Burnt Sugar - Part 2 (standard:romance, 3719 words) [2/7] show all parts
Author: damnation	Added: Oct 19 2009	Views/Reads: 2311/1626	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is an ongoing story set in Sydney, Australia. Centered around Taters, a small restaurant with character, Burnt Sugar is a concoction of love, drama, food and angst.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Tammy followed her boss and the stranger with her eyes but lost interest
quickly when their voices became muffled. She blew out a breath and 
finished cleaning up the coffee machine. The floors still had to be 
swept. 

Moments later, Tammy looked up when Russell's chair scraped along the
floor. He face looked thunder black and Tammy imagined that she could 
see the artery in his neck pulsing. She strained to hear what was going 
on and was not disappointed. 

"Thanks but no thanks. And don't think I can't pick out a threat when I
hear one, veiled or not," Russell informed the man who was still 
sitting down. 

"Now, Mister Russell, I wouldn't be so quick to jum-" 

"And don't you be telling me what I should or shouldn't do," Russell
informed Edwin. "Get out. We're closed." With that, Russell spun on his 
heels and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Tammy could see that the man looked a little embarrassed and a lot
angry. He adjusted his tie and stood up. By the time his eyes met hers, 
however, the anger and embarrassment were gone. "Have a good night, 
young lady," he said with an asinine smile. 

"I think you heard my boss," Tammy said stiffly. If Russell didn't like
the man, then neither did she. In the short time that she had been 
working for Russell, she had become fiercely loyal to him. "We're 
closed." 

"And if I were to stoop as low as you and your boss, I would say I
fucking heard you. But seeing that I'm not, I'll just see myself out." 
He gave Tammy a condescending nod before exiting Taters. Tammy let out 
a breath she didn't even know she was holding and went to lock the 
door, just in case. 

She wondered what all that was about. 

5 

Frances stirred the pot one last time and glanced at the clock. She
wasn't sure what time her father was going to be home but she had made 
a huge pot of stew in anticipation of his return. She had a sudden 
craving for her mother's stew today and decided to make it. Marie used 
to make a big pot of it and they would have it whenever they were 
hungry. 

She hadn't seen the angry woman all day after the incident, and for that
she was glad. She hadn't been able to think about much else the entire 
day; the woman's flashing eyes kept appearing in her mind's eye and she 
would alternate between feeling guilty to amused and back to guilty for 
feeling amused. 

Frances stepped out of the kitchen when she heard the key turning in the
lock. "Hey Dad." 

"Huh." Russell looked surprised to see her still up. He had been
drinking and he knew that she didn't like it when he did so he was 
hoping that she would be in bed by the time he got home. Then his nose 
twitched. "Something smells good," he said. Indeed, the smell was 
clearing his alcoholic haze a little. 

"I made stew. Are you hungry?" 

Before he could answer her, Frances went back into the kitchen and began
ladling out the stew on some jasmine rice. Russell allowed a ghost of a 
smile to seep through his stern countenance and followed his daughter 
into the kitchen. Marie used to do that--push plates of food before him 
regardless of whether he had already eaten. 

He sat down at the stout dining table and suddenly felt out of place. He
hadn't spent much time in the kitchen since Marie passed. Even 
though--or perhaps because of the fact that he was a chef by trade, the 
kitchen at home was Marie's territory. Sitting there, looking at the 
slender figure of his daughter from behind... he could almost pretend 
that Marie was still here. Then Frances turned around and his illusion 
shattered into a million pieces. 

"Here," she said, oblivious to the pain lancing through him. "Made it
just like Mum used to. Well maybe not exactly, but...." she trailed 
off, shocked by the wetness on her father's cheeks. "Dad?" 

"I-" Russell quickly wiped his eyes. "Thank you. It smells lovely." 

They dug into the stew wordlessly after that, each of them lost in their
own thoughts. Then Frances broke the silence with a question. "Is there 
someone else living here? A woman?" She wasn't sure if her father was 
seeing anyone after.... 

"Ah, yes. I forgot to tell you about Kristen." 

Kristen. Frances tried to push away the feeling of betrayal at her
father's words. The man had the right to see other people; after all, 
he was only in his late forties! Nevertheless, it was still hard to 
envision and swallow. Her father loved her mother, was crazy about her 
even though they had been together for more than half of their lives. 
To have someone else take her place.... No! her mind shouted. No one 
would ever take her place! 

"She's the other chef at Taters and she's renting the granny flat out
back." Russell stopped talking when he saw the blank look on Frances' 
face. "What's wrong? Did something happen?" 

Chef. Renting. Granny flat. A sense of relief rushed through Frances and
she felt silly. "No, no. Um. We kinda had an altercation today while 
you were at work." Then, to be sure, she added rather fearfully, "She's 
not your girlfriend or anything, is she?" 

Russell's eyes rounded, then he let out a rusty laugh. "Girlfriend? I'm
too old to have girlfriends! That makes me sound like a paedophile!" 
Russell scratched his bearded chin in amusement. 

"You know what I mean, Dad," Frances said as she rolled her eyes. 

"Kristen would have a fit if she heard you," Russell continued as though
he hadn't heard Frances. "She's very confident, astute. And an 
excellent chef." 

"Sounds exactly like your type," Frances joked. 

Russell shook his head as he took another bite of the stew. It wasn't
Marie's stew, but it ran close. "My type is your mother. There could 
never be anyone else." 

Frances bit back a sob at the simple words. She lowered her face and
stabbed at her stew, her appetite suddenly gone. "It doesn't get 
easier, does it?" she murmured softly. And even though she did not 
elaborate her words, Russell knew exactly what Frances was referring 
to. 

"No, it doesn't. I don't expect it ever will." 

6 

Nell Hutchins waved at the familiar figure crossing the street. She was
into her third cup of cappuccino at Bad Manors and was wondering when 
her friend was going to show. 

"Hey you," Frances greeted her friend, leaning over to place a kiss on
Nell's cheek. "Sorry, the medical check up took forever," she 
explained. "I'm starving!" 

"How's your Dad these days, darl? You doing all right living back there
with him?" 

Frances shrugged. "It's okay, I guess. We don't talk much." 

Living in that house again with constant reminders of her Mum was hard.
Even though her Dad had taken away all the photographs of her, Frances 
could still imagine seeing her mother standing on the landing with a 
hand on her hip, sitting on the couch folding laundry, or stirring 
something at the stove; it was the main reason why she had dreaded her 
trip back. 

As for the other reasons.... Mainly, there was guilt. Guilt at leaving
her father to his own devices. She was not proud of that but in her own 
defense, she could not stay and see him destroy himself with his 
drinking. 

"I heard Taters is looking for staff. I met Alison last week and she
said she walked out. Says your Dad's an arsehole." 

Frances frowned but she knew first hand how bad her father's temper
could get, so she let the comment slide. "I'm sure they'll find someone 
else more suited for the position," Frances said diplomatically. 

Her parents had bought Taters shortly before Marie left them. Frances
had taken off before the restaurant was open; in all honesty, she had 
her doubts as to whether it would ever be open. She was glad that her 
father had picked himself up to do that at least. 

"Maybe you could go help out while you're here," Nell suggested.
"Alison's been telling anyone who would listen to stay away from 
Taters, that the food's bad." Nell gave her friend a sympathetic look. 

"What? What a fucking bitch!" Frances said, her voice raising. It was
one thing to bitch about her Dad's reowned temper and another to 
blemish the quality of Taters' food... which... she had yet to try 
herself but that was besides the point. 

"Sorry darl. I told her that if she couldn't handle the heat, to stay
out of the kitchen--or, in this case, the line of your Dad's fire. Told 
anyone who would listen too, that the food's great, and everyone should 
know that chefs have God complexes. Bitchy waitresses who've just been 
fired, on the other hand...." 

Frances felt her anger dissipate and chuckled at Nell's words. "Thanks."
She quickly placed her order then turned back to her friend. "God 
complex, huh?" At Nell's nod, she wrinkled her nose and grinned. "That 
he sure has." 

* 

Taters was bustling when she dropped by the establishment on her way
home. A quick glance at her wrist watch told her that it was 
dinnertime. Plenty of hungry people to feed. She felt a little better 
knowing that the popularity of the place hadn't gone down despite 
Alison badmouthing it. 

"Hi there! If you could grab yourself a seat, I'll be with you as soon
as I can!" A cheery voice greeted her. 

Frances looked at a slightly flustered looking redhead and responded
with a smile and a nod. She grabbed a menu and made her way to the beer 
garden that was to the far right of the restaurant. The beer garden was 
separated from the small yard behind the kitchen by a thatch fence but 
it looked like a whole different world to the cluttered little yard. 

Taters wasn't a big place. Indoors, it held two large oblong tables that
were made out of heavy oak doors and two comfortable looking couches. 
The beer garden held two four-seater and two two-seater tables. Frances 
spied an empty two-seater table and went to help clear it. 

"You don't have to do that, hun," a woman behind her said. 

"That's all right," Frances said over her shoulder. "I don't mind." 

"Well then, thank you! We're a little short-handed around here these
days." 

Frances went to the kitchen with the few stacked up plates and cutlery.
There, she noted that the bench around the dishwasher looked like a 
disaster area. Her father and Kristen were bent over their stations, 
hard at work. It took her but a second to make up her mind. She began 
rinsing some plates and stacking them on the tray to put through the 
dishwasher. 

"Oh, now that's just too much!" the same waitress cried out when she
spied Frances at the dishwasher. At her exclamation, the two chefs 
looked up from their work and Frances froze, unsure if she had crossed 
any boundaries. 

Russell's expression softened when he saw his daughter. "It's okay,
Tammy. That's my daughter, Frances," he said gruffly. 

Tammy looked like a deer caught in headlights at the revelation. Frances
gave her a dimpled smile and resumed what she was doing. "All right 
then. Well. I'll just get back to work then," she stuttered before 
hightailing out of the kitchen. 

Frances snuck a look at the kitchen behind her and quickly looked away
when the woman whom she had very recently emptied a pail of dirty water 
on looked up from her chopping board. She hoped to stay under the radar 
tonight. 

7 

"No, Dad, I really don't mind. And you don't have to pay me. I was happy
to help." 

"You get paid or you don't help," Russell answered gruffly. Frances
rolled her eyes and pocketed the cash that her father had placed in 
front of her. She made a mental note to leave him some money before she 
left. 

"Thanks then. And for the record, I didn't do it for money." When her
father didn't answer her, Frances trudged on. "So, uh, Tammy said that 
you guys are short-handed?" she inquired casually. "I'm not busy till I 
leave.... I could help." 

"I don't want to trouble you. It's your time off. We'll find someone
soon." 

Frances rolled her eyes again. "Well, until you find someone, I wouldn't
mind earning some extra cash," she said, putting herself out there. If 
getting paid was the only way her father would accept her help, then 
she could play it his way. "I could come in before the dinner rush and 
stay till close." 

She took his silence for consent and she went to the kitchen to put the
kettle on boil. She peered out of the kitchen window when she caught 
movement in the granny flat across the lawn. 

Kristen Black. 

The woman, chef, tenant, was reticent at best. Whenever she spoke, it
was either to say something monosyllabic or scathing. Frances could see 
how her father would get along with the woman. Personally, she found 
Kristen rude and bossy. 

"If you can lean, you can clean," the woman had informed her dryly when
Frances finished with the dishes and was standing to one side, looking 
for something else to help with. 

Frances scowled at the memory and she slammed the kettle onto the stove
with more force than necessary. Then she reached up on tiptoes for two 
mugs. She spied more movement across the lawn and saw the door to the 
granny flat open and close. Kristen had exited the flat and was coming 
towards the house. Soon enough, a knock sounded on the door just beside 
the sink. Frances went over to see what Kristen wanted. 

"Oh, it's you," was the first thing the impudent woman said. Frances
narrowed her eyes as she held the door with one hand. 

"Yes?" she asked, injecting as much frost as she could into that one
word. 

Kristen caught sight of her employer and landlord behind Frances and
addressed her next words to him. "Hot water's acting up again, 
Russell." 

Frances felt her hackles rising. It was one thing to lash out at her
when she dumped all that water on her by accident. She could even 
handle Kristen bossing her around at Taters; after all, a commercial 
kitchen was the chefs' domain. But here, in her home, in her Mum's 
kitchen.... 

"Excuse me, I'm standing right here and I'm asking the question so if
you would look at me when you're answering, I would appreciate that," 
Frances said in a rush before she lost her nerve. 

An elegant brow rose and Kristen scrutinized her. Then she repeated
herself, word for word, but with her eyes on Frances. 

"My name's Frances." 

"I assume your last name's Russell too," Kristen said with a shrug.
Kristen had a point and that pissed Frances off even more. 

"To assume is to make an ass of you and me," Frances grinded out,
feeling slightly foolish at uttering the first thing that came to her 
head. Now she was sure she would have lost any chance of gaining the 
woman's respect. She sounded like a sixteen-year-old when she said 
that. 

"Is that right?" Kristen asked, trailing her eyes over Frances'
features. Her voice had dropped an octave and it sent a tremor through 
Frances for reasons she could not pinpoint. 

"I'll have a look at it, Kristen," Russell said from behind Frances,
effectivly ending their conversation. He shot his daughter an amused 
look when he walked past her, his toolbox in tow. 

Frances stomped her way back to the now whistling kettle and took it off
the fire. Huffing loudly, she decided that a shower was in order--damn 
the tea! 

* 

Kristen peered over Russell's shoulder as he fiddled with the hot water
line that led from the water storage tank on the roof of the granny 
flat to the bathroom. She sighed as she rolled her head left and right, 
wishing that she was washing away the grime of the day that very 
moment. 

"You know, Kristen, you're welcome to use the bathroom at mine while I
check this out," Russell said over his shoulder. Almost as though he 
knew that Kristen was going to reject his offer, he continued with, 
"There's a tub...." 

Kristen bit her lower lip as she considered his offer. "Are you sure?"
she asked tentatively, knowing that he knew she had already caved with 
that question. 

"Go for gold," Russell said, bestowing her the gift of a rare smile. 

Kristen couldn't help but notice the difference in Russell. It was
slight but there, nevertheless. And Kristen noticed that Russell didn't 
take as many swigs from his stashed bottle of bourbon after Frances 
appeared at Taters that evening. Speaking of whom.... "You never 
mentioned a daughter, Russell," she commented before she could stop 
herself. She, of all people, should know a thing or two about the need 
for privacy. Her own closet wasn't exactly devoid of skeletons. She was 
busy lamenting at her slip of tongue that she almost missed what he 
said. "Huh?" 

"She's a beauty, ain't she?" Russell said softly. "Looks just like her
Mum. Even more so now that her hair's all grown out and no longer 
streaked with all the colours of the rainbow." 

"Rainbow?" Kristen echoed her boss dumbly as a mental image of Frances
in a punk emo outfit and multi-coloured hair flitted into her mind. Oh, 
no, wrong image. What kind of image went with rainbow coloured hair 
anyway? 

"She said she was making a statement. You know," Russell threw Kristen a
look, "for being gay." 

Eyebrows crawled up Kristen's hairline. "Gay. Huh." 

"Some lucky woman is going to be with her one day," Russell said
ruefully. 

"Um...." Kristen didn't know what to say to that and chose to change the
topic. "I'll go grab that shower then. If you're sure," she reiterated. 
At Russell's absent nod, she rummaged her drawers for something to 
change into, grabbed her towel, and made her way to Russell's house. 

TBC


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