it for years so it had to be a piece of cake.
A cowbell clanked against the glass door when she stepped onto an oak floor, silvered with use. Empty red vinyl booths marched along the windows to a corner where a potbellied stove squatted. Grizzled men in overalls drank coffee in a booth against the back wall. The place was midmorning-deserted.
A Formica-topped bar faced her. A pale-blonde woman sat sipping coffee on the only occupied stool, a motorcycle helmet and leather jacket on the stool beside her. A big-haired blonde stood on the other side of the bar, in a tightly fitted white pantsuit that advertised Monroe-like curves. She’d borrowed Marilyn’s lipstick, too. Her Cupid’s-bow mouth was a slash of crimson.
The waitress said something to the girl at the bar, then looked up. “Hey, sweetie. Welcome to the Farmhouse.”
Priss walked over and extended a hand to Marilyn. “Hello. My name is Priss Hart. I was wondering if you needed any help with your bookkeeping. I’m—”
The blonde patron choked on her coffee. She grabbed a napkin and coughed into it while the waitress patted her back. When the biker chick could speak, she said, “You must not be from around here. Jess is the math whiz of the universe. She does the bookkeeping in her very best dreams.”
“Stow it, Sam.” Jess shook Priss’s hand. “I’m Jesse Jurgen. That sexy hunk in the kitchen is my husband, Carl.”
A Nordic giant filled the serving window, waving a spatula in greeting.
Priss nodded to him, then took a breath and pushed the reluctant words past her teeth. “Could you use a waitress, maybe?”
“Sorry, dear, it’s just Carl and me.”
Hope and relief whooshed out on her breath. She’d have to try Santa Maria, or Solvang. More gas, more commute time. More alone time for Nacho.
Shit.
“You look done in, hon. Have a seat.” Jesse turned and lifted a metal carafe from a warming tray. “Want some coffee?”
Priss dropped onto the red vinyl-clad stool next to the biker chick. “I’d love a cup. Thanks.”
Jesse poured. “You drink that. It’ll buck you up. I’ll be right back.” She walked from behind the bar to refill the farmers’ cups at the back booth.
“I’m Sam Pinelli.” The slim woman next to her eyed Priss from over her coffee cup. “You don’t know anything about the building trade, do you?”
“I wish.”
“My husband has an auto repair and tow shop...”
Priss shook her head.
“I can’t help you, then, but you came to the right place. Jess knows everything about everything in Widow’s Grove—especially if you’re looking for a man.”
“That is exactly the last thing I want. I’ve already got more male in my life than I need.” Priss took a sip.
Jesse swished back behind the counter and put the coffeepot on the hot plate.
Sam chuckled, “Well, if you’re not looking for love then stay away from Yenta here. And just to be sure, I’d drink only bottled water while you’re in Widow’s Grove.”
Jesse put a hand on her hip. “Samantha Pinelli, you’re full of crap. You’re so happily married that you’re iridescent, for cripes’ sakes.”
“Now, now, Jess. Climb off your high horse before you split those pants.”
“Anyway, we’re not talking about you, Pinelli. We’re trying to help this sweet thing. What do you do, hon?”
“Temp office management, and bookkeeping. But I’m up for almost anything except cleaning public toilets.” She turned her cup in her hands. “And soon, I may have to consider that.”
Jesse’s perfectly plucked eyebrows scrunched. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” She looked Priss up and down from across the counter. “Where are you from, sweetie?”
“Oh, all over.” Priss may not have come from a small town, but she knew a local gossip when she saw one. Well, she’d come in for an interview and it seemed she was going to get one, even if it wasn’t the type she’d hoped for.
Let the waterboarding begin.
“Are you planning to settle in Widow’s Grove?” Jesse pulled up a wooden stool and lowered herself onto it. Her nonchalance didn’t quite hide the Grand Inquisitor look in her eye.
Priss didn’t like people prying into her life but putting a sob story out on the local telegraph might help her land a job. It’s not like she’d be lying; Nacho was a sob story.
“My mother died. I’ve got a ten-year-old half brother who now has no one else but me. And I’m in Widow’s Grove until I get him settled somewhere safe.” An instinctive shudder ripped through her. She tried to disguise it by straightening her shoulders. “Social Services took him, and they won’t release him to me if I don’t find a job.”
“Jeez, that sucks,” Sam said.
Jesse looked as if Revlon had just discontinued her favorite lipstick. “Well. That just will not do.” She squinted, tapping crimson nails on the counter. “Let me think a minute.”
Sam glanced over at Priss. “You don’t know it, but you’ve just unleashed The Force, Anakin.”
“Then I came to the right place after all.” Priss leaned toward Sam’s stool and said in a stage whisper, “She sure doesn’t look like Yoda.”
Sam laughed and set her cup down too hard, spilling her coffee.
Jesse grabbed a rag from under the counter and handed it to Sam. “I’m trying to think and you’re not helping, Pinelli.” Jesse cocked her head and looked Priss over.
Priss felt like she’d just been scanned at the airport.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about bartending?”
Well, hell, doesn’t that figure? She’d sworn never to have anything to do with her mother’s lifestyle, yet here she was, getting sucked into every dirty corner of it. She sighed. “I worked my way through two years of community college bartending.”
The crease between Jesse’s brows vanished. “Well, then, I’ve got a job for you.” She dusted her hands.
“What job?” Sam asked.
“You remember, Honey from Homestake Realty? She sold you your house, Sam.”
“Pompous in pumps. Of course I remember her.”
“Well—” Jesse leaned in “—yesterday, she skipped town with Arnie, the bartender of Bar None. Word is they eloped to the Bahamas. Floyd is pissed.”
“You’re sending this little pixie to Floyd Henley when he’s in a state?”
Priss sat up. “I can handle myself.”
Sam shook her head. “If Floyd doesn’t eat you for lunch, that crusty bunch of regulars stuck to his bar stools will. You’ll be wishing for those public toilets.”
Jesse crossed her arms and studied Priss. “Something gives me the feeling this pixie is a scrapper.”
“You’d be right.” Priss pulled a few dollars from her wallet, slapped them on the counter and stood. “This ‘Bar None.’ It’s downtown?”
“Yep. On Monterrey, off Hollister.”
“Thanks for your help.” Priss walked to the door. She had to nail that job before someone else did.
“May the Force be with you.” Sam’s voice drifted through the open door.
“You come back soon and let us know if you get the job!” Jesse called.
Priss