Miracles for Nick Read online

"Believe me, I can handle this,” Myrtle—scrunched behind the gigantic old stove with a wrench in her hand and wearing a hot red jumpsuit and—hollered.

  "Myrtle, I think we should just wait for the gas man to come back and take care of this.” Glory's three new employees had been hard at work all week. They'd scrubbed with enthusiasm ... after Glory had showed them the ins and outs of a scrub brush.

  Somehow Blossom had restored the booths and benches to almost pristine condition one afternoon while Glory was at the Health Department arranging for an inspection so they could open for business.

  They'd all painted the restaurant in bright, primary colors ... green, yellow and red, much to Myrtle, Fern and Blossom's delight. Glory had to admit the colors really made a difference in bringing the old diner back to life. They'd kept the Fifties look, since most of the diner already looked like it was out of that era. Thank goodness retro was in. Paint and elbow grease had made all the difference.

  At the rate they were going they could have the doors open within days.

  At least they could if Myrtle didn't blow them up. “Really, Myrtle, let's just wait for the gas man to come back."

  "Believe me, I know what I'm doing,” Myrtle said, showing no indication of waiting.

  "I don't feel good about this,” Fern said, backing away from the stove.

  "How hard can it be?” Myrtle plunged her hand behind the stove and twisted the little knob on the pipe. “You just turn the gas on and then—"

  Blossom rushed breathlessly into the room, a lamp in hand. “Look, this hurricane lamp was in perfect condition I just lit it—"

  Whoosh.

  A small ball of fire erupted from the stove's burners and ignited the paper bag that had been sitting on top.

  "Fire,” Blossom wailed, running from the room.

  "Where's the fire extinguisher?” Glory shouted, frantically pawing through a pile of stuff on the counter. “Someone call 911."

  "911!” Blossom shouted.

  "I told you I didn't have a good feeling about this,” Fern said, backing toward the door.

  "911!” Blossom shouted even louder.

  Something in the burning bag gave a small pop, as if it had exploded.

  "On the phone, Blossom. Call 911 on the phone."

  Glory snagged the small fire extinguisher and ran back to the counter as she pointed the hose. Nothing happened. “How the hell—"

  "Glory, we don't approve of swearing,” Myrtle said primly from her safely distant corner.

  "Here let me,” a male voice said, taking the extinguisher from Glory's hands and removing a little peg from the trigger. He deftly pointed the hose and extinguished the bag and its contents within moments. Her fireman turned, and Glory caught her first glimpse of him.

  "Thank you,” she managed, pleased any words escaped her rather constricted throat. Her rescuer wasn't just handsome. He was a hunk—a bone-rattling, heart-stopping, pulse-racing, palms-sweating hunk. Dark hair perfectly styled, a suit that had never known a rack, and a smile that probably had women falling all over themselves to do his bidding were just the beginnings of his hunkiness.

  "You're welcome. I hope you weren't experimenting with dishes you plan to serve.” The gleam in his dark eyes told her he was kidding. “I was looking forward to having the restaurant open. It will be convenient to work."

  "You work around here?” Glory ventured.

  "Well, my office is on State Street, but I'm at the courthouse so often that I might as well live here."

  Damn. Though she was pretty sure she knew the answer, Glory asked, “You're an attorney?"

  "Last time I checked.” He shot her another thousand watt smile, but this time it did nothing for Glory. She knew that, first and foremost, attorneys were actors able to slap a smile in place as easily as other people slapped a fly. Their surface was all gloss and underneath hid a barracuda. Her divorce had been messy—very messy—and she blamed it on both attorneys turning every little decision into a battle, and her attorney-husband who was determined to draw blood.

  The gorgeous fire-fighting attorney thrust his hand out. “Nick. Nick Aaronson."

  "Glory Chambers.” She ignored his extended hand.

  "Glory, aren't you going to introduce us?” Myrtle asked.

  "Oh, so sorry. Nick, let me introduce Myrtle, Fern and Blossom.” Each nodded in turn.

  But Nick didn't nod, didn't extend his hand again. Instead, much to Glory's amazement, his face lost all its color, and he looked as if he was going to bolt out the door. He stood staring at her employees as if he was seeing ghosts.

  "Nick, are you okay?” Glory asked, concerned despite her animosity toward the entire attorney race.

  "Oh, Nicky, maybe you're suffering from smoke inhalation,” Myrtle said.

  "I could do mouth-to-mouth.” Blossom didn't sound as if she'd mind mouthing Nick.

  "No,” Nick croaked, sounding very much as if he'd mind. “I mean, I'm fine. It's just I've got to go."

  "Well, thank you again, Mr. Aaronson,” Glory said.

  "You're welcome,” he shouted as he practically sprinted from the store.

  "What an odd man,” Glory mused.

  "You think so?” Myrtle asked, her tone saying she didn't agree.

  "Don't you?” Glory asked her three employees.

  "I thought he was cute,” Fern said with a sigh. “And brave. Look at the way he charged in and saved our lives. Why, he didn't even ask for a reward. Any descent hero would have at least asked for a kiss for a reward."

  "He didn't even want mouth-to-mouth.” Blossom looked disappointed.

  "Well, he's gone.” Glory didn't add, thank goodness, but she certainly thought it. She didn't need any attractive attorneys hanging around. She'd had enough of attorneys in the last year to last her a lifetime.

  It was too bad that Nick had chosen this particular profession, because Fern was right. He was cute. And brave. Glory shook her head. No, she wasn't going to give her cute fire-fighting attorney another thought. Right now she had to concentrate on getting her business off the ground.

  Trying to sound as if cute attorneys were the last thing on her mind, Glory said, “Now that the fire's out let's go back to work."

  "I'll just see about the stove,” Myrtle offered.

  "No,” Glory practically shouted.

  When the small redhead's face fell, Glory regretted being so abrupt. Oh, not bad enough to let Myrtle work on the stove, but bad enough to try to salve her feelings. “Maybe you could ... um, go see about the sign outside. I thought we should probably spruce up the paint."

  "Let's just toss the sign,” Myrtle said, visibly brightening. “The place needs a classier name than The Coffee House."

  "How ‘bout Glory's?” Fern suggested.

  "Or The Courthouse Restaurant?” Blossom said.

  "The Courthouse—it makes sense to play on that,” Myrtle, ever the boss, mused. “How about The Judge's Chamber."

  "No, no, better yet, how about Glory's Chambers,” Blossom said.

  Glory tried to rein in her three employees, though a week's experience had taught her that they didn't rein easily. “I don't think—"

  "It's perfect,” Myrtle pronounced, as if that was that. “Glory's Chambers. It plays on your name and the fact we're located right across from the courthouse and a bunch of judges’ chambers. They might run things over there, but you run things here."

  Glory credited her former corporate life with her ability to keep a straight face. She was the boss? Certainly no one ever told Myrtle that.

  "Glory's Chambers it is,” her other two employees agreed.

  Glory was outnumbered. It looked as if she was the owner of a restaurant named Glory's Chambers.

  * * * *

  Nick Aaronson was a logical man. He stood in a long courthouse hall and stared out the window across the street at the small restaurant. What had happened there earlier this afternoon wasn't logical in the least. It was plain crazy.

  He believed in what he
could see, what he could touch. He did not believe that dreams came true.

  Until today.

  He'd met those three women before. Oh, not the redheaded owner—he would have enjoyed meeting her. But the other three. Yes, he'd met them in his dreams. And that didn't make an ounce of sense.

  Sure, he dreamed about Lola, a woman he'd met in his teens, but he'd met her and then dreamed about her. She'd been one of the most passionate women he'd ever met—passionate enough that he'd dreamed about her more than once since their brief fling.

  That made sense. It didn't make sense to dream about someone, or rather someones, and then meet them.

  No, that didn't make sense at all.

  Maybe the pressure of work was getting to him. That was certainly a plausible explanation. This last case had produced more than a little stress. Nick liked feeling like the good guy—protector of the weak, defender of the innocent. His client had been neither weak nor innocent. Defending him was a mistake. Nick wished he had never taken the case. He tried to choose his clients with care, but this time he hadn't exercised enough caution.

  Seeing Bill Richard's disappointment hadn't helped his anxiety.

  Stress. That's what it was.

  He hadn't dreamed the women he just met. He simply imagined he had because he was so stressed.

  His cell phone rang, and he plucked it out of his pocket and flipped it open without even thinking.

  "Hello?” he said absently, still staring at the restaurant.

  "Nick. Do I have good news for you.” Good news, at least when it was coming from his mother, was never good and always involved a woman ... a woman she was hoping would be the perfect match for him.

  "Mother, the last time you had good news, I had to get a restraining order."

  "But..."

  Finding a woman for him had become a bit of an obsession for his mother. He was outnumbered since his two siblings had married and started producing grandchildren. He couldn't compete.

  Truth of the matter was he didn't want to compete, not that his wants mattered. Oh, his mother wanted him to be happy, but she couldn't believe he could be happy without a wife.

  She was wrong.

  His mother chattered merrily on the phone, totally ignoring his lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, Nick you'll just love her. Grace says she can speak three languages. Think how handy that could be."

  He turned from the window and walked down the hall, juggled the cell phone into his other hand and opened the door. “Since I'm not planning any trips abroad, I think I'm pretty safe with just plain old English."

  There was an audible sigh on the other end of the phone. “Friday night, Nicky."

  "No.” Nick stepped outside, closed the door, and inhaled deeply. Erie's autumn weather had arrived, and the crisp air helped wipe away the stench of his day.

  "Nick, how many favors do I ask for?"

  "Well, there was the stewardess last month. She invited me to join the Mile High Club, by the way."

  Realizing he'd been standing and just staring at the restaurant for far too long, he walked down the marble stairs. “Or how about Serenity, who was anything but serene. Or Nancy's friend, Helen's daughter, or Bertha—who used to be a Bert before that little operation ... Shall I go on?"

  "But maybe Francine is different,” his mother offered.

  Miriam Aaronson liked to pretend she was tough. She claimed she never cried at movies, and she had a black belt which she proudly displayed whenever she could. But the truth her entire family had realized years ago was that Miriam was a closet romantic who believed in happily-ever-afters. With two of her three children happily married, Nick was her last project. And one other thing about his mother—she was single-minded when she set her mind to anything. Right now, marrying Nick off was her project.

  "I can almost guarantee Francine is different and that I'm not interested.” There, he'd made himself perfectly clear.

  "But, Nick—"

  "Mother, I'm quite capable of finding my own dates."

  "But I want you to have more than a date. I want you to have what your father and I have, what Max and Joy have found."

  "When have I ever fit into a mold, Mother?” He crossed Sixth Street, walking toward Peach Street and the parking ramp where his BMW waited. “Actually, think of it. When have any of us fit into any mold? When the time is right for me to fall in love—if the time is ever right—I'll know it. In the meantime I'll find my own dates."

  "If you're sure?” His mother left the sentence hanging a moment, as if she hoped he'd change his mind.

  "Positive.” He stood directly outside the restaurant that had almost burned earlier. No flames were present now, but a new sign was.

  "Glory's Chambers,” he muttered. Cute.

  "What did you say?” his mother asked.

  "Nothing. Not a thing other than no, I don't want a date.” He glanced in the window, but no one was visible. What a relief. He was going to have to find a new parking spot because he planned to avoid Glory's Chambers and his three dream women whenever possible.

  "Goodbye, Mom."

  "But, Nick—"

  "I'll talk to you later.” He snapped the phone shut and hurried past the restaurant before anyone inside saw him.

  Nick Aaronson's life was perfect, and he didn't need match-making mothers or fairy godmothers from his dreams finding him a happily-ever-after. He was perfectly happy on his own.

  He didn't let himself think about his earlier sense of dissatisfaction, or the sense that something was missing in his life. It was just stress. He was perfectly happy.

  Chapter Two

  Glory Chambers was perfectly happy. She couldn't help glancing at the Open sign hanging proudly in Glory's Chambers' front door. It had only been three weeks ago when she'd walked into a ... well, wreck was the kindest word she could think of. And now, like magic, the restaurant was beautiful in a Fifties-retro sort of way. Fonzi, Richie and the entire Happy Days gang would be comfortable here.

  Glory was working for herself, beginning to build a business of her own. It might not be on the same scope as Michaelson's International, but it was hers ... all hers. That is if her three employees didn't start another fire.

  But despite the fire, she felt better than she had in years. No antacids, no stock in aspirin. Just healthy and content. She was building a new life for herself, one short order at a time.

  "Coffee?” she asked the two women in the booth.

  "Sure,” the blonde said.

  "Are you ready to order?” she asked as she poured.

  "No, we're waiting for someone,” the pony-tailed brunette said.

  "Fine, I'll keep the coffee coming. Just let me know when you're ready.” And when the two women did order, Glory would keep her fingers crossed they got something edible to eat. Fern seemed at home behind the grill, but all she'd cooked was breakfast so far. Lunch was a bit harder.

  When had she become such a pessimist? Once upon a time, Glory Chambers had been an almost incurable optimist, but that was before she found Garth in bed with 38 DD Cynthia. Yeah, that was probably the moment her optimism turned to realism, which meant pessimism.

  "Now, Glory, what's that face for?” Myrtle asked as Glory swung the door open and walked into the kitchen.

  "Just thinking."

  "Well, stop thinking whatever you're thinking. It's a gorgeous day, and Glory's Chambers is off to a good start."

  "Well, it is going better than I expected,” Glory allowed, unable to recapture that initial surge of pride.

  "You should expect the best,” Myrtle admonished.

  "Actually, expecting the worst makes more sense. When things turn out better, you can be pleasantly surprised."

  "Glory,” Myrtle tsked.

  They heard the small bells on the front door chime merrily.

  "That's our cue,” Glory said, anxious to put an end to the conversation about her newfound pessimism. “Come on, Myrtle. Time you earned your salary. And, by the way, Fern, everyone raved about y
our pancakes."

  "You didn't think I could do it, did you?” Fern asked, amusement tingeing her voice.

  "Well...” Glory hedged.

  "It's okay. You expected the worst, but instead got the best—me. And you got to be pleasantly surprised, right?"

  "Right."

  "And, just for the record, I want you to know I studied with a French chef for a few months last year, so pancakes weren't a huge challenge."

  "I stand corrected. I guess I should have asked about your experience when I hired you.” Glory paused. She hadn't asked. She hadn't even had the three small women fill out applications or job histories. That was totally unlike “Cross the Ts and dot the Is corporate Glory Chambers."

  She'd set out to change, and this was just the first example that she was changing. Once upon a time, Glory would never have hired three women off the street, but look how well it had worked out. Okay, it was good if you didn't count almost burning down the kitchen and—

  "Don't worry about it, Glory,” Myrtle interrupted. “We're just three harmless, middle-aged women who promise that your newfound pessimistic nature will be pleasantly surprised when all is said and done."

  "Yes,” Blossom sighed. “You're guaranteed to live happily-ever-after."

  Glory snorted. “I'll settle for no more kitchen fires and enough customers to keep this place financially afloat. I've given up on happily-ever-afters."

  "Lucky for you, we didn't,” all three said in unison.

  "Come on, Myrtle. We've got customers,” Glory said, deciding that ignoring them was the better part of valor.

  Myrtle followed her into the dining room. Glory snagged the coffee pot and headed back to her table with the two women to see if they were ready to order. They had been joined by a dark-haired man. He turned his head, and Glory saw it was their fireman. “Hi. Nice to see you again. Nick, wasn't it?"

  His frown said he wouldn't necessarily use the word nice to describe seeing her again. “Yeah, Nick."

  Glory felt a flush of embarrassment flood her cheeks as the two women eyed first Nick and then her. Determined to be professional, she pasted a smile on her face, although it felt brittle. “Are you ready to order?"

  "I'll just take some of that coffee. I have to get back to work,” he muttered.