A piece of the story...

 As promised in my welcome post, I am planning on posting a part of a story that I am currently writing. Since I am writing it as I share it with you, I will not set a specific day I post it nor a specific amount... In other words, you get what you get when you get it. :) That also means that I'm not exactly sure what the plot will end up being because I am writing what pops in my head. However, I do know that this is a story, starting right before WW2, about a girl who grew up alone on the streets of New York. She quickly learned to not trust anybody, but, with the help of an old (and a new) friend, she learns what family really is. Anyway, without further ado, the first section of my story that is tentatively titled Always and Forever.

New York, May 1938

I hurried out the door, slipping the strap of my messenger bag over my shoulder. The first day of my new job and I was running late. A great start so far. I picked up my pace, swerving around the crowds of people who were most likely also running late.

I ran past the storefronts where I usually stopped to stare and dream of days gone by and the future to come. Particularly Maria’s, the dress shop, which brought to life the memories of my mother. I could always picture her in one of those fancy chiffon “twirly” dresses, as my five-year-old self used to call them, dancing her heart away. I used to dream of being just like her, wearing expensive gowns, getting paid to do what I loved, and just dance. Buried under years of homelessness and shame. And bitterness. 

But that was all in the past. I was a new person now, with a roof to protect me and a stable job. Well, not unless I made it there on time. My hand-me-down cotton dress swished around my knees. Nothing fancy or twirly about it. In fact, nothing I owned could be described as either fancy or twirly. Only plain, earthy tones and straight hemlines. 

Soon enough, though, I’d be able to pay for a brand-new, all-to-myself dress. Soon enough, I could have the fresh start I’d been hoping for. Soon enough...well, actually, right now.

I skidded to a halt in front of the small cafe. Here it was. The stream of people pushed me as I stood grounded in my place staring up at the sign. Clare’s Cafe. I sucked in a deep, shaky breath and pushed myself forward.

A bell sounded above my head as I opened the door. I pasted a smile onto my face.

“Oh, I’m sorry, we’re not open for business yet.” A young woman stood hunched over a sketchbook behind a long counter. When I didn’t say anything, she looked up, her pencil hovering above the page. “Ah! You must be the new girl. Clare told me you were coming.” She skirted around the counter and held out her hand. “Leanne Holloway, as your service.”

“Cassidy Deveroux.” I shook her hand. Her grip matched her personality: strong and decided. And confident. I wish I could say the same about myself.

“Clare said you could bake.” It was a statement, but her voice rose in a question.

“Yes. My mother was a wonderful baker and I picked up her talent. We used to bake together late into the night when I couldn’t sleep or had nightmares. And dancing. She loved to dance..” I was suddenly shy from what my mouth just shared with a stranger without my brain’s approval. “But that was a long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“She-uh-died. Five years ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey. That must have been hard. Is your father still around?” A sympathetic smile filled her eyes. But I barely noticed. Somewhere along the road, I had grown immune to sympathy.

“I never met my father.”

Leanne dipped her head. “I see.” We stood in awkward silence. “Well, over here is the display counter, the cash register, dining area.” I followed her gaze as she pointed to various things in the small cafe. A change of subject. Just what I wanted.

No, needed. I didn’t feel the need to talk about my past with anyone more than necessary. My past was my business, not theirs, and talking about it only gave me more pain while they smiled sadly like they knew what I’d been through. But they didn’t know. 

“Back here is the kitchen, where you’ll spend most of your time.” The large ovens, spacious counter space, and collection of spices in jars in a corner made me smile. I had never seen so many utensils and ingredients in my life. “I’ll let you get acquainted with the location of everything while I finish getting ready up front.” She smiled. “And welcome to Clare’s Cafe.”

TO BE CONTINUED...