Time-Share Angel (2 of 5)
Friday
Friday
On Friday afternoon, Jill knocked on his door.
Elliott opened it, blinking. “Um… I thought you wouldn’t be here until Tuesday? It’s not my Friday.”
“Well,” Jill said, “my other client is currently under sedation after surgery. I’ve got a few hours and thought I’d stop by.”
“So you’re… off duty?”
“Kind of,” she said, brushing a loose feather off her shoulder.
“I see no clipboard. So you’re just helping me for free right now?”
“You do know we don’t charge for our services, right?”
He laughed, stepped aside, and showed her in.
To her surprise, the apartment looked exactly as she’d left it—tidy, calm, lived-in but cared for. Actually, it smelled better.
No.
He smelled better.
His hair was clean. He’d shaved. Instead of sweatpants and a ketchup-stained tee, he wore jeans and a navy polo. And unbelievably—miraculously—he was wearing mid-ankle boots that had been polished.
Polished.
She raised an eyebrow. “Well, look at you.”
He shrugged, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “Figured I should at least try to look like the kind of guy who could someday own a restaurant.”
“Speaking of,” Jill said, “I have enough time to take you to a restaurant.”
“Really?”
“I thought it might be worth going to see a place that reminds me of what you were talking about. Family-run business, just big enough. Not ostentatious, but clean and comfortable.”
“That would be great,” Elliott said.
“It’s just a short walk.”
“Okay,” he said. “I figured what with having unlimited miraculous power, you could just whisk us there.”
“First of all, it’s not unlimited. Second, I kind of like walking. Helps give me a sense of how the people I work for actually live.”
They stepped outside. A breeze stirred, light and cool.
Elliott paused to really look at her.
She wore jeans and a grey sweater, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was in a loose braid, a few strands catching the wind. The sneakers on her feet were just scuffed enough to feel real, like she had actually been somewhere.
And he’d be lying if he didn’t notice the soft shapes and quiet grace of her body.
“What?” she asked, catching his stare.
“You sure you’re not a woman?”
She didn’t flinch. Just held his gaze.
“I’m not human, Elliott.”
“Well,” he said, “if you were human… you’d make a stunning woman.”
Elliot’s eyes went wide. The words had slipped out somehow, bypassing whatever filter he normally used. He clamped his mouth shut before he could do any more damage.
Jill smiled sideways. “I’ll take that as a compliment… from the species I’m not.”
Then, softer: “But I wasn’t made to be stunning.”
They walked a few more steps in silence.
Then she turned toward him, expression open, calm.
“I was made to serve.”
It was a block before he spoke again.
“How long have you been serving others?”
“Time doesn’t work the way humans think,” she said. “It only seems linear.”
“But… a long time, anyway?”
She glanced at him. “From a certain point of view.”
There was another pause. Just the sound of their footsteps and the breeze shifting the trees.
Elliott asked softly, “When was the last time someone served you?”
Jill didn’t answer right away.
She kept walking, eyes on the sidewalk, expression unreadable. The breeze caught the loose strands of her braid again, but she didn’t brush them back.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “It’s not something we track. Service is supposed to be… selfless.”
Elliott nodded slowly. “That doesn’t mean you don’t need it.”
She gave him a look—more curious than surprised. Maybe even a little vulnerable.
“You think angels need things?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t. Until I met one who likes lime seltzer and long walks.”
That earned a real smile. Not the professional kind. Not the cosmic kind.
Just… Jill.
Salt and Grace sat just four blocks from his apartment. He’d seen it before, but had never stopped in. Single guys with nothing to live for didn’t tend to frequent family restaurants.
But tonight, Elliott was with an angel named Jill—who, if anything, had to expend extra energy just to look more plain than her usual glow.
The bell above the door jingled softly as Jill pushed it open, and Elliott stepped into the warm hush of the restaurant.
The scent hit him first—rosemary, browned butter, and something yeasty and comforting he couldn’t place. The lights were low but welcoming, bouncing off wood paneling and pale cream walls lined with black-and-white photos. A dozen tables sat ready but mostly empty, except for an elderly couple near the back who looked like they’d been coming there since the Reagan administration.
Behind the counter stood a man in his sixties, lean and weathered, with hair the color of sea salt and a half-buttoned apron. He glanced up, caught sight of Jill, and offered a slow, genuine smile.
“Well, well,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Jill smiled back. “Thought I’d bring someone by.”
A woman stepped through a swinging door from the kitchen. She was elegant in an effortless way—gray hair in a braid, hands still dusted with flour, eyes like she could read a soul in a glance. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked over.
“This him?” she asked Jill.
Jill nodded. “This is Elliott.”
The man extended a calloused hand. “I’m Tom. This here’s Grace.”
Grace smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made you want to be a better person. “Welcome to Salt and Grace, Elliott. We’re glad you’re here.”
Tom had a firm handshake.
"Very glad to meet you," Elliott said. "This is my first time here, I'm sorry to say."
He turned to look at Jill and under his breath said, "You've been here before."
She just smiled at him.
"We're glad to have you," Grace said, wiping her hands with a red-checked dishcloth. "You're just in time."
"I am? For what?"
"Your first night of training," Jill said. "So you can see what it's like to run a restaurant."
"I—Uh..," he stammered and gave Jill a fake smile, turning on as much charm as he could muster as it transformed into a real smile. "Of course, that's why I'm here. Have you got a spare—?"
Before he even answered the question, Tom handed him an extra apron.
"Thanks," Elliott said. "Where shall I start?"
"You can start with peeling potatoes," Grace said. "My old hands hurt."
Somewhere along the way, Jill disappeared, much to Elliott's disappointment, but it wasn't totally unexpected. She'd done her part. It was up to him to do his, and he was determined to do well.
The kitchen was warm and humming—soft clatter, the hiss of simmering broth, the smell of something garlicky and good. Grace led him past a prep table to a corner station near the sink.
She set down a colander filled with potatoes and passed him a peeler. “Hope you’re not afraid of a little manual labor.”
Elliott took the peeler and studied it like a sacred relic. “Only if the potatoes bite back.”
Grace chuckled. “They won’t. But I might if you leave the eyes in.”
He smiled, settling onto a stool. The first potato felt foreign in his hand—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a potato that didn’t come frozen in a bag.
Grace moved slowly, lowering herself into the chair across from him with a sigh. “These hands,” she muttered, flexing her fingers. “They used to move like wind. Now they creak like an old porch swing.”
He started peeling. “You still bake, though?”
“Every morning at five. Muscle memory.” She watched him work for a moment. “You’ve got good hands.”
He blinked. “That’s… not something I hear often.”
“No, I mean it,” she said. “You’re not rushing. You’re focused. People think cooking is about flair, but it’s mostly about care. People can taste when something’s made with attention.”
He looked down at the potato. “That’s a lot of pressure for a root vegetable.”
Grace smiled, eyes crinkling. “You’d be surprised.”
They worked in easy silence for a few minutes. Grace passed him another bowl. “Once you finish those, we’ll move on to carrots. And then maybe we’ll let you near a flame.”
Elliott nodded, wiping a hand on the apron. “I like this,” he said quietly.
“You don’t need to be spectacular, honey,” she said. “You just need to show up.”
He peeled another potato, this one faster.
The dinner rush was hectic, and Elliott felt more in the way than helpful—at least at first. But by the end of the run, he had a sense of how Grace moved, the rhythm of her steps, and where to stand without being underfoot.
She was a model of efficiency—no wasted movements, no extra steps, her hands always working, always on to the next thing. The only flaw in the rhythm came when she paused to rub her knuckles or flex her fingers like the joints were trying to stiffen into stone.
“You okay?” he asked, gently.
“Yeah. These confounded old hands.”
“Why don’t you let me take over a few things? Give you a break.”
Grace shook her head, half-smiling. “It’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t sort of thing. If I work them, they hurt. If I don’t, they start locking up on me. I gotta keep moving.”
But she was glad to take a rest once the rush was over.
They closed the doors at 9 p.m., flipped the sign to Closed, and gave themselves a few quiet minutes before the night cleanup.
Tom disappeared into the back and returned with three cold beers from a refrigerator tucked behind the dry storage. They sat at a corner table—the one near the window with a chipped leg and the best view of the street—and passed around plates of mashed potatoes and chicken-fried steak.
The food was hot, heavy, and perfect.
Elliott took a long sip of beer, then exhaled like he hadn’t all day. Grace was quiet, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around her mug like it was warming her bones. Tom tapped salt into his palm before tossing it over his shoulder, like always.
No one spoke for a while.
They didn’t have to.
After a second helping of mashed potatoes and gravy, Elliott pushed his plate back, drained the last of his beer, and smiled.
Across the table, Tom and Grace sat side by side, their post-rush weariness softened by the comfort of routine. They weren’t in a hurry to get up. Just enjoying the pause.
It reminded Elliott of his grandparents—those quiet evenings at the table, long after the dishes had gone cold. Not much talk, just… presence. The kind of intimacy that showed up in small gestures: brushing a crumb off a shoulder, holding hands under the table while they ate, sentences started mid-thought and somehow still understood.
Elliott didn’t dare interrupt it. He understood that this kind of quiet was its own kind of conversation—deep, wordless, complete.
To speak into it would have felt… rude. Like talking during a movie.
Finally, Tom pushed back his plate, and the silence was over.
"Ready for cleanup?" Elliott asked, getting up.
"Sit. Sit," Tom said. "We've got a moment."
He turned to his wife. "So, how was he in the kitchen?"
"Rusty," she said. "But trainable."
"That's good enough."
He turned back to Elliott.
"We know you have a day job. And we're not rich people, never wanted it, never needed it. But we're well enough off. But the thing is, if you're interested, Gracie could use some help in the kitchen, even if she says she doesn't.
Grace began to speak, but he held up his hand. She stopped, smiling faintly.
"Say your piece," she said, almost playfully.
"She wants to keep working. Always has done. Probably will do. But she can do things that aren't quite so hard and still move her hands. There's plenty to be done. So, I'll just ask: what do you get paid now?"
"You're offering me a job?" Elliott asked, blinking.
"Just had your interview," Tom said, "And you got the vote of confidence from Gracie. So, yes."
Elliott hesitated. “I make twenty-six an hour.”
Tom glanced at his wife.
"We can't pay that much," she said. "But we can do twenty."
"Wow," Elliott said, wishing he had another beer. "That's generous of you."
"We know it would be a slight step back," Grace said. "But here's what we're thinking. What if your total compensation was thirty an hour—twenty in wages, ten into equity."
"Equity?"
“We’re not going to live forever,” Tom said. “And we’d like to sell within the next three years. If I’ve got the math right, that puts you at about sixty grand in equity by then. What I’m proposing is—”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“That’s ten percent of the purchase price. You take a mortgage—through a bank, or from us. We’ll give you better terms, of course. And at the end of three years, the deed’s yours.”
Elliott sat back, stunned.
“But,” Grace added gently, “you’ve got to keep the name Salt & Grace. And you’ve got to keep the atmosphere. Or something like it.”
She looked at him, serious now, but kind.
“Families need to afford to go out to eat.”
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.