All that Matters (Family Matters Book 2) Read online

  The phone call came just before eight, and it was a number I didn't recognize, but I was assuming it would be a kid called Jack who was an up-and-coming young tennis player who wanted to hit against a leftie.

  "Cash here," I said casually, still typing on Magdala's laptop.

  A hesitation. Then that voice. The husky one. "Cassian? Cassian Strauss?" Oh hell, I thought, here we go again. What was it with this woman and my name?

  "Yes, this is Cassian," I replied. I quit typing, rose from the desk. Magdala, who was stretched out on her bed, sat up on her elbow.

  "Cassian, it's Paola Carson from Assisi," she was back to her business voice. Paola, I thought, that's very Italian. The woman was like a chameleon. "How are you?"

  "I'm fine thanks," I said, tempted to add her name, to see how it rolled off the tongue. I walked towards the balcony, wondering now if I'd gotten the job. I hadn't actually given it a thought since I'd left her office on Thursday, she'd crossed my mind a few times, but the job hadn't.

  "That's good," she said crisply. "I was wondering if you would be interested in starting work tomorrow," she continued, "I know it's short notice, but we are rather short staffed."

  "Tomorrow?" I asked, kind of shocked, trying to think what plans I had. "What time?"

  "Could you make 10.30?" she said. "I'm down a waiter tomorrow lunch, so if you were interested?" She continued, with a slight chuckle, "I think you'd enjoy it better than dishes."

  "Are you promoting me before I've even started?" I said, completely thoughtlessly, and I wished I could take it back, maybe humor wasn't appropriate here. Magdala was sitting cross legged on her bed by now, watching me.

  "You could say that," she said with a laugh. "I think you'll make an excellent waiter."

  How she figured that I didn't know. She told me what I should wear, black pants, white shirt, tidy shoes, that I would get some training beforehand, then said she'd look forward to seeing me tomorrow.

  I rang off, turned to Magdala and said, "I just got that job."

  "The Italian place?"

  "Yep and I've been promoted to waiter already," I laughed. I went back to the desk, ready to resume my essay. Magdala came over and stood behind me, bent down and hugged me.

  "You're so clever," she said and I turned and wrapped my arms around her.

  "Hope I don't drop any plates," I quipped.

  "Or get any orders wrong," she said. "How's my homework going?" She looked at the screen.

  "About a B plus," I said.

  "Don't make it too good," she said and smiled. I missed her smile, I missed her.

  "Jakey's coming over soon," I said. "What do you want to do?"

  "Whatever you want," she said. "Do you want me to google how to be a good waiter?"

  "I'm sure they'll give me ten minutes of training first," I said. "Surely it can't be that difficult...can it?"

  PAOLA

  What was it about the boy with green eyes. Sylvie, from reception came hurtling out the back, gushing about a "gorgeous creature" looking for part time work. It had been a long day, and even though it was nearly five, I was daunted by the fact that I wouldn't get out of the place for another six hours. My eyes were tired from looking at the computer screen, my feet were aching and sore, and I was hungry, ironic because I manage a restaurant, but had not allowed myself the leisure of taking a lunch break.

  I hobbled out to reception, not relishing the thought of conducting an interview, but knowing I would have to do it through necessity. We were particularly short staffed at present. What was it with people these days, I was a good boss, wasn't I? A fair boss? I provided good working conditions. Why couldn't people commit? Unfortunately the job market was buoyant.

  Sylvie was wrong about the tall, strapping young man in reception, he wasn't a gorgeous creature, he was a godlike Adonis, his hair the color of sun scorched straw, his eyes as green as the Pacific Ocean, or the Indian, or Atlantic. One of them. I was entranced, my eyes staring like a lust filled teenager, taking in the magnificence of his body, his strong, muscled thighs and calves, his broad shoulders. He must have come from some sort of training, he was dressed in sports gear, the fabric clinging in places to his tanned body.

  I tried to remind myself that I was a business woman, a restaurant manager but my voice came out husky, as if I'd spent the evening in a smoke filled nightclub. I asked him to follow me to my office, and I forced myself to walk normally even though my blistered heels were screaming in agony. It confounded me why I never wore my sneakers when sitting at my computer desk. Probably in the unlikely event that a situation like this might actually crop up.

  I asked him to sit and I searched through the drawers, momentarily forgetting what I was looking for. I produced an application form and a pen and asked him to complete it. I peered over his shoulder, indicating the areas he should fill in. He was left handed and had an awkward way of holding the pen, his wrist twisted inwards, writing vertically but it meant I could see what he had written.

  "Cass-i-an," I said, saying it as it was spelt. I'd never heard it before, but it seemed to suit the hunky young boy in front of me. He had some unnameable raw animal magnetism about him, the flushed look and smell of someone who had been physically active. For some unknown reason I found it quite irresistible, unusual for a woman who preferred a quiet Pilates or stretch class.

  "Cash-in," he pronounced, looking up at me for a moment, "Or Cash."

  He continued writing, address, date of birth. I'm good with numbers, but my voice deflated, "You're seventeen?" He confirmed it. He looked older, I had him figured for twenty, twenty one, a college student at least.

  "Junior?" I tried to hide my disappointment. He was a high school junior, a kid, a baby. My thoughts were a jumble, a muddle, but common sense would not prevail and I found myself drawn to him, flirting with him, my voice taking on its own life, behaving like a brazen temptress.

  His phone rang and quickly excusing himself, he unashamedly answered it, then started talking as if I wasn't even in the room. In any other situation the interview would have been terminated then and there. I usually had no tolerance for unprofessionalism, but he seemed to strip me of all authority, my standards slipping, my demeanor weak.

  I had to gain back some composure. I fingered his application form, pretending to contemplate his suitable attributes, but I was staring at his address, trying to picture where he lived. A nice area of Beverly, must be from some money. Did he really need a job, I wondered. I told him I'd get back to him. Yes that's what good managers did, they left their prospective employees hanging, I had to claw back some power. He accepted that with nonchalance. And I watched him leave.

  I raced to the back entrance, ignoring the pain in my feet, thankful that no one saw me, but Carlos, one of the chefs, was out having a cigarette. I wanted to see what sort of car he drove, casually said I was getting something from my car. I peeped around the corner of the building just as a Nissan Altima was leaving, a dark blue car, nothing special. Now that I was out there I felt obliged to go to my car. I sat in it for a few minutes, almost shaking. What the hell was I, a professional woman, manager of a successful restaurant doing stalking a high school kid eleven years my junior. Surely I'd sunk to the lowest of lows.

  My life wasn't going quite as I had planned it. It started going wrong, oh about the first year of college. That's when Theo, my high school sweetheart of four years, left me. He said he was transferring to Colorado, switching to a sport science major, loved snow sports more than he loved me. Long distance didn't work. We petered out in less than four months.

  I rebounded with Rob, then Scott, then Ethan. Getting a boyfriend wasn't a problem. Finding the right one was. Which is why, at the age of twenty eight I was still single. But hey, no shame in that. Even though my mother would tell me she had been married with two children at this stage in her life, I gently reminded her that we lived in a different century now.

  I also hadn't quite taken the corporate world by storm either. College
dreams of being the account manager for L’Oreal, Nike, Kellogg's, Hershey's or some other global company, also gone along the wayside. Getting that foot in the door just never really happened. Everyone else had either two majors, or more experience, or maybe just more balls and a position at a herbal tea company had been the best I'd achieved. And then my mother had gotten ill, breast cancer, treatable, curable, but turning our family into turmoil. The thought of losing Mama was devastating, incomprehensible. Daddy suggested I come and work for him, at the restaurant I'd known my whole life, where I'd spent all my high school years as the cashier. I'd be able to work my own hours; it would give us both more time with Mama. I could do all the accounts and manage the place. It sounded appealing and I agreed. I even moved back home with my parents. It seemed at the age of twenty six I'd gone full circle.

  Mama was good, well, healthy. Both breasts had been removed, a full recovery was all but guaranteed. I had moved out into my own apartment, but long hours at the restaurant had taken a toll on my social life. Who was I kidding, I didn't have a social life. The restaurant was my life now. Daddy had given me a degree of free rein and I'd rebranded it from a local family restaurant into a classy, more exclusive eatery. It was in a good area, where people made good money. We had to cater to their whims, and the marketing was working. We had less seats, but our profit margins were better than ever. My only qualm at present was staffing levels. And then the young God walked in and my libido was awoken.

  CASSIAN

  Turns out there was more to waiting tables than just writing down orders and then delivering them. I had to come in from the correct side. I had to co-ordinate orders to all arrive at the same time, I had to refill drinks, clear plates. For someone who is an A student, I felt like I was likely to get my first F.

  Paola trained me herself, which I found unusual. Surely that was the maitre d's job, but who was I to argue. She wore her hair up today, in a sleek bun, she had silver earrings dangling, and her dress was again clinging to all her curves. She wore that same floral perfume, I wished I didn't find it so alluring, but my nose longed to sniff it. Standing close to her was a sensory delight.

  We'd been going over procedures for over an hour, when she suggested we take a break. She offered me a coffee, but I declined it for a drink of water. We went to a small room where she flicked through a rack of vests. She held one up, and said, "Let's see if this fits," and she attempted to dress me as if I was incapable of putting my own arms through the sleeves. Her hand touched my back, then she buttoned up the front, her fingers delicate as she patted the front. I quite liked it, a warm tingle rushed through my veins. Then she stood back as if to assess the sizing. She smiled and said, "That looks about perfect. How does that feel?"

  "Fine," I said, because it did, though I cringed slightly at the thought of looking like a real waiter. She then ushered me into her office where a latte and bottle of water were sitting on a tray on her desk. She ordered me to sit, on that same chair from the other day. She pulled another chair up for herself, so close that when she sat down our knees touched. She opened the bottle of water and poured it into a glass for me. I nodded a thank you, taking the glass from her. She held it a little too long, and I wondered if she wasn't going to release it.

  "I think you and I are going to work well together," she said, taking her coffee cup from the saucer. I just smiled. "You're not nervous?" she asked.

  I shook my head. I wasn't nervous of waiting tables, but I was suddenly nervous of her. Our knees were still touching. "Well, if anything crops up that you're unsure about, just ask. I'll be around."

  Now I nodded. "Okay." I took another sip of water, still holding the glass, wondering how to shift my knees so it didn't look obvious. I didn't think I could. I sipped again.

  "No questions?" she asked.

  "I don't think so." I was thinking, Maybe the next time she puts her cup down, I could move a little.

  "After your shift, we'll get you a meal and a drink," she said, taking a drink of coffee, but she kept hold of the cup.

  "Oh, is that a perk of the job?" I asked. I was going to cramp if I didn't move position soon.

  "One of the perks, yes," she said, raising her eyebrows suggestively, her plum colored lips curling slightly. For fuck's sake, I had to move. I pretended to brush at an invisible piece of

  lint on my pants, pulling my heels back under my chair, then slightly angling my legs to the side. She seemed to look at me with a bemused expression, as though she knew she had me in a fluster.

  Turns out I did have a knack for waitering. My first job was a table of ten. Even though there were several tables of couples, it's like she threw me in at the deep end. One of the other waiters rolled his eyes and gestured me a good luck signal. It's like she either wanted me to fail, or she wanted to have a laugh at my expense.

  I knew that she knew the group at the table, she had greeted two of the couples with European kisses, cheek to cheek. It seemed likely that she was going to watch me and enjoy. I basically forgot everything she taught me, and worked my own method. I have a pretty decent memory, and I decided to give everyone at the table a name, because initially everyone looked the same. I started with the lady who had first kissed her, naming her Red Dress, then in an anti-clockwise direction there was Grey Hair, Thin Nose, Stubble Face, Botox Face and so on. The first round of drinks went smoothly, as did the appetizers. By time the entrees came out, I'd refilled most glasses and had Red Dress and Botox Face in the palm of my hand. Seems all I had to do was look at them with my "baby greens" as Red Dress called them and they were hooked. By the time dessert and coffee was served I felt like I'd just delivered an Oscar winning performance. Who knew I had acting ability, because basically that's what I did the whole time.

  As they rose to leave four of the women slipped some bills into my vest pocket. I smiled charmingly. Several tips were left on the table, I scooped them up. All cash tips were ours to keep.

  As the last customers left, Paola approached me, a genuine smile on her face.

  "Job well done, you were magnificent!" she gushed, as if I'd just won a Grand Slam tournament. Her hand stroked my back. "Come, let's eat, you must be hungry." I was starving, but didn't like to say, and she asked me what I'd like to eat.

  "You choose," I said, because it didn't really matter to me. All the dishes I'd served had looked and smelt appetizing. She raised her eyebrows and angled her neck in a way that was mildly distracting. I wondered if my blood sugar levels were low. She motioned for me to sit at a corner table, one I'd just reset, and she went into the kitchen. I wondered where everyone else had gone. I checked my phone. Three missed calls, possibly from Jack. A couple of texts from Magdala: how many plates have u broken? Then: are you demoted back to dishes yet? I laughed out loud, just as she returned.

  "Something amusing?" she queried, putting two bowls of spaghetti bolognese down.

  "Just my sister wanting to know how many plates I'd dropped," I said. She came and stood behind me, shaking out a linen napkin.

  "Not one dish dropped," she smiled, "pretty impressive. Now to eat spaghetti, we must protect your clothes." And she proceeded to tuck the napkin around my neck and tuck it in around my shirt collar, her fingers grazing my skin, and no, I wasn't immune to her touch. I sat perfectly still, it smelt as if she'd sprayed more perfume on. That had my mind in a bit of a spin. "Right," she said, satisfied that she'd tucked me in securely, "let's eat."

  I'm a big fan of spaghetti, but admittedly it would never be my first choice when eating out, just for the sheer mess factor. I didn't want sauce spraying all over my face, and slurping long strands of spaghetti is never a good look. It's as if she had exactly that in mind, to watch me struggle. Damn, did this woman want to humiliate me? I waited for her to start, before picking up my fork and twirling. She corrected me immediately, taking a hold of my hand, keeping my fork vertical, telling me to wind it clockwise, to start from the side of the bowl. As a left hander it didn't feel natural. I was looking into he
r eyes as she was doing this, wondering if she thought I was a child. Maybe my glare was too severe, she looked away, then released my hand. I put my fork up to my mouth and fed myself, said somewhat sarcastically, "Is that right?" One strand was longer than the others and I slowly sucked it into my mouth, she seemed mesmerized, her eyes riveted. I twirled my fork again, clockwise, repeated the action. She was still staring.

  "This is good," I said, "real good," sucking up another solitary strand. She snapped out of it, expertly started to wind her own fork, but it was she who was flustered now. I felt a minor victory.

  She said she'd call me about other shifts, she needed to check the rosters for the upcoming week. She asked if I was available week nights. I told her my training schedule, realistically Wednesday was the only night I could do, possibly a Friday, depending on what tennis I had the following day. It seemed like she was willing to work around me. She said the table had left a $50 tip for me on the credit card transaction. I gave an indication of surprise, I'd already counted fifty left on the table. I felt quite smug, even though money wasn't my motivating factor. It occurred to me I might not only be good at waitering, but I might actually enjoy it too.

  PAOLA

  Mama's dear friend Caroline took less than two hours to ring me after the lunch party she'd had for her sister-in-law.

  "Sweetheart," she gushed, "just had to say thank you for a wonderful meal, and superb service. Everybody had a marvelous time."

  "I'm so glad," I said sincerely. Satisfied customers was one of the highlights of the job.

  "And your new waiter, he's just a delight," she continued. "What a pleasant boy."