Page 6 of Tattered and Torn

I nod, hoping I’m not promising more than I can deliver. “Sure. That should be doable. Where’s the best place for me to get groceries around here?”

“My friend Maggie Emerson owns the grocery store in Bryce. She can hook you up with whatever you need. There’s a butcher shop in town, too, and a farmers market two days a week, Saturdays and Wednesdays. So, there’s one tomorrow if you want to go check it out.”

“Great,” I say, giving her my best attempt at a confident smile. “That sounds perfect. Why don’t we take a look at the kitchen now?”

Hannah’s smile falls. “Okay. Just remember, it’s really outdated and, well, I guess you’ll see for yourself.”

We meander through the dining room and pass through a pair of swinging doors to enter the kitchen. I freeze at the sight of two silver-haired women working frantically to keep up.

Hannah follows me into the kitchen, keeping quiet as I look over the grill and the stoves and the ovens. Everything is rusted. There are two residential size refrigerators—not nearly big enough to run a restaurant. The one chest freezer is hardly big enough to do the job. The door to the sole dishwasher is hanging off its frame. There’s only one residential sink, and it doesn’t even have a sprayer.

“Where do you wash the dishes?” I ask, scanning the kitchen, hoping I’m missing something.

“In the sink.” Hannah points at it.

Good grief. How can they expect to run a kitchen of any size without a proper wash station with an industrial sprayer and a functioning dishwasher?

I take a look at the ovens and the cooktops. At least they have gas burners. The grill is a quarter of the size it should be. I pull out my phone and start taking pictures and jotting down notes.

How in the world has anyone been cooking in this kitchen?

I sigh.

“Is it that bad?” Hannah asks.

I look at her, but don’t say anything. My dad always says, If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I’ve always taken those words to heart.

Reality hits me like a splash of cold water in the face. I’m creating a restaurant from the ground up. It’s my dream, yes, but right now it feels more like a nightmare. “Be careful what you wish for, right?” I murmur.

“I’m sorry, what?” Hannah asks.

“Nothing.” I tamp down a rush of anxiety. I can do this.

“Gabrielle, please say something.” Hannah looks worried. “Whatever you need, just say the word and we’ll get it. Tell us how much of a budget you need to renovate the kitchen. We want it to be modern and efficient, so you tell us what you need for equipment, new appliances, food. There’s a commercial kitchen supply company in Denver. They have a design staff, and they’ll do all of the installations.”

I give Hannah an encouraging smile to keep her from freaking out. “I’ll take some measurements and sketch out a design.”

It’s a good thing we saved the kitchen for last. If I’d seen the state it’s in before I saw all the beautifully renovated spaces, I might have headed right back to the airport. The kitchen is a hot mess. There’s no other way to describe it. I’ve never seen such old and outdated appliances.

“We thought you’d like to have a say in the updates,” Hannah says. She gives me an apologetic smile. “The truth is, Killian and I know nothing about kitchens. We don’t know what kind of equipment you’ll need or how much staff. We were hoping you could figure that part out.”

I nod, but don’t say anything. Right now, I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. But I tell myself I’ve got this. I’ve been training to run my own restaurant for the past six years. I have the skills and the knowledge. I can do this. I know I can.

I nod toward the two older ladies dressed in what looks like cafeteria uniform dresses and white aprons—what I remember the cafeteria staff wearing when I was in elementary school over two decades ago. They both have short, curly silver hair covered with netting and blue eyes. I’d guess them to be in their late sixties or early seventies.

“That’s Nelle and Betty,” Hannah says. “They’re sisters. They very kindly offered to help with feeding the guests until we hired a restaurant manager. We’re grateful to have their help.”

Hannah introduces us, and the sisters give me a warm welcome.

“Betty and I worked in the local elementary school cafeteria for forty years,” Nelle says. “We’re both retired, so it’s nice being useful again.”

“From what I’ve heard,” I say, “you’ve been doing a great job keeping folks fed. And I’d be really grateful if you’d stick around while I figure out what I’m doing.”

Betty nods. “Of course, honey. We’ll be glad to stay on as long as we’re needed. We don’t have anything else to do.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nelle says. “I have book club and bingo two nights a week—not at the same time, mind you.”

I nod. “Okay.” I push up my shirt sleeves. “I guess it’s time to get to work.” I glance across the counter separating the kitchen from the dining room and see that the breakfast rush seems to be coming to an end. There are a couple of guys sitting at a table, drinking coffee, and another guy is reading a newspaper. But that’s it.