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it’s lunch and dinner that really get hectic.”
    Dolores swooped in with a stack of china, then dashed out again when Mae squawked at her. Before the door had swung closed, the waitress they had passed on the road the day before rushed out with a tray of clanging silverware.
    â€œRight,” Roman murmured.
    Charity rattled off instructions to the waitress, finished setting yet another table, then rushed over to a blackboard near the doorway and began to copy out the morning menu in a flowing, elegant hand.
    Dolores, whose spiky red hair and pursed lips made Roman think of a scrawny chicken, shoved through the swinging door and set her fists on her skinny hips. “I don’t have to take this, Charity.”
    Charity calmly continued to write. “Take what?”
    â€œI’m doing the best that I can, and you know I told you I was feeling poorly.”
    Dolores was always feeling poorly, Charity thought as she added a ham-and-cheese omelet to the list. Especially when she didn’t get her way. “Yes, Dolores.”
    â€œMy chest’s so tight that I can hardly take a breath.”
    â€œUm-hmm.”
    â€œWas up half the night, but I come in, just like always.”
    â€œAnd I appreciate it, Dolores. You know how much I depend on you.”
    â€œWell.” Slightly mollified, Dolores tugged at her apron. “I guess I can be counted on to do my job, but you can just tell that woman in there—” She jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Just tell her to get off my back.”
    â€œI’ll speak to her, Dolores. Just try to be patient. We’re all a little frazzled this morning, with Mary Alice out sick again.”
    â€œSick.” Dolores sniffed. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
    Listening with only half an ear, Charity continued to write. “What do you mean?”
    â€œDon’t know why her car was in Bill Perkin’s driveway all night again if she’s sick. Now, with my condition—”
    Charity stopped writing. Roman’s brow lifted when he heard the sudden thread of steel in her voice. “We’ll talk about this later, Dolores.”
    Deflated, Dolores poked out her lower lip and stalked back into the kitchen.
    Storing her anger away, Charity turned to the waitress. “Lori?”
    â€œAlmost ready.”
    â€œGood. If you can handle the registered guests, I’ll be back to give you a hand after I check the tour group in.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œI’ll be at the front desk with Bob.” Absently she pushed her braid behind her back. “If it gets too busy, send for me. Roman—”
    â€œWant me to bus tables?”
    She gave him a quick, grateful smile. “Do you know how?”
    â€œI can figure it out.”
    â€œThanks.” She checked her watch, then rushed out.
    He hadn’t expected to enjoy himself, but it was hard not to, with Miss Millie flirting with him over her raspberry preserves. The scent of baking—something rich, with apples and cinnamon—the quiet strains of classical music and the murmur of conversation made it almost impossible not to relax. He carried trays to and from the kitchen. The muttered exchanges between Mae and Dolores were more amusing than annoying.
    So he enjoyed himself. And took advantage of his position by doing his job.
    As he cleared the tables by the windows, he watched a tour van pull up to the front entrance. He counted heads and studied the faces of the group. The guide was a big man in a white shirt that strained across his shoulders. He had a round, ruddy, cheerful face that smiled continually as he piloted his passengers inside. Roman moved across the room to watch them mill around in the lobby.
    They were a mix of couples and families with small children. The guide—Roman already knew his name was Block—greeted Charity with a hearty smile and then handed her a list of names.
    Did she know