Home Fires Page 6

  She helped Zach tip the dolly back and push it forward, lining up with the door as he went.

  She backed through the opening and tried to help him guide the oven.

  It hit the edge of the doorjamb.

  Zach backed it up and re-angled it to try again.

  Again, it hit the jamb.

  “It’s kinda big,” Zach said. He backed up enough that he could set it down.

  “Yeah, it is.” Cyndi stared at it, as if she could make it shrink just a little by sheer will.

  “Didn’t you measure it?”

  “Actually, no. I saw it online and I got so excited, I just went to pick it up, and I didn’t plan through how to do this on my own. Hold on.”

  Cyndi ran back inside for a tape measure and checked the width of the door and the oven. “It looks like it will fit if we remove the top hingey thing on the door. Then it’s just a matter of putting it in place. I’ll need to find a professional to come hook it to the gas line.”

  Zach grabbed a chair and a couple of screwdrivers and set to work on the door. Cyndi stood under him feeling silly and helpless that a kid had more initiative than she did.

  “Thanks for your help,” she offered, by way of making conversation.

  “Hey, no problem. I could tell you weren’t going to get anywhere on your own.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “My dad does stuff like that all the time—thinks he can do everything by himself. Thing is, most times he can.” Zach jumped off the chair and tucked the screwdriver in his back pocket. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Why do you need such a huge stove?”

  “We’re starting a hot meal service program.”

  “What’s that mean? Like a cafeteria?”

  “Well, sort of. It’s more like a . . .” Cyndi hesitated for a second. “Like a soup kitchen.”

  “That’s cool. You mean, like, you’re going to feed poor people?”

  “Exactly. Poor people, homeless people, lonely people. Whoever comes our way.”

  “No way. Right here in the strip mall? That’s sick!”

  She chose to think he meant it in the best possible way.

  “Can I help?”

  Cyndi looked him over. Hooded sweatshirt, spiked hair, skater shoes, gauge earlobes.

  He looked like a hoodlum.

  He’d fit right in.

  Zach had turned the parking lot into his personal skate park. He showed up every day after school dressed in a grungy T-shirt and saggy pants with a chain that dropped from his drooping belt line past his knees.

  Cyndi grew used to the sound of skateboard wheels crackling against the asphalt. Every afternoon, rain or shine, he was out in the parking lot. She loved watching him practice his latest move. Lately, he’d been jumping the curb, catching the edge of the board in midair, and sliding off the board onto the concrete. She hated to think what damage he was doing his ankles, but he had determination, that was for sure.

  She wondered if his parents knew where he spent every afternoon, or if they even cared.

  Another thing he’d started doing every day was dropping in at Home Fires after he’d been skating for a while. He always asked if he could help with anything, and he’d been great at getting furniture assembled, painting the walls, and helping Mike install the TV. He’d also taken over the coffee station as his own territory and used the syrups and flavorings to concoct new coffees all the time.

  This afternoon, he passed a cup across the table to Cyndi. “Try it. It’s a hazelnut raspberry caramel mocha. You’ll like it.”

  She screwed up her face. Since when did coffee get so complicated? Give her a cup of tea with cream and sugar any day. “No thanks,” she said. “I’m okay. I’ve already had my caffeine for the day.” She looked out the window through the rain. “Who’s that?”

  Zach looked out too. “Dunno.” He shrugged and took a swig of his coffee.

  Cyndi grabbed her jacket on the way out the door. A half-dozen people stood in the grass between the parking lot and the main road. She walked toward them to see what they were up to.

  One of them turned his body enough that she could see he held a sign down low.

  “Keep Riverton Safe!”

  A good message, but why here? Why now?

  A few steps closer, she saw his face. The ringleader was that Ridley guy, Spencer Ridley, the accountant who had been so rude to everyone at the sandwich shop. She’d heard he was stirring things up on Facebook. Of course he was going to protest. Of course he was going to get in her face.

  Oooh, she could just scream.

  She walked even closer, though she didn’t have a plan for what to do once she got to the group. Chew them out? Infiltrate their ranks? Yeah, no clue.

  She turned to go back inside.

  His voice reached her across the parking lot, instructions he was shouting to be heard above the roar of traffic. “Nonviolent doesn’t mean passive! Yell all you want. Get in their faces, just don’t touch anyone. Got it?”

  Oh, that man. She should march over there and—

  No. That would be exactly what he wanted. She would not deal with terrorists. She stomped back inside and flung her jacket at the coatrack.

  “What? What happened?” Zach paused from flavoring up his coffee even more to ask her.

  She clenched her fists. “It’s those—Have you ever had someone who made you furious no matter what they did?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s how that Spencer Ridley is for me. He hates me, sure. He’s working against us, leading protests, writing letters to the editor . . . whatever. But there’s something about him that makes me want to hit him even when he’s not doing any of that stuff. Know what I mean?”

  “Mmm.” Zach walked over to the window and looked out. He seemed a little twitchy. Too much coffee, maybe.

  “He’s out there training protesters, probably setting up a schedule so they try to keep us from opening. Well, it won’t work. We’re opening, all right. On time. On schedule. And no matter who says what. You know why?”

  Zach turned back to her. “Why?”

  “Because the Ridleys do not get to decide what’s best for everyone, that’s why. The Ridleys only look out for themselves.”

  Zach muttered something on his way to throw out his cup. It sounded a lot like “Not all of them.”

  Chapter 17

  Opening night. It’d been a long time coming. At least, it felt like a long time, though the people in charge of permitting and codes at the city offices said they’d never seen something pushed through so fast.

  Cyndi took a deep breath and let it go. She hoped this would work.

  Mike used his booming teacher voice to call everyone together. “Okay, everybody! Let’s gather over here by the service line for a word of prayer before everyone comes in.”

  The volunteers gathered in a circle.

  Cyndi knew everyone here, friends and acquaintances from church and service clubs and every possible corner of her life. A few had brought other friends along, strangers who had already grown into friends in the weeks they’d worked together to prepare everything for tonight.

  “It’s the night we’ve been working for,” Mike said. “Good job. You’ve all pitched in and helped get ready. I appreciate your standing behind my wife’s vision. I can tell you’re making it your own. Tonight is just the first of many, many to follow. We want to start off strong, so let’s start with a prayer.”

  Cyndi held hands but didn’t close her eyes. She didn’t pray much anymore. Hardly any since God stopped hearing her.

  “Our Lord and heavenly Father,” Mike prayed, “bless us tonight. Please bring to us the people you want to feed. Thank you for giving us the food we need to share with them. Give us love and words to do the same. We ask you to soften the hearts of those who don’t want this project to go forward. In Jesus’ name . . .”

  Most everyone murmured, “Amen,” but not Cyndi.

  One of the olde
r ladies was brushing tears from her cheeks. Nance was already headed for the kitchen.

  Cyndi shouted to get everyone’s attention. “You all know your places. Kitchen staff, don’t forget to rinse the dishes in bleach water. Oh, and wear gloves. And don’t serve seconds into a dirty plate. They have to get a new plate if they want more food.”

  Mike placed a hand on her arm. “It’s all right, honey. They know what they’re doing.”

  He was right. They had done a complete run-through last night and ironed out most of the kinks. Of course, she had to expect some bumps tonight, but they were as prepared as possible. Everyone was assigned a task—servers, busboys, drink people, dishwashers, even a greeter at the door. Cyndi’s job was to be available to talk to people, to mingle with the guests.

  Guests. She liked that. Instead of calling them clients or poor people or beggars, they were guests in a home. The volunteers were their family.

  At six o’clock sharp, Mike threw the deadbolt on the door and a group of about twenty people surged in. Cyndi looked them over. Most of them looked like they had definitely been to other hot meal programs—a lot—maybe even today. One woman who weighed well over three hundred pounds lumbered to a chair and sat down. She shouted orders to a couple of children to push two tables together, then sent them to stand in line with the others.

  There was a woman with a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. Her face was drawn and gaunt—a smoker’s face. She had long, stringy red hair, except at the top, where two inches of black roots showed. Next to her was a stooped old man with a tangled gray beard. Beside him stood a young man. He wore a red T-shirt and no jacket, even though it was still in the forties. His shoulders were round, his arms skinny, and he carried an extra sixty pounds around his waist. The way his jeans were belted above his paunch gave him the appearance of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon.

  The line didn’t seem to be moving. Cyndi moved closer to see and hear what was going on.

  “Do you want green salad or coleslaw?”

  The lady with the bad hair pointed to the green salad. The server, Marlina, scooped some lettuce onto the tray.

  “And would you like ranch, Italian, or honey mustard dressing?”

  Too many choices.

  Cyndi realized it would be better to serve a simpler meal and get everyone through the line faster. She had overreacted to the fiasco under the bridge when she had gone with only two pots of soup. Now they had enough to feed an army, and variety to boot. They’d learn. Give it a few times and she bet it’d run like clockwork.

  Cyndi looked around the room. There were enough seats for about a hundred. A group of twelve or so sat at the shoved-together tables. Most of the other guests sat alone, one person to one table. They would have to set up fewer tables if they wanted people to mingle. Either that or get the word out to more folks that free food was being offered. She grabbed a cup of coffee and scanned the room, trying to decide who to sit with.

  She settled on an older man with a yellow handlebar mustache.

  “Mind if I sit here?” she asked, pulling out a chair.

  “Go right ahead,” the man said. He glanced at Cyndi with a quick, nervous smile, then looked back at his food. He hunched over his plate as if afraid to drop a single crumb.

  “Is it good?” How do you start a conversation with someone you don’t have anything in common with? Cyndi was uncomfortably conscious of her clean jeans and department store blazer. She was way overdressed to blend in with the crowd. The man across from her wore layers—a T-shirt under a flannel shirt under a denim jacket. His hair was slicked back, not with hair gel, but with weeks of sweat and oil.

  “Mm-hmm,” the man replied, not bothering to look up. He took enormous bites, one after the other.

  No manners, Cyndi thought. And then, What do you expect? He’s eating like a hungry man. She looked for another way to start a conversation. “Do you eat at places like this much?”

  The old man looked down at his now-empty plate, then up to the service window where food was being served, then back at his plate, then at Cyndi.

  “It’s okay. Go ahead and get more. There’s plenty.” The man pushed back from the table and raced toward the food counter with an agility that belied his age. Cyndi sat back in her chair and nursed her coffee. It would come. She couldn’t expect everything to be perfect on the first night. She couldn’t expect everyone to fall in love with her on the first night. They were bound to be gun shy.

  They’d been hurt.

  Then again, so had she. It wasn’t their problem she needed to win them over to heal herself.

  She looked for Mike.

  He was at a table across the room, at home amongst strangers. She made her way to his side and touched his elbow to get his attention. He interrupted his conversation with an older couple—were they volunteers or guests? She wasn’t sure.

  “Hey, Cyndi. I think there’s something you need to see.”

  “What is it?”

  Mike turned to the couple and excused himself. He took Cyndi’s hand and led her to the side windows. They had to weave between the folding chairs.

  “It’s going well, don’t you think?” She had to raise her voice to be heard.

  “Yeah. A few hitches in the kitchen, but we’ve got plenty of volunteers, plenty of food. There’s just one problem.”

  “What is it?”

  “Look.” Mike pulled back a wisp of yellow muslin so she could get to the shades.

  Cyndi poked her fingers between two blind slats and pried them apart so she could see out. It was dark outside. She leaned closer to the window to see past the reflection. “The protesters?” she said. “I saw them earlier.”

  “Look again.”

  “There’s a van.”

  “What kind of van?”

  “It’s white . . . it’s a news van!” Cyndi stood up and let the blinds clap together. “It’s that Whitt lady.”

  “You knew about the news crew?”

  “She called me this afternoon. I had no idea she’d be doing a live TV report. Cool!”

  “If it’s so cool, why is she out there talking to them? Why not film inside?”

  “She will. But look! We’re on the news!”

  “It’s on! It’s on!” Cyndi called Mike into the living room. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t go to sleep without seeing the story. They’d been teasing it for the last hour. “Hurry!”

  TV reporter Rebecca stood in the dark outside Home Fires.

  “That’s it! That’s our place!” Cyndi jumped out of her chair.

  The reporter started talking. “Thank you, Dan. I’m standing here in front of Riverton Plaza Mall, where there’s a bit of excitement going on. Tonight, the owners of the mall opened their doors to the homeless. They are starting a hot meal service aimed at helping out the poor and hungry.” She cut to the doors of Home Fires. It must have been at opening time. People were going in the front door.

  “There’s that lady!” Cyndi was beside herself. “And you!”

  Sure enough, you could see Mike’s face through the window.

  They played Cyndi’s voice talking about how they wanted to bless the poor in their own neighborhood.

  “Do I really sound like that?” she asked.

  “Shhh,” Mike hushed her.

  It cut back to the reporter.

  “But the neighbors and tenants in the strip mall have other ideas. And they’re speaking out. Here’s what some of them have to say.”

  Rebecca lowered her oversize microphone while the news desk rolled footage of interview clips she had shot earlier.

  The first one was with that awful man, Spencer Ridley. “We have community regulations on things like this. This soup kitchen is going to bring in more crime, more litter, and more danger to our kids.”

  They cut to his wife. “If they want to eat, they should find jobs. That’s what the rest of us do.”

  Then to the guy who had written her the letter. “We moved to the suburbs to get away fr
om drugs and crime. Now they’re bringing it to us.”

  They all had the right to say what they wanted, but she wished they wouldn’t.

  Rebecca put her microphone to her mouth again, ready to finish the report as soon as the video clips cut off.

  “I am standing here with Spencer Ridley, who is heading up this protest effort. I notice you’ve got about twenty protesters out here. How long do you plan to keep this up?”

  She thrust the microphone toward Spencer but kept her eyes on the camera.

  Cyndi wanted to spit at the TV. The story about how Home Fires was going to bless the community had been hijacked by the protesters.

  Spencer spoke up. “We’ll picket as long as it takes. We rented space in this building expecting the owners to do everything possible to bring customers to us. Now they’ve made a decision that will drive business away. That’s not fair.”

  Whitt asked, “Why not just take them to court? Why fight them on the streets?”

  “We are hoping that by putting our viewpoint out, the public can help the Finches see their error without having to take them to court. We don’t want to make trouble; we just want to have our say.”

  “Thank you.” Rebecca turned toward the camera. “We spoke with the proprietor of Home Fires today. She said she’s excited to see what changes this new service will bring in the community. It looks like she’s getting a bigger reaction than she bargained for. Live from Riverton, this is Rebecca Whitt, News Channel 7.”

  “That’s it?” Cyndi screamed at the TV. “How dare they?”

  Mike stood back, arms crossed. “They kinda stole your thunder, didn’t they?”

  Cyndi fumed. “Did they just threaten to take us to court?”

  “Sounded like.”

  It was a veiled threat, but clear enough for her to hear it. If they thought she was going to close up Home Fires because of one little protest, they didn’t know who they were dealing with.

  Chapter 18

  The cordless phone in Cyndi’ s new office in the back of Home Fires rang with its artificial old-fashioned tone. She’d been getting a lot of calls this week, ever since Home Fires had opened its door. She tried to field most of the calls and keep the pressure off Mike and the volunteer workers. She hated the PR part of this job, and it was getting worse.