Burnt Sugar - Part 1 (standard:romance, 2188 words) [1/7] show all parts
Author: damnation	Updated: Jan 23 2010	Views/Reads: 3224/1887	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Kitchen humour, drama and mystery are blended to form a complex cocktail of romantic love between Frances and Kristen.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


"You can go take the orders. If it gets too much then tell them
arseholes to go on home and learn to fry an egg or sumthin," Russell 
stated evenly, his deep baritone voice carrying well into the dining 
area. Ramsey threw a fearful gaze over his shoulder, hoping that none 
of their patrons heard his boss. "I'm sick to death of making this crap 
anyway," Russell continued, much to Ramsey's despair. Russell flipped a 
pan over on the stove to drive his point home. 

"Um... order up?" 

Two pairs of eyes swivelled around at the uncertain sounding voice. 

"Frances?" Russell said in a tone of disbelief. Ramsey looked from the
young woman standing on the other side of the counter that separated 
the kitchen from the rest of the restaurant to his boss and cautiously 
moved to one side of the kitchen just in case casualties ensued from 
the exchange. 

The woman quirked her lips in what seemed to Ramsey as a nervous smile.
"Hey Dad." 

2 

The woman quirked her lips in what seemed to Ramsey as a nervous smile.
"Hey Dad." 

Dad?! Ramsey thought incredulously to himself. In the two years that he
had worked for Kevin Russell, he had never heard the man speak of any 
woman, much less kids--a full grown daughter at that! 

Ramsey tried to be as inconspicuous as he could just so that he could
witness the unfolding of what would seem to be... drama. Drama in 
Taters? a bemused voice quipped in his head. Never! 

"How you been?" 

"I- Fine, fine. You?" Russell stuttered, much to Ramsey's cautious
amusement. 

Russell's daughter seemed to possess her father's penchant for
nonchalance. She shrugged in reply and shot a look in Ramsey's 
direction. Busted, Ramsey thought to himself. Russell followed her gaze 
and straightened up unconsciously when he noticed his employee with his 
back pressed up against the wall. 

"Ramsey, put up the close sign and make that last order," Russell said
gruffly. "We're closing early tonight." He met his eyes to his 
daughter's and jerked his head. "You, uh, come out back with me." 

"Please?" Frances added, not budging. Ramsey widened his eyes at the
woman, not sure if she was being courageous or suicidal. When Russell 
did not blow her head off instantly, Ramsey turned to stare at his 
boss. 

"A-" Russell threw his employee a quick glance before mumbling, "Come
on, lass. Please." 

Well, hell's bells! Ramsey's mind was so turbulent from what he was
witnessing that a cool part of it wondered at how much of a life Ramsey 
had to find this little exchange so stimulating. He went over to the 
counter and picked up the docket when his boss exited the kitchen with 
his daughter in tow. The order was for a hamburger. A hamburger! How 
droll was a hamburger after all that excitement? 

Ramsey slapped on a beef patty on the grill and emptied the last of the
frozen chips into the deepfryer basket before making a beeline for the 
entrance of Taters. He flipped the 'Open' sign over and dimmed the 
light that lit up Taters' wooden signboard on the outside. With a 
spring in his step, he made his way back to the kitchen. This would be 
the first time in his entire working history at Taters that they were 
closing earlier than the appointed closing time of ten o'clock. 

* 

The kitchen's backdoor led to a small leafy yard that was cluttered with
boxes, buckets, mops and industrial brooms. Frances stuck her hands in 
the back pockets of her jeans, trying to contain her discomfort and 
nervousness at being in close proximity to her father. 

Russell kicked at an overturn milk crate and sat down. He fumbled around
the breast pocket on his chef jacket for his packet of cigarette and 
lighter. Frances pulled up another milk crate, turned it over to its 
side, and sat down beside him. When he could not seem to locate his 
lighter, Frances leaned over with her own and lit his cigarette. He 
looked at his daughter in surprise. 

"You smoke now?" 

Frances shrugged and pulled out a bag of tobacco. 

"Oh for-" Russell threw her his packet of cigarettes. 

He could not look at her lovely face for too long; she had her mother's
eyes--dark orbs that reminded him of his loss. Her hair had grown out, 
much to his relief; in place of a short hairdo with long, haphazard 
locks of colourfully dyed hair was a simple ponytail the colour of 
midnight sky. Now a young woman of twenty-seven, she had grown in other 
ways too, but he did not want to think about them. Frances would always 
be his baby girl and that would never change, no matter how long she 
stayed away, how much of the world she'd seen on her own. 

"Thanks." Frances wanted to return the packet of cigarettes to her
father, wanted to tell him that she didn't like tailored cigarettes, 
but his obvious discomfort that mirrored hers stopped her. 

"When did you get back?" 

"This morning. It'll only be for a few weeks," Frances said, preempting
his next question. "I need to get a new visa, get a medical check up... 
and then I'll be off again." 

Russell nodded silently to that. "Your room's still intact," he said
gruffly. "Bit dusty but." 

"Thanks." Frances tapped her cigarette and wondered how it was that she
could keep on talking in a class full of students who had no grasp of 
the English language but was reduced to speechlessness when it came to 
her father. "It's Mum's death anniversary yesterday." 

Russell clenched his jaw as he sucked in a sharp breath. Then he let it
out slowly. "I know." 

They finished their cigarettes in silence. 

3 

The house that she had grown up in looked smaller and older now that she
had seen a little more of the world. It no longer held any warmth 
either; Frances noticed that there were no family pictures at all 
around the house. 

Frances almost choked on the big puff of dust that invaded the room when
she dropped her backpack on the huge rug that dominated the floor of 
her room. Stalking over to the windows, she quickly opened all four of 
them to air the room. Her father obviously found little need to spend 
any time in her room. The thick layer of dust that covered all the 
bedroom furniture held testament to that. 

After spending the night at Nell's, one of her best mates, she arrived
at her father's doorstep in the afternoon and let herself into the 
house with the key that he had given her the night before. 

Two hours of vacuuming, dusting, wiping and rearranging later, Frances
stood back with her hands on hips as she assessed her handiwork. Her 
long, dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail and her bangs were 
kept from her face with a navy bandana. The sleeves of her faded 
T-shirt were pulled up and her jeans were rolled up. She wiped the back 
of an arm across her forehead and dropped a damp rag into a pail of 
gray water. 

Suddenly feeling exhausted, Frances hauled the pail of dirty water over
to one of the windows and tipped it out, knowing that her father was at 
Taters and there would be no one in their garden. Thus, she was 
completely unprepared for the shout of obscenity that followed her 
action. 

"What the fuck!" 

Heart racing, Frances peered over the window ledge to meet a flashing
pair of green eyes. She clamped a hand over her mouth and backed up to 
dash down the stairs and let herself out into the garden. 

"I'm so sorry, I thought no one was-" Frances started apologizing. 

"Who the fuck are you and what the hell were you thinkin?" 

Frances stuck her hands in her pockets and grimaced. "I'm sorry," she
repeated in a soft voice now that her pounding heart slowed down to 
beat normally. 

The woman standing before her looked like a mess. Frances cringed again
when she thought about the colour of the water she had tipped out. 
Finely arched brows emphasized the woman's sputtering anger. "Stop 
apologizing and tell me who you are," the woman demanded with all the 
dignity that she could gather in her drenched state. "What were you 
doing up there?" 

"This is my Dad's house. I was, uh, cleaning out my old room." Then
Frances crossed her arms and returned the query. "And you are...?" 

"Your Dad's?" The woman's eyes rounded. Frances began to wonder if there
was actually anyone around who knew of her existence. The chef at the 
restaurant the night before had seemed equally surprised when she had 
greeted her father. "Now I know you're lying," the woman muttered, her 
eyes narrowing as she closed in on Frances. 

"Hey, back off!" Frances said, backing up herself. "Not that I need to
prove anything to you but Kevin Russell lives here and he's the owner 
of Taters. He's got a battered old Vee Dub which I doubt he's gotten 
rid of and if you call him Kevin, he'd lop your head off." When the 
woman halted her advance, Frances swallowed. "Now that I've kinda 
established my identity, who are you?" 

"I don't have to explain anything to you," the woman hissed. She picked
up a mug of what looked to be tea before the invasion of dirty gray 
water--Frances grimaced again at that--and stormed off. 

Comments are love! 

Next part will be uploaded soon! 


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