"Then it's settled."
Aunt Sally started to get up from the deck. Brad immediately jumped to his feet to help her.
"What is settled?" he asked.
"You'll be working at my diner."
"What?"
"I heard you're not afraid of hard work, and I, shame to admit it, am not as young anymore, and it's getting hard for me to do certain things. I thought about selling this place, but it's my whole life. What will I do when I can't come to work anymore? I could use a young, strong man to carry sacks of potatoes and fix the sink. You can start by washing dishes."
Brad stood there, not entirely understanding what had just happened.
"But… Anders…"
"You think I'm afraid of some brat?" she snorted. "I won't pay you much, but at least you'll have a steady job to show the social workers that you're leading a stable life."
"It's not about the money, but…" There was a reason people didn't want to hire him, even though they knew he had plenty of valuable skills. If Aunt Sally got into trouble because of him…
"Aren't you listening to your elders? Take those dirty dishes and get to work."
Not knowing what had just happened, Brad picked up the dishes onto a tray and straightened up as if before a sergeant.
"Aye, aye, ma'am!" He almost clicked his heels in salute and headed toward the diner. Hesitantly, he glanced back, wondering if he had interpreted the situation correctly.
"What are you looking back for? Get to work!" she commanded.
When Aunt Sally gave an order, there was no arguing.
But why would she offer him a job?
That question stayed in his mind as he got to washing the dishes. His boss tossed him a kitchen apron—brightly colored with flowers and frills, totally old-fashioned—but he didn't even flinch as he put it on. It wasn't the first time he washed dishes here, nor the first time he wore that apron. So, he eagerly got to work, though he couldn't stop wondering why Aunt Sally had made him that offer.
The first thing that came to his mind was her age. She was already past seventy and had been working in this diner for fifty years. People in town said she should retire, that it was getting too hard for her to manage everything alone. And if she didn't want to stop working, she should at least hire some help. But she was stubborn. She only changed her mind now. Was it because of him?
The diner door opened, and Aunt Sally greeted the newcomers with her usual gruff hospitality. They were tourists, speaking with what Brad thought was a German accent. Aunt Sally said, "I'll be right with you," and walked into the kitchen.
"I know this job is beneath your skills," she threw him an apologetic look, "but you can treat it as a temporary gig until you find something better."
"You're joking?" He gave her a crooked smile. "In this town? I doubt anyone here is as brave as you. And no honest work is beneath me."
She responded with a sentimental smile. She was probably thinking about his grandfather. He certainly was. He didn't remember him too well—his face was a little blurry in Brad's memory—but he recalled his strong hands, lifting heavy beams at construction sites without effort.
Yes, even Brad remembered that his grandfather wasn't afraid of hard work. And he could fix just about anything. When something broke at home, they never called for outside help. Brad's father was less handy, but Brad must have inherited his grandfather's talent because ever since he was a kid, he loved tinkering with things—especially engines. That's why the job waiting for him at the boatyard excited him more than it overwhelmed him.
The boatyard job, huh, he thought bitterly and went back to washing dishes. He heard the sizzle of grease as Aunt Sally dropped a fish onto the pan.
Washing dishes wasn't a demanding task, so he had time to take a better look around. The kitchen was old, as was the equipment, and it probably needed some maintenance. A trash bin was filled with unemptied potato peels. There were more dirty dishes in the sink than necessary. Aunt Sally clearly couldn't keep up with everything anymore. At her age, it had to be tough. If he had known earlier how much she was struggling…
And then, from the pocket of his worn-out jeans, a sound rang out.
A delicate piano—pure, almost ethereal—played the first notes. Simple chords, like drops of dew, slowly formed a melody that didn't belong in this place. There was something… vast about it. Like an open sky over an endless field, stretching infinitely.
A moment later, a guitar motif joined in—quiet, soft, yet full of emotion, like a sigh. The rhythm was slow but not sluggish, rather steady, like the steps of someone unsure whether to stop or move forward.
Brad flinched, as if the sudden reminder had pulled him out of his everyday daze. Time in the kitchen seemed to slow for a moment.
The melody gently built up, and the subtle beat in the background hinted at escape, movement, longing. The sounds floated, like butterflies over a rushing river, carrying something one might call a yearning for open space.
Brad closed his eyes for a fraction of a second—not too long, just enough for his mind to return to places only he knew.
"Brad, your ass is singing."
He startled. Crap! That was his phone!
"Thanks, boss," he smiled awkwardly, wiped his hands on the apron, and answered without even checking who was calling. "Hello?"
"Mr. Brad Lipski? I'm calling from St. Brandon's High School. It's about your niece, Olivia Lipski…"