Page 4 of Baby, It’s You (Clairesville #1)

He turns to me in greeting, and I quickly put my finger over my lips in a “shhh” motion.

He glances up at the clock and nods, then motions his eyes to the left indicating that Tripp is in the office.

I thank him with an overdramatic sweeping bow and run past him to the right as he chuckles to himself.

Blasting through the kitchen door to the front of the bar, I see a few of our regulars are already munching on their sandwiches and burgers.

I know then I’m in the clear. Rob must have taken their orders for me.

I will have to run to The Mart across the street later to grab him a giant pack of Nerds Clusters as thanks.

Our locals would never complain to Tripp if their orders hadn’t been taken.

They would just sit at the bar, chat, and help themselves to the soda gun until I arrived.

If he came out front and saw anyone empty-handed in the bar, he would only see dollar signs down the drain.

The last thing I want is to get chewed out by Tripp and his never-disappearing coffee breath.

Thinking of coffee, I head to the pot on the burner behind the bar and pour myself a giant cup.

After two big gulps of what I realize is probably last night's stale coffee, I gag a little and set the cup down.

I turn and grab my black half apron and tie it around my waist. Two of our regulars, Johnny and Rick, sit at the bar and give me a knowing glance.

“Rough night?” Rick asks. If you took Danny Devito and stretched him about six inches taller, that would be Rick. He has the compassion and warm smile that you would expect out of a Hallmark card, and I can always count on him to read me well.

“Probably partying after her shift like always. You know how crazy Olive gets. I heard the police were on the lookout for a streaker last night matching her description,” Johnny teases, leaning in closer to me across the bar. “Where were you at four A.M., Missy?”

Where I can expect a sentimental moment and hug from Rick, I can also expect a dad joke and goof from Johnny.

Just looking at Johnny, he’s a character.

Every single day he wears a black top hat.

Seriously, every day since he started coming to this bar back in the ’80s, a top hat has been on his head.

I have no idea what's going on underneath that hat. It could be hair, no hair, or maybe even a rat controlling his arm movements. I asked him to see once, and Johnny’s response was, “I am nothing without this hat and you can pry it off my dead body before I show you. But even then, you won’t be able to see because I will super glue it to my head right before I die. ”

Today he’s wearing a piano key tie, along with the top hat. A bold choice.

“HA-HA-HA, I’ve never heard that one from you before,” I deadpan as I turn around and start stacking glasses. After a few minutes, I continue talking. “I had another rough night after a certain toxic boyfriend decided to sleep around again.”

Rick shakes his head and tsks. “I will never understand why someone like Ivy, who has everything going for her, chooses to date someone like Dennis.”

“Women enjoy a-holes. That’s why I had so many girlfriends back in the day,” Johnny says. “Still do.”

“Oh, please. You haven’t had a girlfriend since 2006. What was her name? Debbie?” Rick asks.

“Doobie, and since I’m a distinguished gentleman,” Johnny replies, while he motions to his top hat, “I don’t kiss and tell, which is why you know nothing about my nightly encounters with my lady friends.”

I turn around and look at Johnny. “Wait, what did you just say her name was?”

“Doobie.” He responds with a blink like it's the most normal name in the world. “She owned a secret marijuana farm a couple miles up in the mountains.”

“Wow,” I say, trying to hold in my smile. “And whatever happened to Doobie?”

Johnny scratches his mustache. “She got arrested for embezzling checks and went to jail for a year. Asked me to take care of the farm while she was in the slammer and I accidentally burned it down one night when I had a bonfire next to her plants. She never spoke to me again after that.”

Rick looks over at him, shocked. “Why would you have a bonfire right next to her plants?”

“I thought they were cold and needed some heat,” Johnny responds, looking down full of sorrow. “I didn’t even get to smoke them. Those poor little buds.”

Rick and I share the look we do many times a shift hearing these stories.

I never know what to expect from Johnny, but I always know his stories will make me snort or cause my jaw to drop.

Rick and his wife separated years ago, so he spends most his time at the bar, and Johnny has never married but does have a daughter in her thirties now.

I can expect to see these two almost every single time I come to work and that always makes me feel better.

I cut around the corner of the bar with a tray full of lemons and slam into Tripp, who’s looking down at his phone while walking through the metal kitchen door. I let out a shriek as we collide and the lemons spill all over the floor.

Trip gives me a onceover and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Olive, I can see you’re behind on your duties,” he claims, looking down at the uncut lemons on the floor in disgust. “Yup, Tripp,” I respond, “got caught up talking with the guys, sorry.”

He looks over my shoulder at Rick and Johnny, who give him overly friendly smiles. They can’t stand him, either. We are three gossips when he’s not around.

I bend down and start to retrieve all the lemons.

“I will be done cutting these in two minutes. Just got to go rinse them off now,” I add, unable to keep some annoyance from my tone.

“You know I have worked here for nine years now. Not to mention, I had been running this place on my own while your mom is sick. I can handle it. You don’t need to micromanage me. ”

Tripp looks shocked by my blunt response and it takes everything in me not to stare at the balding shiny patch on the top of his head.

He is only three years older than me and going bald?

I have a theory that it’s because he’s so evil.

Tripp is so horrible that even his hairline doesn’t want to stick around.

Tripp steps closer to me causing me to retreat and knock my back into the bar.

“I don’t care who you think you are or what you used to do here.

I am in charge now. That’s my mother's name on the sign.” He points towards the front door.

“I will be the one that calls the shots, always.” He straightens his tie.

“Also, you have a stain on your uniform. Don’t let it happen again.

” He motions to my stuffy button-down shirt and then walks off.

I look down at the stupid bow tie, suspenders, and white blouse that is now my uniform and groan at the big dirt stain from opening my car's hood.

Thanks to Tripp, I now spend every shift looking like a hipster from 2012 that just discovered her first handlebar mustache and banjo. I need to remember to do laundry next time I have a day off.