How To Rescue A Family. Teri Wilson

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       Chapter Three

      “We’re out of the pulled pork and hush puppies special,” Amanda poked her head into the dining room and announced.

      “That was quick.” Belle glanced at her watch and sighed.

      The Grille wasn’t scheduled to close for another two hours, and now they were down to one special—the pot roast. Slow-simmered in beef broth and smothered in onion gravy, it wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t nearly as good as the wine-based recipe Amanda had been experimenting with.

      Last week she’d brought her newest creation along to Sunday dinner at her parents’ house and placed it on the table as if it were a foil-wrapped work of art, steeped in pinot noir and slender, woodsy porcini mushrooms. Her sister and brother-in-law had loved it, as had her brother, Josh. Even her nieces and nephews had given it glowing reviews. But she hadn’t been able to convince her parents that it should replace the pot roast recipe the Grille had been using for the past sixty-eight years. They’d gone on and on about tradition and down-home Southern cooking, as if she’d told them she wanted to start feeding the good people of Spring Forest foie gras. It was maddening.

      Amanda was trying her best to be patient. Her mom, in particular, had been especially sensitive about changing anything at the Grille since Amanda’s grandmother passed away last year. The restaurant had become a sort of monument.

      But it couldn’t stay the same forever, could it? If this was going to be Amanda’s life from here on out, she needed to be able to put her own stamp on it.

      But tonight, for once, she hadn’t spent the better part of the dinner rush rewriting the Grille’s menu in her head. While she’d been busy taking tickets from Belle, calling out orders to the kitchen staff and plating one serving of pulled pork after another, her mind had been back at Furever Paws.

      How was it possible that Birdie and Bunny didn’t have insurance? It didn’t make sense. Amanda was pretty sure their younger brother, Gator, took care of all the shelter’s business dealings. And Gator was a big shot investment banker or something like that. He lived in a fancy Antebellum-style mansion outside Durham, with huge white columns and a yard full of trees dripping with Spanish moss. The house was so grand it had been pictured in Southern Living a few years ago. With all of his business success, and the many investments he’d made over the years, surely he knew the importance of having property insurance.

      Then again, it didn’t really matter why the shelter was uninsured. The most important thing now was finding the money elsewhere to fix the storm damage, and apparently it was going to cost twenty thousand dollars. Minimum.

      She wiped her hands on a dish towel and headed to the dining room to correct the specials board with her head in a fog, trying to come up with a way to help that didn’t involve admitting to Birdie and Bunny she’d overheard their private conversation. But again, twenty thousand dollars was a lot of money. An enormous amount. If Amanda had that kind of cash just sitting around, she’d have already launched her dream catering add-on at the Grille. There was no way she could solve their problem on her own, and bringing in other people would mean sharing their secret.

      At the moment, she had more pressing problems because no sooner had she climbed the step stool and swiped the eraser across the words pulled pork barbecue sandwich with hush puppies on the chalkboard hanging on the wall just to the right of the pie safe than someone behind her let out a sigh.

      “Looks like I’m too late for the barbecue.”

      Amanda turned to find Dr. Richard Jackson looking up at her with his arms crossed and a furrow in his brow.

      “Sorry, Doc. We’re clean out.” Amanda stepped down until her feet were once again planted firmly on the Grille’s white-and-black-tiled floor. “You’re here a little later than usual, aren’t you?”

      Dr. Jackson had become a regular at the Grille shortly after his wife passed away five years ago. Now he was almost like family and he usually showed up for dinner at six fifteen sharp, right after his veterinary practice closed up shop for the night.

      He shrugged and did a little head tilt that made him look even more like Denzel Washington than he normally did. “I was out helping Birdie and Bunny with a sick llama.”

      Amanda frowned. “Which one? Drama or Llama Bean?”

      “Llama Bean.” He waved a hand. “Don’t worry—she’s going to be fine.”

      “That was sweet of you.” Amanda lifted a brow.

      Doc J was spending more and more time volunteering his services at Furever Paws, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was interested in one of the Whitaker sisters. She just couldn’t figure out which one. Then again, maybe the additional volunteering was only because his schedule wasn’t quite as packed as usual since his daughter, Lauren, was set to take over his practice at the end of the year.

      But something about the twinkle in his eyes told her he was thinking about more than just a sick llama. “It was nothing, really. Just a mild ear infection.”

      “Nonsense. I’m sure Birdie and Bunny really appreciate all you do for them. I was out there earlier today too. We must have just missed each other.”

      “I guess we did. Did you see the storm damage? Such a shame.” The older man’s smile dimmed somewhat, but he still looked as handsome as ever. At sixty-seven, he was just a few years older than both Birdie and Bunny, who were ages sixty-four and sixty-three. He’d be a perfect match for either sister.

      Not that she should be meddling in the Whitaker sisters’ personal lives, even though Birdie had most definitely taken an interest in Amanda’s.

      “The roof needs some major repairs. I’m toying with the idea of throwing them a fundraiser. I’m just trying to get everything figured out before I talk to Birdie and Bunny about it.” She bit her lip. “I wonder how profitable a bake sale could be.”

      Twenty thousand dollars translated into a massive amount of brownies and cupcakes, but so far it was the only thing she’d come up with.

      “I’m sure every little bit would help.” Doc J cast a longing glance at the plateful of pulled pork on Belle’s tray as she shuffled past them. “But you might raise more money if you held a barbecue instead.”