halter dress, and Harley saw her own shock mirrored in bright green eyes as her dad said, "Harley, I'd like you to meet my wife, Pamela. Pam, this is my daughter Harley."