1 Sal's Sweets

"Hey! I requested extra foam on this latte!"

"You look so grumpy. Where's your smile?"

"What's a man gotta do to get some service around here?"

Let's get one thing straight. It was never my idea to be a waitress.

I didn't dream of it. I didn't plan for it. And, to be quite honest, I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. At least, not at this place.

"Give me just one moment, please!" I shout over my shoulder at a pair of two young women giving me the evil eye from across the cafe. They've been waiting for ten minutes to order. Don't get me wrong, I understand why they're upset. But I'm in front of a table smeared with crumbs and the remains of a milkshake spill. That isn't something I can just ignore.

Of course, if my boss were competent, I wouldn't be the only waitress working most days. Sadly, that isn't the case. He says I'm the only full-time employee he can afford. He rounds out some of the busier shifts with part-timers, but I know he's purposefully skimping to take more of the profits for himself. The bastard. He isn't the one who has to take abuse from customers all day.

I get out my rag and spray bottle to wipe the table clean. The stains are stubborn, sticky with sugar and caramel. I have to scrub at them to even make a dent, and even then it's slow going.

God, I don't need this right now. I can feel a dozen angry eyes on the back of my neck. Not just from the women, but from the old man waiting for his croissant, and the regular at the next table over, who gives me a hard time no matter what I do.

My heart races in my chest. I can feel it in the air. Someone's going to ask for the manager -- my boss -- and I'm going to get yet another verbal beating.

Sal's Sweets is a hole-in-the-wall dessert cafe in the heart of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. We do enough business to get by, but not much more than that. I don't know what possessed me to apply here for a job instead of at Starbucks, or some place like that. Maybe I thought a smaller joint would mean less work. Maybe, at the time, my boss Sal had seemed like a nice old man.

Man, he sure had me fooled. The guy may be a great chef, but he's a nasty, abusive boss. He keeps telling me that one day, if I work hard enough, I'll get my shot at becoming a cook here. But it's been five years, and I haven't gotten to touch so much as a mixing bowl.

I may be well and truly stuck in this awful place.

"Hey! I'm not paying to enjoy the atmosphere in here!" the regular yells, even though he's close enough that I could hear him at a whisper. I wince, trying to plaster on a smile as I scrub and scrub at the last of the stains. I'm terrible at fake smiling, and everyone here knows it. It make them angrier at me than they already are.

"I'll be right with you, sir." I stuff my washcloth in my apron and straighten the chair this person left askew. The decor in here is nothing great, mostly peeling pink paint and rickety tables, but still, I try and take whatever pride I can in keeping things straight and tidy.

"Um, excuse us. We've been waiting for almost fifteen minutes to order now." One of the woman comes up behind me, barely concealing her venom with a polite tone.

"I'm very sorry, ma'am. We're understaffed today, I'll get to you as soon as I can," I reply.

Her eyes narrow. "You're going to take his order before ours?"

I blink, anxiety ticking up my heart rate. I'm not sure what this lady wants me to say to her. Every answer I give to customers like her is the wrong one.

"Well, he is right here. And he's a regular, so…"

The woman rolls her eyes.

"Whatever." She walks back to her table and whispers something to her friend. They start gathering their things. Not good.

"Wait!" I shout. I jerk my head up, crossing the short distance across the cafe to speak to them. Sal can't stand it when we lose customers. He's told me plenty of times: 'do anything you can to keep them in their seats, or it comes out of your paycheck!'

If it were just me trying to survive on my paycheck, I might accept a docking or two, if only to spare myself from grovelling before angry customers. But someone else needs this money. Every cent of it. And I can't risk her not getting it.

"We're very sorry to have kept you waiting," I say, desperately. "How about I bring out two yogurts on the house, while you wait for your order?"

The women look at each other in irritation. "We didn't come here for yogurt. Thanks, but no thanks," one of them says. They get up, push their chairs in, and head for the door. I look down to see that I've clasped my washcloth in my hands, twisting it between my fingers. Sal will poke his head out with an order any minute now, and when he sees that those two women are gone --

I'm about a second away from running after them and offering a whole meal for free when, through the open door, I see a new customer on her way in. A customer definitely unlike our usual clientele.

She's tall. Elegant, which is a word I rarely use to describe anything in Wisconsin. Her blonde hair is pulled back from her face in a perfect bun, any strays pinned back with bobby pins and hairspray. Her high heels clack against the tile floor, and her black blazer and skirt are pressed immaculately, completely free of wrinkles.

I can't help but wonder if this is a random health inspection. People know the food here is good and cheap -- but that's not enough to attract a woman like her. I have a feeling she doesn't have to worry too much about money.

I stare for a second or two before I even manage my usual greeting.

"Good afternoon! Welcome to Sal's Sweets, I'll…" I say, but she doesn't seem interested in sitting down. Instead, she walks directly to me, icy blue eyes fixed directly on my muddy hazel ones. Talk about intimidating.

"Are you Clara Evans?" she asks. Only now do I see the crisp beige folder clasped in her hands.

My mind flashes to my mother, tucked tight in her hospital bed, on a ventilator and always hooked up to her beeping EKG.

'She's come to tell me something went wrong with my hospital bill,' I think, frantically. 'She's going to tell me that they took Mom off life support while I was away.'

She must see my face pale, because she raises a single perfect eyebrow in question.

"Yes," I stammer out. "I am. What's the matter? Did something happen?"

I brace for the inevitable 'we're sorry to inform you' speech...but it doesn't come.

Instead, she reaches into her chest pocket and flicks out a single business card on heavy white paper.

"I represent a client of considerable means," she says, stiff and businesslike. "Do you have a few minutes to talk? We have a proposition for you to consider."