Free A Glimpse of Fire by Debbi Rawlins

“Yeah, I’m fine. Really.” Fortunately she spotted a sign for Chun’s on the corner. “We’re almost there.”
    “Yeah, that’s it,” he said with a final concerned look before taking her arm and ushering her to the door.
    He hadn’t been kidding. The place truly was a hole-in-the-wall. Really tiny, with only four tables, all taken,and a counter crowded with paper bags, presumably containing take-out orders. Several people waited in line as a young Asian woman efficiently yanked slips from the bags, called names and rang up bills at the cash register.
    The aroma of onions and garlic and exotic spices permeated the air. This place was obviously the real deal and not a watered-down version to appease Western tastes.
    Behind the counter an older man and woman worked side by side, stirring pots and tending a large grill against the far wall, speaking loudly to each other in Chinese. One of the customers got up from the table and went to the corner, where there were pitchers of water and iced tea and a bucket of ice. Sitting on a hot plate was a glass carafe of hot tea. He poured himself some and then returned to the table and his two companions.
    Dallas smiled. She liked the place already. Kind of homey and friendly.
    “I know it smells pretty bad, but I promise the food is terrific,” Eric said as he took her hand and pushed his way inside.
    “Are you kidding? I think it smells great.”
    The cashier looked up and smiled broadly.
    “Eric.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Mom, Dad, look who’s here.”
    The short, graying man at the grill turned around. He spotted Eric and put down the long wooden chopsticks he was using, his big grin displaying a gold-capped tooth. “My friend, where have you been? I haven’t seen you for three weeks, I think.”
    “Been busy working.”
    The man wiped his hands on his apron and gave Dallas a curious glance. “I see.”
    Unlike his daughter, who had no trace of an accent, the man’s English was heavily coated with his native dialect. The sly look he gave Eric, however, was universal.
    “This is my friend, Dallas. And this is Jimmy Chun, owner and chef of this wonderful establishment.”
    Jimmy chuckled. “He likes to use funny words,” he said and gave his palm another swipe across his stained apron before extending his hand to Dallas.
    “Uh, Jimmy, I think you can skip the formality,” Eric said, one eyebrow lifted at his friend’s slightly soiled hand.
    “Pleased to meet you.” Dallas readily accepted the man’s hand. If Eric only knew what her hands went through on a daily basis. Even wearing gloves all the time at work didn’t totally protect them.
    Jimmy grinned, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “You are most welcome here.”
    Eric waved to the woman still cooking. “Jimmy’s wife, Ruth.”
    She smiled and then said something to her husband in Chinese, her tone slightly brusque. Dallas could sure guess what was said, with all the people lined up for their orders. Two more guys came in after they did, and the phone had rung twice. The place was really hopping. The food had to be good.
    “Maybe we should come back,” she whispered to Eric.
    Jimmy heard. “No, no, you come with me.”
    He pushed aside the low swinging gate that separatedthe galleylike kitchen from the eating area and motioned for them to follow. Jimmy led them into a small kitchen where a young man wearing headphones and singing was dumping a huge pot of cooked rice into a wok heating on a stove.
    Jimmy touched him on the shoulder and the man stopped singing, turned toward them, a sheepish smile twisting his lips.
    The kitchen was crowded with a stainless-steel commercial refrigerator, a double sink and a small stove. Too small for a business, but that’s all that would fit. There was barely enough room for all four of them to be in there. Nevertheless she was impressed with how spotless the kitchen was kept.
    “You tell me what you want. Anything.” Jimmy jabbed a thumb into his