Free Wind Chime Café (A Wind Chime Novel) by Sophie Moss

grace period anymore, no second chances if she missed a payment.
    She had to get it right the first time.
    Across the street, a scrawny middle-aged man was climbing the steps to her porch. She took in his white T-shirt and loose-fitting black chef’s pants and picked up her pace.
    She’d had six responses to the online ad she’d posted on Friday. At first glance, none of the candidates had popped out at her, but she’d invited each of them in for an interview today. The most promising one had been working as a sous chef at a hotel in St. Michaels for the past seven years and was looking to downsize.
    “Carl?” she ventured, crossing the street.
    The man turned, stubbing out his cigarette and tucking it behind his ear.
    She climbed the steps, holding out her hand. “I’m Annie. Thanks for coming by before your shift.”
    “No problem,” he said, shaking her hand.
    She unlocked the door, leading him into the café.
    “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she offered, walking around the counter to pour herself a cup. She didn’t have much in the way of a budget for hiring staff, and she’d already decided to do most of the waitressing herself. If they were all going to be working closely together, she needed someone she could get along with, someone she could trust, someone who wouldn’t mind an eight-year-old wandering in and out of the kitchen on the weekends.
    “No, thanks,” he said, taking in the pink walls and half dozen tables the previous owners had left in the dining room.
    “Feel free to have a look at the kitchen before we sit down.” She nodded toward the room in the back. “It’s not much, but it should work for the café.”
    He walked into the kitchen and came back out a few seconds later. “There’s only one oven.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Are you going to add one?”
    She looked up from spooning sugar into her coffee. There was no room in the kitchen or her budget for a second oven. “No.”
    “I can’t cook without two ovens.”
    Annie lifted the mug, wrapping both hands around it. “I want to offer a basic café menu of soups, salads, and sandwiches. Can’t most of that be prepared ahead of time?”
    “What about desserts?”
    “Actually,” Annie admitted, “I was hoping to find someone who’d be willing to make a few desserts at home in the mornings and bring them in when we open.”
    “I don’t take work home.”
    “Oh.”
    “Sorry,” Carl said, lifting a shoulder. “I was looking to downsize to a smaller kitchen, but this is a few too many steps down.”
    Annie winced as he reached for his cigarette. “Don’t you at least want to hear what I’m offering?”
    He shook his head, walking to the door. “I think I’ll stay where I am for now.”
    Three hours and five interviews later, Annie was on the verge of a panic attack. None of the people she’d interviewed were willing to accept the salary she was offering. Four of them said they couldn’t work in a kitchen that small. One of them said he couldn’t work in a place with pink walls.
    She had a fleeting thought about trying to cook herself, but the only dishes she could make were Campbell’s soup casseroles. She laid her head on the counter. What was she going to do if she couldn’t find a chef?
    At the knock on the door, she glanced up.
    A plump woman in her late-fifties wearing a gray pantsuit and black suede heels walked in. Her dark blond hair was streaked with gray and curled in cowlicks around her kind, round face. “I’m here about the job.”
    Annie flipped through the stack of résumés. Hadn’t she already met with everyone? “Did we have an appointment?”
    “No.” The woman walked up to the counter carrying a single sheet of paper and a blue box with a pink ribbon around it. “I thought I’d apply in person.”
    “What’s this?” Annie asked when the woman set the box down.
    “It’s a sample.” She twisted her hands in front of her as she stepped back. “Of my cooking.”
    “You