Chapter 6 - A New Foundation
Naomi stood frozen, her jaw slightly open, as if her mind couldn't quite process the words hanging in the air.
"General... General Manager?" she stammered, looking around at her co-workers, who were all staring at her in stunned silence. "Mr. Townsend... I... I've only been a floor server here for two years. I don't have a business degree. I don't know how to run corporate financial reports."
"I didn't have a business degree when I opened this place either, Naomi," Eric said with a soft laugh. "I had a vision of how people should be treated. I can hire an accountant to teach you how to read profit-and-loss spreadsheets in two weeks. But I can't teach a person to have a conscience. You already have the one thing this building was missing."
Behind her, one of the senior line cooks began to clap. Within three seconds, the entire room erupted into wild applause and cheers. Her fellow servers rushed forward, wrapping their arms around her, patting her shoulders, tears flowing freely among the staff.
Naomi wiped her eyes, looking at Eric through a blur of emotional overwhelm. "I don't know what to say, Mr. Townsend. I... I accept. I promise I will protect this place with everything I have."
"I know you will," Eric smiled. "Your first official duty as General Manager begins right now. Take the rest of the day off. Go home to your daughter, tell her she doesn't have to worry about her health insurance anymore, and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow morning at nine, we start rebuilding."
"Thank you," Naomi whispered, her voice choking with profound gratitude. "Thank you so much."
Two hours later, the restaurant was quiet.
The maintenance team had already arrived, their heavy tools clanking in the back hallway as they removed the faulty compressor from the walk-in cooler. Chef Vance and his crew were scrubbing the stainless-steel prep tables until they gleamed like new mirrors.
Eric sat alone at table nine.
He had changed out of his thrift-store shirt, wearing a clean white linen shirt he had fetched from his car, though he kept his cracked work boots on. Sitting across from him was a sharp-looking woman in a navy tailored business suit—Sarah Lin, the Executive Vice President of Townsend Hospitality Group, whom Eric had summoned from headquarters via private car an hour ago.
Sarah closed her tablet, looking at Eric with a mixture of awe and exasperation.
"You really don't do things by halves, do you, Eric?" Sarah sighed, rubbing her temples. "You go on a stealth audit for three hours and end up firing a regional manager, replacing him with a server, raising the floor wage by four dollars, and overhaul our corporate insurance policy."
"It needed to be done, Sarah," Eric said, sipping a cup of fresh, clean black coffee. "Daniel Shaw was a symptom of a larger disease. We've been focusing so much on expansion—opening new hotels in Portland, buying venues in Newport—that we stopped paying attention to the foundation. We stopped listening to the people on the ground."
Sarah looked at him, her expression softening into genuine respect. "The anonymous surveys?"
"They were right," Eric nodded grimly. "If I hadn't walked through those doors today, Daniel would have poisoned a customer, fired an innocent mother, and burned this restaurant's reputation to the ground. How many other Daniel Shaws do we have managing our eighteen locations, Sarah?"
Sarah went quiet for a moment. "I'll initiate a full, third-party operational and cultural audit across all properties starting Monday," she promised solemnly. "No advance notice to regional managers. We'll inspect every kitchen, every logbook, and conduct private, off-site interviews with hourly staff."
"Good," Eric said. "And make sure Daniel Shaw's severance is completely canceled under the gross misconduct clause of his contract. If he tries to fight it, unleash our legal team."
"Consider it done," Sarah said, standing up and buttoning her jacket. "I'll have the new manager employment contract drafted for Naomi Carter by tomorrow morning. What salary scale are we putting her on?"
"Eighty-five thousand a year to start," Eric replied without hesitation. "Plus a ten percent annual profit-sharing bonus tied to employee retention and safety scores—not food costs."
Sarah smiled warmly. "Your father would be very proud of you today, Eric."
May you like
Eric looked over at the decorative wall near the kitchen, where a small, silver-framed black-and-white photograph of Augustine Townsend hung quietly under a soft accent light.
"I hope so, Sarah," Eric whispered softly. "I really hope so."
