Chapter 2 - The Wrath of Mel Dawson
Mel’s boots pounded heavily against the linoleum as he marched toward the booth. His red, beefy face was contorted in irritation, the stress of delinquent suppliers and unpaid bills radiating from him like heat from an oven.
"What is going on here?" Mel demanded, glaring at the empty soup bowl, the butter dish, and the crumbs on the table. "Anna, did you feed a walk-in after the kitchen closed?"
Anna moved instinctively, stepping between Mel and the seated woman. She slipped the small silver medal into her apron pocket, her heart pounding against her ribs.
"She was cold, Mel. She was wet, and there was soup left over that you were going to throw in the trash anyway," Anna said, trying to keep her voice steady. "It didn't cost the diner a single dime extra."
"That’s not the point!" Mel shouted, his spit spraying into the air. "Rules are rules! You give away free food to one beggar, and tomorrow there’ll be ten of them standing outside my door waiting for a handout! This is a diner, not a damn soup kitchen!"
The old woman sat up straight. Though she clearly did not understand every English word coming out of Mel’s mouth, she understood the volume and the threat. Her dark eyes hardened, her posture shifting from frail beggar to dignified matriarch in a fraction of a second. She reached into her handbag again, but Anna placed a calming hand over hers.
"Please," Anna murmured to the woman. "It's okay." She turned back to Mel. "Deduct the price of the soup from my tips today. Charge me full price for the rye bread too. Just let her finish her tea in peace."
Mel scoffed, crossing his heavy arms over his chest. "You damn right I’m deducting it. In fact, I’m deducting twenty bucks from your pay for violating house policy. And she needs to clear out in five minutes. I’m locking up early tonight."
Mel turned on his heel and stormed back toward his office, slamming the door so hard the glass pane rattled.
Anna let out a long breath. She looked down at the old woman, who was watching her with deep concern.
"Don't worry about him," Anna offered a weak, reassuring smile. "He’s all bark and no bite."
The old woman reached up and took Anna’s hand in both of hers. Her skin was dry and lined with age, but her grip was surprisingly firm. She spoke a few quiet sentences in soft, melodic Italian, her eyes fixed on Anna's face as if committing every feature to memory. Then, she stood up, wrapped her dark scarf tighter around her silver hair, and pulled her damp coat around her shoulders.
Anna walked her to the front door, opening it against the cold December rain.
The woman paused on the threshold. She looked down at Anna’s apron pocket where the silver medal was hidden, touched her own heart again, and whispered, "Nonna Rossi non dimentica."
Before Anna could ask what it meant, the woman stepped out into the pouring rain and vanished around the corner of Maple Street, blending into the twilight shadows.
May you like
Anna closed the door, locked the bolt, and pulled out the silver medal. In the dim light of the diner, she examined it closely. It was heavy, made of real sterling silver, depicting an intricate crest—a crowned lion holding a dagger above three stars.
She slid it back into her pocket, unaware that by morning, her quiet life would be turned completely upside down.
