Chapter
Mercy McGovern watched as her cousin Yarrow secured her new coin on his drill press and flipped the switch to send the bit spinning. He stepped aside and put her hand onto the handle that would drop the bit and drill the hole.
“Me?” she asked above the noise of the drill.
He nodded. “It’s easy. Just pull that handle down.”
They had already lined up the bit so it would drill exactly where she wanted—just above the number two. With a little thrill, Mercy grabbed the ball at the handle and pulled it downward. The spinning metal bit went through her coin as if was made out of paper.
Yarrow turned the machine off, pulled her coin from the clamp and handed it to her.
It had taken her two years to earn the coin. Two years of one day at a time. Seven hundred and thirty days, one at a time. On the obverse it read, God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.
She threaded a thin, black leather cord through the hole, and looked again at that wonderful number two. In some ways it felt like twenty years and in some it felt like two days since she started on the road to recovery. There had been tears earlier in the morning when she received the coin at the AA meeting. Her sponsor, Alice, had found an excuse to come all the way from New Mexico for the meeting. The three women Mercy sponsored had been there as well, and Mercy still felt overwhelming gratitude for all of them. However, it didn’t compare with the gratitude she felt for the grace of God. During an internship in her final semester of college she had worked a lot with the homeless and seen the ravages alcoholism could take on a life. It was a daily, if not hourly occurrence for her to tell herself, There but for the grace of God go I.
Whatever reasons the Lord had for the mercy He’d shown her, she was determined to lift as many along with her as possible, as He lifted her.
“To thine own self be true,” she read from front of the coin, then tied the leather cord in place. The words matched the last tattoo she’d gotten, right over her heart where no one but her could see it. It wasn’t like the flashy tattoos she’d gotten down the length of her left arm and halfway down her right arm and even up onto one side of her neck. Those had been for attention and to try to hide the person she was becoming.
As Mercy let the coin fall into place, Yarrow asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to solder a bale at the top of the coin so it’ll lie flat? Isn’t that how most people wear pendants or coins?”
The phrase, ‘most people’ was enough to convince Mercy that she did not want it done like that. For whatever reason she’d always been opposed to social conventions or doing things how most people did.
“I like it hanging askew like this,” she told him. Her parents and one brother didn’t like her wearing sobriety coins at all. They thought her dark past should be something she should keep hidden. The way Mercy saw it, she wore so many mistakes on her arm and on her soul, why not wear something she was proud about front and center. “Thanks, cuz.”
Yarrow shrugged. “Any time. Britney’s working on brunch. You hungry?”
She was, but she didn’t have time to eat. “I’m working a charity event today.”
“Cool, what is it?”
Mercy pulled her coat on and zipped it up. “Have you heard of Homecooked Holidays?”
“Yeah, are they like Meals on Wheels?”
“Not really. They bring the elderly together once a month on holidays for a feast and socialization. I just found out last night they needed a Volunteer Coordinator.”
“That’s not much time to round up volunteers,” said Yarrow, opening the door of the workshop for her. “Need some extra hands? I bet me and Britney could round up a sitter and go help.”
“I think we got it covered,” said Mercy, walking out into the cold New Year’s Day air. The fresh, sober New Year’s Day air. “You know Uncle Dom’s girlfriend, Emily?”
Yarrow grimaced. “According to Clover, I almost ruined their relationship. I don’t know if I’m even allowed to talk to you about Dom and Emily. My sweet little sister will make my life miserable if I get in the way.”
“Got it,” said Mercy. “Emily works with a guy whose wife runs a no-kill animal shelter and somehow she got wind of some urgent need and rounded up a bunch of people. I just have to show up and give them some direction.”
“Buff, shirtless firemen,” taunted Yarrow. “Sounds like a big sacrifice. On second thought, it sounds like a cardiac event risk in a room full of elderly women.”
Mercy chuckled. The typical image of a chisel-face, oiled up fireman didn’t really do it for her. Now an ash-covered, big muscled man with an ax over his shoulder—that was different, but those type of guys wouldn’t be at the classy event. She liked guys who were gritty and tough and real. Someone who wouldn’t be caught dead near an oil-slick calendar photo shoot. No, today was not about drooling over Emily’s coworkers. It was about making connections, adding to her résumé, proving she could herd volunteers, and mostly about getting a bunch of lonely people some good food and good company.
“Thanks again,” said Mercy as Yarrow opened the door to her old beater for her.
“Call us if you need more hands,” he said and closed the door.
Mercy had to open it again and slam it to get it seated right. With a small prayer that she would make it to the volunteer event, she turned the key and it started. Hopefully the car would make it to the Summit Centre. The roads were clear so her bald tires shouldn’t be an issue. On icy road days she was stuck at home or dependent on other drivers if she wanted to go anywhere. She pulled carefully out of Yarrow’s driveway and turned toward downtown Park City.
Every trip in the old car seemed like it could be her last. It had over 300,000 miles, and they weren’t well-tended, easy going miles. Most of the car’s life had been lived like Mercy had lived her last high school and first two college years: too fast and with not enough preventative maintenance along the way. But unlike Mercy, who was a new creature, her car couldn’t shake off its past.
Within a few minutes Mercy arrived at the Summit Centre and parked at the far end of the convention center parking lot. A lot of the seniors would be picked up and brought in shuttles and by volunteers, but some of them would drive their own vehicles and she wanted to leave as much room as possible. Plus, as she crossed the large parking lot it gave her more time to breathe in the beautiful New Year’s air.
It was easy to find Poppy Powers as she was surrounded by a flurry of activity. She was a few inches shorter than Mercy with a brilliant smile and long hair a shade or two lighter than Mercy’s own black hair. After a brief introduction, since they had never met, Poppy gave her a folder, a name badge, and a group of about ten volunteers, which represented a quarter of her work force for the day. Rows and rows of table-clothed tables filled a small portion of the convention room which had been walled off.
Two of the volunteers she already knew—Uncle Dom and Emily.
“Hi everybody,” said Mercy, swallowing her nerves. “Thanks so much for coming. Hey, Uncle D. Emily.”
They both smiled and waved. Mercy had met Emily a couple times but didn’t know her well. The Jewell family was extremely close-knit, but Mercy was like a stitch that had fallen out of place and hadn’t really found her way back. She frequently attended family events, but didn’t fit in like she had before … everything.
But if there was one thing all the Jewell men knew it was manners and etiquette.
“Uncle D and Emily, can you start setting the tables? I don’t even know the whole menu yet, but we’re going to go formal plastic. Can the rest of you give them a hand until I get my bearings and find you new jobs?”
They all went to work while Mercy went looking for the kitchen.
As she walked into the huge, bustling kitchen, she heard a man snap, “Just because it’s a free meal doesn’t mean they get what they pay for!” She saw a large man in a white chef’s coat and big white chef’s hat that fell back behind his head. He went on to tell a middle-aged man who was slicing potatoes, “These little pieces are going to be starch-mush and these big fat ones will be crunchy. You can’t cook a dime and a hockey puck in the same dish. Keep it consistent, keep it quality.”
“Yes, Chef,” said the man with the dedication of a reality food show contestant.
The chef took a step over to another counter where a row of women were washing and peeling potatoes and picked up a perfectly peeled specimen. “If I need eggs peeled I know who to come to, but we’re making gourmet.” He grabbed a potato out of a huge bowl that had bits of peel still on it. “Gourmet, Mrs. Huxton. It’s like regular food but with more mistakes and smaller portions.”
“Yes, Chef,” she said and screwed up her face as she worked on peeling potatoes in a less perfectionist manner.
The chef was young to be so in charge, maybe 25 or 26. His facial features were large and manly and his eyes took in everything from under a strong brow. His jaw was just as strong and his big lips looked like they could be kissed for hours without wearing out. It had been a while since a man’s physical appearance had such an effect on Mercy, and she shook her head to clear it and get back to work.
It was obvious the chef wanted good work done in his kitchen and he didn’t really care about what people thought about him. Yeah, his bedside manner could be more coddling with the volunteers and paid workers, but they seemed to respond to his brusque manner.
Mercy found his manner attractive, as well as the way his kitchen buzzed with people getting things done right. His big, strong face was just plain sexy, she found herself thinking again. He was nothing like a chiseled marble statue, more like Tarzan, King of the Jungle, but not as ripped. Under the chef jacket he was carrying some extra weight, but he carried it just fine.
The name badge pinned to his chest strictly read, Chef.
“Looking for a job?” he asked her, and she realized she’d been staring. “Or just admiring the specimen?” He spread his hands wide to let her see all of him.
Mercy smiled and brushed her hair back behind one ear and wondered if he liked edgy hair styles. “I’m Mercy, the Volunteer Coordinator for today.”
“Oh good.” Projecting his voice toward some people chopping green beans, he said, “Now I know who to call when Jeff chops his fingers off.”
“I’m being more careful, Chef,” said a skinny man in glasses without looking up.
“What’s your name?” asked Mercy.
“JFK.”
“I like your hat,” she told him.
“Thanks, I like your …” he looked at the shaved side of her head, the small stud in her nose, then at her coat, her Chuck Taylors, then his eyes stopped briefly on her neck where a couple of her tattoos came up almost to her hairline. With a mischievous grin he said, “I like your compliment of my hat.”
Mercy found herself laughing naturally. Usually when she met guys her age they were either tripping over themselves trying to impress her, or sneering contemptuously at her. This guy—JFK? Really?—was one hundred percent himself. She didn’t know if she’d ever met someone so real.
Back to work, Mercy, she told herself. “Hey, what’s on the menu? I want to prep my volunteers.”
“Bourbon-molasses glazed ham, potatoes au gratin, roasted green beans with mushrooms and onions, and dinner rolls. For dessert they’re getting brownies with ice cream, but don’t worry—it’s not the cheap stuff.” He caught a glimpse of something he didn’t like and stormed over to a hulking man measuring out what looked like flour. “You put that in there, Quad C, and I will throw you out of my kitchen, and don’t think I can’t.”
With a grin the muscular guy said, “Sage and I can always go work for Poppy.”
“No, your wife can stay. She’s nice to look at and she knows the difference between wet and dry ingredients.” He picked up a spatula and scraped the inside of a huge bowl set up on an industrial mixer. “You’re not feeding firemen today; these people actually look at their food before shoveling it in.” He made some marks on a paper hanging on the wall. “Flour. Dry ingredient. All these—wet.”
As much as Mercy wanted to stay and watch him run his kitchen, she had work to do.