“Don’t say, Miss. I know,” he said with a sheepish grin.

Pete smiled. He was marinating chicken, keeping to himself.

The three of them, in addition to Phaedra whose creations had made the Bucksaw famous, made up the kitchen staff.

Chuck was mixing his special sauce with a blank stare, his mind somewhere far away. He wiped his wet cheek with the back of his wrist and continued chopping. He glanced at me then and shook his head. “Damn onions,” he said, wiping the other cheek.

“Uh-huh,” I said, dubious.

Phaedra wasn’t the only softy in the family.

With a wry smile, Pete glanced over at his boss and then continued with his duties.

I helped Hector roll silverware. Then I refilled the Coke syrup in the soda fountain behind the bar, cleaned the windows, and double-checked that the dining area was sparkling clean.

Gunnar dropped Kirby off at eight o’clock sharp, and she stood at the front door with her arms crossed, like she did every morning. I wasn’t sure why she insisted on coming in so early. We didn’t open until nine.

I opened the door and then locked the door behind her.

“I’m here!” she announced as she walked across the dining room, another thing she did every morning.

“I’ll alert the media,” Phaedra deadpanned.

Kirby stuck her tongue out at Phaedra and then winked at me as she pushed through the double doors, letting them swing violently behind her.

“You’re gonna break those damn doors one of these days!” Phaedra called.

“Sorry.” Kirby was rushed but sincere, her dark ponytail swishing as she carried the salt and pepper canisters.

As she began to refill the shakers on each table, they exchanged knowing smiles.

“I’ve known that brat since she was a latchkey kid,” Phaedra said, shaking her head at Kirby.

“I can hear you,” Kirby called back.

“Good!” Phaedra snapped. “I’d make myself a grilled chicken panini with pickles and chipotle mayo every day, right about the time Kirby would pass by on her way home from Columbia Elementary.”

Kirby smirked. “And she’d always magically lose her appetite.”

“Just because I knew you’d be ravenous by the time you poked your little crow head into my door,” Phaedra said, her tone a mixture of sass and silly. “She would talk nonstop with her mouth full, carrying on about her day, while she annihilated my poor panini, and then she wouldn’t even say thanks before wiping her mouth with her sleeve and walking the few blocks to Old Chicago where her mom waited tables.”

Kirby screwed on a saltshaker lid. “That isn’t entirely accurate.”

“Okay,” Phaedra spit. “She used a napkin. Sometimes.”

Kirby shook her head and chuckled as she detached the pepper shaker lid.

Noticing the time, I began unscrewing lids for Kirby, and she picked up her pace.