A Wood-Fired Christmas (Mistletoe Kisses)

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

SO…THINGS WERE a lot worse than Ezra ever thought.

“I should have known,” he muttered as he drove home. Barrett had the business sense of a naked mole rat, and after winning a pizzeria in a poker game, he’d opened for business because it seemed like fun to own a pizza joint. He’d retired from his career—which he’d planned to do anyhow—and played “restaurateur” with Loveless.

What he hadn’t done was taken a salary.

Barrett, as the owner, had sometimes split tips with Ezra (always with a delighted look in his eye, like a preschooler fishing loose change out of a Christmas stocking) but Ezra never realized Barrett hadn’t been paying himself. He’d lived on his retirement income or disbursals from a 401K or a pension or whatever funds could afford three properties and poker nights where tipsy old men wagered a defunct business on a full house.

Now that the fun had worn off, Barrett was giving it away, but whoever got it wasn’t going to be an old retired man with stars in his eyes. The new owner would want an income. And the money wasn’t there.

The vendors got paid. The two employees got paid. The delivery drivers got paid, plus tips. And the new owner…would have to get rid of one of the two employees if she wanted to survive.

Greg was part-time, so that left one candidate.

Ezra slammed his fist into the dashboard. He should have known. Should have known, should have known, should have known. This gig was too good to be true. He’d taken it because it was a way to get first and last month’s rent and a security deposit on a room in a house in a tiny town in Maine before the gig flamed out harder than the logs in the wood-fired pizza oven. It was a way to sleep in a bed and a way to send money back to a trailer home where his siblings were crammed in like sardines.

He’d gotten three years out of this three-month bad-idea-fueled gig. He should count his blessings, but for crying out loud—this job was fun. He’d grown to like Hartwell. He liked his customers. (Well, the drunk mistletoe-fans aside. And the scammers. But the rest were fine.)

Lacey hadn’t said anything about the money when she’d plotted all these changes. She’d said it would be good for the community to have farm-to-table organic produce that didn’t even realize it had been harvested yet, and mozzarella where you could drive past the cow who’d made the milk that morning. Lacey hadn’t said, “If I don’t do this, I’m going to have to fire you,” which wouldn’t have made her ideas any less dumb, but it would have given her meddling a different spin.

When she’d been changing things for the sake of changing them—putting her cute little stamp on them—that was reckless and arrogant. Changing things because only a course-correction would stave off bankruptcy was different. It was desperate.

Christmas was coming, and she hadn’t wanted him worried. But he wasn’t a child.

Typical rich girl. It never occurred to her that maybe he’d need to save money now if he was going to be unemployed for a while.

Shelly had other delivery gigs, so closing wouldn’t cause trouble for her. She’d pick up extra hours somewhere else. He should tell Greg. Or maybe he shouldn’t because Greg had all the forward planning skills of a golden retriever, and telling Greg to prepare for his job to end would likely result in Greg saying, “Nah, it’ll be fine.” Which, somehow, it always ended up being for Greg.

Ezra had never been that lucky.

Lacey’s voice had been strained. “Uncle Barrett never took a salary. I looked over all the records, though, and I think we’ve got a chance. But what are the options? We can’t jack up the prices. I don’t want anyone fired. I won’t lower salaries. I can’t live without money. That’s why we need to shake things up.”

Ezra had said, “Why would you even take over the place if that’s how it is?”

She’d lowered her voice, “I knew we could expand it. Increase the number of pizzas per day. Increase the offerings. Reach out to the organic and whole foods customers.”

Every one of which, Ezra had shot down.

Ezra had told her, “Those things wouldn’t have worked.”

Lacey had replied, “You won’t hear me out about finding a cheaper supplier.”

“Because the quality has to be good.” Ezra had turned away. “You can’t cut quality and increase the price and expect the customers to stick around. We really will close.”

Lacey had said, “You want everything to stay the same. I can’t make the necessary changes without making any changes.”

He’d hated her. She’d come in with guns blazing, waiting for the day Barrett handed her the keys so she could obliterate everything that made Loveless unique in a town with plenty of pizza options. That had been easy to accept: she was self-important. Except as it turned out, he couldn’t hate what she was trying to achieve.

Lacey had said, “There’s nothing to hide. I’ll show you the accounts.”

Barrett had never done that. The business had account numbers on file with all their suppliers, and once a week, Ezra’s bank account got an electronic transfer. At the end of the day, Ezra and anyone else who’d worked would sort out the cash tips while a program automatically divided up the electronic ones. With the system paying out seamlessly, Ezra had never wondered how much remained in the bank afterward.

Lacey had trembled, eyes sad and hands open at her side, looking right at him as she said, “If you think none of my ideas will work, that’s fine. But we need to try something. This business can’t afford to pay you and me and Greg and Shelly.”

“Barrett had no idea what he was doing,” Ezra said to the dashboard, but he’d said it first to Lacey, standing there with the wood-fired oven at his back and two orders arriving on the online system. “I knew he was paying me more than market. But I was opening a restaurant. I thought—”

…and then for Barrett to give it to Lacey…

I thought it would have been me.

Lacey had said to him, “What did you think?”

Ezra had turned to the counter.

And she’d said—

He stopped at a red light.

—she’d said, “You thought he was going to sell it to you?”

Ezra closed his eyes and breathed deeply. No, he hadn’t thought about it that way. But even though Barrett was retirement age, he was young-ish. He didn’t do anything for Loveless, so Ezra had assumed he’d just continue doing nothing for another twenty years. And yeah, maybe in twenty years, Ezra might have been able to take it over. Twenty years of counting every penny, living in a back room in a house with random roommates and a car he was never sure would make it through the winter. Twenty years of sending money back home, except as the kids grew up, he’d be able to send less and save more.

Lacey’s voice had gone soft, “I didn’t know any of this. Uncle Barrett only said you were vital.”

She’d looked as broken as he felt, but he’d only squared his jaw and prepared the next pizza so he couldn’t see her sadness. She’d asked for suggestions, but he had none. She was right that things had to change even though he wanted nothing to change. She’d been right all along. And if she’d been right about that, then maybe she was right that he’d never given her a chance, and maybe she was right that he’d treated her unfairly.

Maybe there’d been more to her all along.

The light turned green. Driving again, Ezra said, “And that was it, Mr. Lovelace. You were pretending to work, like Marie Antoinette putting on peasant garb and milking a cow, play-acting at being one of the working class. But it was never real to you. Not like it was to me.”

For the last few years, pizza was reality. It was substance, and it was food. Pizza was what you got when you moved and started over. It was what you got when someone died and you struggled to process the end. It was quick and cheap and filling. It was carbs and fat and protein, and anything the base didn’t provide, you could get in the toppings. It was comfort and sameness, and also there was just enough variation to keep it interesting. Interaction after interaction with the customers had convinced Ezra that pizza and life were the same.

After one conversation with Lacey, he knew it had all been a game of pretend.

Ezra showered before bed, then scrolled social media. The Loveless Pizza page had its usual assortment of comments. It would be a shame if the place closed even though they had a healthy number of regulars.

He texted Lacey, “What about premium pizzas?”

Her reply came momentarily. “I’m listening.”

“I still think farm-to-table would be a disaster, but Loveless thrives on limited supply. What if we introduce customers to the idea by having a premium pizza that’s only available at certain times. We charge more, but it’s very limited.”

“Like Thanksgiving pizzas?”

He replied, “I guess.”

She texted, “So for the rest of December, we offer ten mistletoe pizzas per day?”

Ezra frowned. “Isn’t mistletoe poisonous?”

“I’m sure it would taste terrible, too. But let’s say you make them. How much extra could we possibly charge that would keep the business afloat?”

She had a point. He texted, “We probably can’t add gold leaf to the pizza.”

She sent a goofy emoji face. “Most restaurant suppliers are fresh out of gold leaf this time of year.”

Ezra texted, “Mine-to-table,” before thinking maybe he shouldn’t, but Lacey replied with a laughing emoji.

She sent, “I know you don’t want to change the cap on how many doughs we do per day, but what if we made it 100 regular orders, and 20 of the premium?”

He frowned at the phone. That might actually work.

She continued, “That would keep ‘the Loveless One Hundred,’ but it would also spur the fear of missing out.”

He texted, “Does each mistletoe pizza come with a serial number?”

She replied, “I’ll bring a permanent marker, and we can write it on the box.”

He replied, “That’s great, but what goes on a mistletoe pizza?” Then added, “Since mistletoe is poison.”

She replied, “I just checked, and American mistletoe won’t kill you. It’ll only make you extremely sick.”

He texted, “Which won’t sell many pizzas,” and immediately her text came with, “I guess that’s not a great endorsement.”

After a pause, she sent, “We could put a tiny breadstick under each slice so when you pull it out, it’s Christmas tree shaped.”

He typed, “Unworkable,” before stopping himself. She’d already accused him of shooting down all her ideas (poisonous toppings aside) and this idea wasn’t as awful as some of her others, so he deleted the text. Finally, he sent, “It has to be more than shape.”

What would he put on a holiday-themed pizza? Typical “winter” flavors didn’t work on a pizza. Peppermint, eggnog, cinnamon: no. Ooh, gingerbread! Another no.

She texted, “Let’s play with shapes for a minute. Could we claim round slices of fresh mozzarella are snowballs?”

He blinked at the phone. Finally, he replied, “What about slices of tomato with a sprig of basil behind, so they look like Christmas balls?”

She replied, “Wait, we could do party-sized wreath pizzas. The outside has a cornucopia of toppings, and the inside is plain, and we slice it in a party cut.”

He replied, “Different sizes would cause logistical problems.”

She replied, “Rats.”

They could do it regular size, though. It wouldn’t have the same impact as, say, a 24 inch pizza, but it could be done.

A minute later, she’d texted a terrible sketch: a long triangle he assumed was a pizza slice, and laid out on the slice were three circles and a lumpy triangle on top. Pointing to each of the three circles were the words, “onion,” “tomato slice,” “mozzarella slice,” and to the lumpy triangle, “mushroom hat.”

Accompanying the photo were the words, “Snowman slice.”

Ezra replied, “I’m not sure if this is ridiculous or brilliant.”

“Could be both, but for now, let’s go with brilliant.”

He replied, “Fine, a brilliant mistletoe pizza.”

The screen indicated she was typing, and then nothing showed up. Finally, “Thank you.”

Five minutes for “Thank you.” He replied, “For what?”

She sent, “For brainstorming.”

He texted, “There’s got to be a way out of this.”

Right now, Ezra could see only one way out. The only way for Loveless to survive was for Ezra to quit.