All That You Are by Stef Ann Holm Page A

of days ago.”
    Wiping his hands, Leo asked, “Want me to check it out?”
    â€œNo, keep stocking the bar.” Dana plugged in an amp cord, then checked the sound by tapping on the mike. “I’ll figure it out. Where’s that box of rotten limes?”
    â€œGave it to Presley to dump.”
    Dana headed into the kitchen and found Presley slaving over mini-pizzas with cocktail sauce and crab topping. Burners going full flame on the big commercial stove threw off enough heat to melt an igloo. Presley made multitasking seem effortless as she pivoted on her heels from one spot to the other. She whisked the contents in bubbling pans, then opened the large refrigerator to bring out the cellophane-wrapped dough balls. She had a helper, a young girl, who did almost nothing but slice and chop.
    â€œPresley, where’s that box of bad limes Leo gave you?” Dana went to the long countertop and glanced around.
    â€œIn the service room with the trash.” She gave a puff of air to blow her fringed bangs off her forehead. “There was only about six bad ones. Leo salvaged most of them. We should ask for a refund for the limes we can’t use.”
    â€œI’m going to use them—just not in drinks.”
    Dana left the kitchen. In the small room behind a duo of built-in dishwashers, the bar kept the evening’s worth of trash that needed to be carried to the Dumpster. Since there was no back door to the Blue Note, the trash was only taken out once at night—and after closing—by a designated employee who used the front door.
    Nosing around in the boxes and crates and the large trash bags, Dana finally found the discarded limes. She grabbed the small box and went through the kitchen, but not without grabbing a hat from her private office.
    Once outside, the rain came at her with the light steadiness of a fine showerhead. She made a sprint to the Blue Note’s front, her fedora keeping the rain off her face and hair.
    Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap!
    â€œDamn birds,” she muttered.
    Winding her arm back for a throw, she tossed a rotten lime at the corrugated roof. The fruit sailed over to the other side, disappearing from her view.
    The roof’s shallow pitch ran from front to back, creating a middle point that prevented her from seeing how many seagulls flocked to roost. She couldn’t determine where the lime made impact, if it even did. But the noise seemed to be interrupted.
    Tap tttt—
    The seagulls didn’t take flight, at least not where she could see them.
    Rain doused her sweater, wet her jeans, fell in a puddle at her shoes. But she made another effort, this time, the lime pounding in the roof’s middle, before bouncing over the top.
    Then an unexpected thing happened.
    A man’s head, topped with a Carhartt ball cap, appeared over the peak, and he called out in a growl, “What the—?”
    Tilting her chin upward, the rain fell across her chin and she squinted. “Moretti?”
    He rose slightly taller, and that’s when she noticed the tool belt around his hips.
    Disbelief held her still. “What are you doing on my roof?”
    â€œFixing all the holes, Indiana.”
    Trying to ward off the relentless rain by cupping her hand, she hollered, “Stop calling me nicknames—you’re really pissing me off. And I didn’t ask you to fix my roof.”
    â€œNo, but your cook said she’s sick and tired of you scrounging for pots and pans to use as buckets. She doesn’t have anything left to cook with.”
    â€œPresley? You talked to Presley?”
    â€œRan into her at True Value Hardware when I bought this tool belt, among other things. I didn’t need a ladder since you’ve got one built into the wall.”
    The mossy rung ladder had been permanently attached to the side of the building by her father. Years and years of repairs had made keeping a ladder in place almost a necessity.
    â€œPresley