Come over to yours, Ian Spencer said, pushing the empty plate aside. Your father’s old chef found the best cabbage rolls here. The salads, though, are hitormiss. Todays Caesar is rather bland, the croutons soggy. Who made it?
The salads are Mrs. Winifred Clarkes domain.
I think its time we retired Winifred. Let her bake pies for her grandchildren. Im already looking for a replacement.
How? Emma asked, surprised. I never asked you to do that, and Im happy with Winifred. People travel from the other side of town just for her meatballs.
Well get her recipe, it wont take long. And well find younger waitstaff
Im not hiring anyone!
You arent. The restaurant will be run by others.
But the place was left to me in the will.
The inheritance is your flat, your bank account. Three Oranges was a joint project of your father and several serious investors. Theyll take the premises.
And you too? You were a friend of his
Ian shrugged. Business, nothing personal. In fact, well buy the restaurant from you at a fair price.
In reality, the fair price was only fair from the buyers point of view; to the seller it was barely symbolic.
Emmas father had built his reputation from modest pubs to a popular eatery in the city centre, on the former site of the Dumpling House. After university he gave Emma the task of sourcing fresh produce for the salads, but he never let her into the kitchen, insisting professional chefs were required.
Although he no longer lived with Emmas mother, having taken a new partnera successful surgeon who showed little interest in the restauranthe always kept Emma close. The surgeon, who barely visited, was the reason the will left only Three Oranges to his daughter.
He had drafted the will when a terminal illness forced him to face his mortality; some diseases even the best surgeons cannot cure.
After his death, the restaurant kept running under its manager, but Emma threw herself into every aspect, dreaming of new dishes and a modern redesign. The staff treated her like family, having known her for years.
Then new owners appeared. Emma expected greedy suitors, but the betrayal came from Ian Spencer, the man who had once taken her and her father to amusement rides in the park. Those rides were his, and not just in one park.
Her fathers circle of influential officials and businessmen had seemed like kindly uncles in her childhoodalmost like wizards, always ready with expensive gifts whenever she mentioned a new toy. Now those wizards were brazenly snatching the restaurant away.
Emmas husband, Tom, a railway worker far removed from the restaurant world, gave his own assessment:
Ive told you this place is a criminal enterprise. Sell it for any sum and itll be over. Open a stall at the stationyoull make a profit. Everyone queues for hot pasties on Platform Square every day.
The whole square is already divided, and Three Oranges is a memory of my father.
We still have the cottage, the flatdont get involved. The sharks there will bite.
The sharks never showed; only Ian kept popping up, chatting about selling the restaurant while polishing his cabbage rolls and paying for them with exaggerated delicacy. One day he said:
Youre stubborn, girl. Im speaking fatherly. Others will come
Threatening?
Me? God forbid! Im looking out for you, not myself.
Your interest in this sale is zero? I wont believe anything you say.
Theres a little interest. The people eyeing Three Oranges are far more powerful and influential. In fact, they could simply take the place from you with no repercussions.
And so it began. First, men with a gangsters air inspected almost every room, turned over the tomato crate and claimed Emmas father owed them an astronomical sum. Then evening brawls and drunken scandals erupted in the dining room, something that had not happened for years. Patrons dwindled, preferring quieter venues for dinner and events. One morning the staff found the restaurant in ruins: the main hall ransacked, the kitchen floor littered with mixed leftovers, though, strangely, the liquor store remained untouched.
Emma managed to get the case of the vandalism into the hands of her old classmate, Boris Price. She recounted everything, starting with Ian.
Boris shook his head.
Ian is probably just a gobetween; youve known him a long time. We suspect someone higher up is pulling the strings. You cant take them by forceyoull need solid evidence.
Who?
Theres a man who owns factories, newspapers, steamers. He used to work for the city council. Hes the one finding shortcuts into other peoples property. By the way, theres something odd about the breakin.
What odd?
Theres no sign of forced entry, the alarm didnt go offsomeone must have disabled it and handed a key to the thieves. It looks like an insider was involved, a traitor.
No traitor among my staff; theyve all been here ages.
Then someone was bribed or threatened.
Soon the trouble reached home. Tom issued an ultimatum:
Either you sell the pub, or Im leaving. Ive been threatened with a knife outside our flat twice. If I cant convince you, Ill take what I can. I dont want thatI just want to live.
You run away, then? You promised to be my support.
From a proper wife, not a fool who throws forks at a rampart.
A few weeks later Tom indeed left, taking everythingincluding the mug Emma had given him as a gift.
Boris offered a philosophical comment:
A husband who occupies a flat for no reason is a waste. I split from my partner a year ago, earn little and rarely stay home. Has your restaurant recovered?
Quite a while ago.
Then Ill invite you over for dinner. Ill pay for everything and stand guard so no one comes in with a bat.
Emma realised that a man who could run from danger once would not flee again, and wondered why she had never paid him much attention in school.
Six months later, a former council employee surfaced, claiming not only Three Oranges but also a large shopping centre and an underground car park, which hed already swindled with the help of an organised crime groupanother story entirely.
The insider turned out to be the barback, Vicky, whom Boris quickly identified. He owed a huge debt on cocktail supplies; the pressure forced him to disable the alarm and make a key copy.
One day Ian Spencer dropped by for cabbage rolls, asked how things were going, then lowered his eyes and admitted that his own amusement rides had a weak spot, that not everything in his attractions was legal. He confessed hed been blackmailed into this mess.
Emma didnt hold a grudge; she invited him to stay.
As he left, Ian asked:
Are you now under police protection? I saw a uniformed officer in your office today.
The protection comes from my future husband, Boris. Our wedding is next week right here in the restaurant.
She smiled, realizing that sometimes the very people who threaten you can become the very ones who stand by you, and that true strength lies not in clinging to the past, but in building a future grounded in trust and perseverance.
