Enter Through the Alleyway

By Lavinia M. Hughes

If you liked Enter Through the Crawlspace and Enter Through the Bulkhead, you'll love this new collection of short stories, some of which bring back some of your favorite characters. See what's happening with the vampire, werewolf, alien (who now has a boyfriend), devil, angels, vengeful ghosts (aren't they usually?), and a talking house that provides a short history of Falmouth, Massachusetts. The author has added a persuasive gargoyle, a magical antique shop where every visitor comes out with something special, a music box that knows who's a good guy and who's a bad guy, and even a young, highly evolved Coast-Guard-loving whale who just wants to pay it forward. A surprise in every story to make you smile. Read the last chapter--last of course--to see what the characters think of each other!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lavinia M. Hughes
• Release date: Oct 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223176336

Lavinia M. Hughes

Lavinia M. Hughes is the author of Enter Through the Alleyway, her 3rd book of paranormal short stories, which follows Enter Through the Bulkhead, and her first book entitled Enter Through the Crawlspace. The Twilight Zone and the Alfred Hitchcock Hour are her inspirations for these mystical stories that feature drama and a human nature twist. Her other books include An iGen Cookbook for the Unskilled, an instructional cookbook. A native New Englander, she has also co-authored three novels—Newtucket Island, Training Ship, and Cape Car Blues. She lives and writes with her husband and co-author Richard Hughes at their Cape Cod home in the seaside village of Waquoit, Massachusetts.

Book preview

CRITIC

pexels-andrea-piacquadio-3937649 Critic.jpg

I Could Eat Restaurant Guide

"The chef supposedly attended and allegedly graduated from CIA, also known as the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, located in upstate New York. Perhaps he was confused and instead of paying attention to the cooking lessons, thought he was working for the other CIA. The only difference was instead of assassinating individuals, he chose to assassinate the food.

My three friends and I dined—although I used the word dined loosely, at Raffiné, the new-kid-on-the-block establishment in Boston’s Back Bay presided over by cocky young chef Aiden. The cuisine was supposed to be French. Every dish we had was poorly prepared, poorly cooked, and we all held our breaths when the server brought our plates over. The food was sliding around on the plate and we were half expecting it to land in our laps. Fortunately, the server employed a sleight of hand and rescued both the sad food and our laps from being disaster areas. I’m sure the food wished it were in France instead of this poor excuse for an eatery.

My party and I sampled each other’s plates and came to the same conclusion. To give this mess any more than one star would be an even bigger travesty than the meal. Here’s a suggestion I give freely to the dining public. Learn to cook at home."

—Ineeda Miele

She signed off with her nom de plume, pressed send and off it went to her newspaper that actually paid her for this kind of vitriol. Many of her restaurant reviews took this tone, but she and her publisher, with whom she was carrying on a steamy affair, found that the reading public actually liked the snarkiness of her reviews.

She headed off to her local Dunkin’ Donuts and ordered one of their most complicated beverages—a latte cappuccino—just to watch them nervously consult the recipe taped to the wall near the steamer. She often overheard the other patrons discussing her reviews. They seemed to appreciate her sarcasm. Only a few times did she hear the term bitch when overhearing their discussions. Having been seriously bullied in junior high school because of her shabby wardrobe—the only things her parents could afford—she had a massive chip on her shoulder as she got older that just got worse. Then she got kicked out of the Culinary Arts Institute for not just sassing Chef (a cardinal sin), but failing at every course—baking, meats, vegetables, and soups. It didn’t help that her tuition was always late. At her exit interview, Chef told her she didn’t have the chops which he found amusing, and the die was cast just as she was tossed out into what she saw as a sour world.

Her real name was Mara Semele. This young Greek-American woman wrote such scathing restaurant reviews, she found it necessary to use a pseudonym. She thought up Ineeda Miele and found it hilarious. She wondered how long it would take her idiot readers to get her parody name.

Mara was a conventionally pretty, trim woman of 35, single, with long brown hair, brown eyes, and thin lips often arranged in a smirk aimed at just about everyone and everything. When she looked at most anyone, she said to herself It must suck to be you. Sometimes she hid this condescension from people, sometimes she was not successful. Somehow she managed to make a few friends, but in the real world of true friendship, an observer would say it would appear to be a friendship of convenience, with the friends enjoying complimentary meals out in the service of her restaurant critic duties but not necessarily enjoying Mara’s company.

The next morning, young chef Aiden, who habitually worked till midnight and slept till 10:00 am, got up, put a K-cup in his coffeemaker, and grabbed the newspaper. He was a GenZ-er but, like many of his generation, he liked retro things, hence the physical newspaper. He made himself a quick omelet with fresh mushrooms and a little Seriously Sharp cheese from the excellent Vermont-based Cabot Cheese company and sat down at the table with his coffee and newspaper. He loved the smell of coffee first thing in the morning. He gave a piece of the premium cheese to his dog, Cashew, who gratefully chomped it down and sat waiting for another piece. She knew the drill. She waited patiently because she WAS a good girl, then Aiden flipped another piece at her, which she deftly caught in her mouth. The sun was shining brightly through the window next to his kitchen table in his pleasant little apartment.

Aiden, a fit, handsome 26-year old, his brown hair in a marine haircut for easy maintenance, smiled to himself and just enjoyed the peaceful setting. Raffiné had a good night last night and the revenue was way up for the month. Good thing. He was still paying off his remaining $40,000 of student debt for his education at the Culinary Institute of America.

He read the headlines, laughed at the comics, checked his horoscope—as he always found it inspiring, then nervously approached the restaurant review column—I Could Eat Restaurant Guide by Ineeda Miele. When he saw what she wrote, his sparkly blue eyes were a lot less sparkly, even tearing up. He wondered if she and her posse of hangers-on had actually eaten at Raffiné or if they made it up. Oftentimes, a restaurant staff member recognized a food critic in the front of the house and the word went out to the whole crew, surreptitiously, of course. They tightened up their A game, made sure their chef’s coats and aprons were spotless,  bartenders polished everything in sight, and servers ran to serve customers even faster than usual. Maybe the critic and her party had been in disguises. Yeah, thinly disguised as civil human beings.

He slammed the paper down and leaned his forehead on his hand, sighing. Why did people have to be like this? The other patrons seemed to like the food. Raffiné’s considerable revenues didn’t get that way by disappointing people. Now his day was shit, ruined. Cashew picked up on his suddenly changed mood and looked up at him, concerned. She whined and put her paw on his knee in sympathy. He patted her little paw and gave her a big hug, then got up forcing himself to confront the day.

He threw his dishes in the sink, foregoing his usual tidying up of his beloved kitchen. Grabbing a pair of running shorts and associated clothing, he quickly got dressed and went out for a run in the park. Maybe that would make his anger dissipate.

Mama Maria’s was a place of love. Founded by Maria Monti and her husband Victor Monti a few years after they emigrated from Sicily in 1980, it was an instant hit in Boston’s North End neighborhood, a place where recent Italian and Sicilian immigrants and even those older generations felt at home, a little slice of the old country. People lined up on weekend nights, their most popular time, to sample Mama Maria’s excellent sauce, although some people called it gravy and some called it sugo. Maria’s specialty was a sweet spaghetti sauce because that’s the way Maria’s mom made it back in Vizzini, Sicily, a small town nestled in the Hyblaean mountains in southern Sicily. That is, when they could afford food, unemployment being the continuous state of things there. Making the journey to the United States was both the hardest and best thing they had ever done.

Tonight they were making stuffed shells and manicotti, labor-intensive dishes that they offered only on Saturday nights. The crew, consisting of Maria as head chef, Victor on the grill, their oldest son as Sous Chef, and their youngest son on salads and soups, was a close-knit family-run operation. Despite all the yelling—probably done more for atmosphere—it was a well-oiled machine. Four cousins, all from the Monti family, were the servers in this 500-square foot restaurant.

Mama Maria’s Restaurant was shrewd enough to supplement their income by catering conferences and weddings in their off-season—January through April. The bartender was Maria’s brother Joe who had a lifetime of experience that included graduating from a professional bartender’s school in Boston and occasionally working celebrity weddings for Bostonians. He created custom drinks for whatever the occasion required and was well known, once appearing on the cover of Boston Magazine, holding one of his creations in honor of a Red Sox player, Reese McGuire. He called it a McGuire Martini, a traditional martini, with cherry juice added to represent one of the Red Sox colors. Of course it was served with a dark blue paper umbrella to present a drink that was special to Red Sox nation.

This Saturday night at the end of May was a happy time for many people. Boston area colleges were graduating thousands of students, weddings were taking place, and the tourist season had now begun. The restaurant had hired a local company to give the restaurant a good spring cleaning in the wee hours and everything shone with cleanliness. Fresh new white tablecloths covered the tables. Things that had needed replacing were replaced. Clutter was decluttered. All employees received new uniforms. The dress code was upgraded a bit to require male servers to wear gray pants, long-sleeved white shirt, bow tie, and a long waist-to-ankle black apron. The female servers had grey pants, white jersey with a rounded neckline that showed off a pearl choker, and a long waist-to-ankle black apron. The look was upmarket and everyone was pumped after their nightly meeting to discuss and, happily, to sample the night’s specials.

The regulars arrived, all chattering happily when they entered the restaurant and smelled the Italian cuisine. Then new customers arrived, hopeful looks on their faces, even the fussy ones who took issue with any dish that was different than what they ate in their monotonous little lives. The servers raced around, Joe was busy making drinks for the crowd, Andrea Bocelli was playing softly over the sound system, and there was a nice buzz.

Though the Critic assumed that no one knew her or what she looked like, when Mara Semele came in to Mama Maria’s, she felt a change in the air. It was as if there was an aura of toxicity surrounding her. The buzz quieted a bit as they looked at her. She stuck out in the crowd sporting an expensive looking white pantsuit and white high heels. She and her three companions—her usual posse—looked like they were trying not to be noticed, but of course they were. Joe stopped shaking a drink for a moment as he watched the party of four seated at the table near the kitchen. They were scowling at being seated at what is widely described as the worst seat in the house. Not only for the seating misstep, but because he knew her from the various functions he had worked at, he knew this was Code Red time. He quickly finished up the drink he was making, signaled to his assistant (yes, another Monti cousin) and raced to the kitchen to tell Maria who was in the front of the house.

Maria! Code Red, party of 4!

Maria nodded, sidled up and said quietly to each crew member, Code Red, party of 4. They each nodded and the word was out.

Maria, they seated them next to the kitchen! Find them a better table, Joe quietly said to her.

Maria looked out at the reception area where the hostess was looking at her, anxiously, feeling a change in the atmosphere. She signaled to her to come to the kitchen.

The party of four next to the kitchen. Find them a better table. Now.

The hostess ran over to a spacious table in front of the window, ensured that it was clean, then walked over to Mara’s party, a nervous smile on her face.

How is everyone tonight? I’m happy to say that we just cleared another table, which I think you’ll find more spacious. Follow me, please, as she picked up their menus and escorted them over to the window table. They looked pleased and—the hostess thought to herself—entitled.

One of the male servers, handsome and undeniably charming by all who knew him, took their orders. They ordered manicotti, stuffed shells, steak, and osso bucco with polenta. He answered their many questions knowledgeably about the food then brought their meals out in a timely fashion using oven mitts, reminding them that the plates were seriously hot and asking them if they needed anything else besides the mixed drinks they were already nursing. They all said no, poker-faced like, never smiled once at him or each other, and tucked into their meals like they’d never seen food before. The staff noted them sharing bites of their meals with each other—something many people do—but they were doing it quite obviously and the staff guessed they were right, not having a chance to chat up Joe. This was the restaurant reviewer.

Their handsome male server happily noted to himself that all of the meals had been consumed by the reviewer table—members of the clean plate club, a happenstance that was a good sign. No doggy bags for this table.

Victor, Maria whispered because the whole restaurant was a small place, I hope we get a good review. Tourist season is just beginning and we have bills to pay. Our kitchen renovation . . .

I know, Maria, I know. Listen, everything will be molto bene, cara mia. You’ll see. He gave her a pat and went back to his grill.

Mama Maria’s finally closed at 10:00 p.m., and the crew energetically cleaned the kitchen and set everything up for the next day. When they finally left after that, they felt a sense of accomplishment in many ways. When each of them fell asleep that night, they dreamed dreams of contentment.

Victor woke up Sunday morning, put on a robe, and went to the computer to read the paper. He scanned the headlines, read the Opinion page, read what was going on in Rhode Island, just an hour or two away and one of his favorite places, then groaned at the sports page with its eulogy about last night’s Red Sox debacle. Just as he got to the restaurant reviews, the phone rang.

Pronto. Oh hi, Joe. Yeah, yeah. I’m going to Mass now but I’ll take a look at it later.

Victor got dressed, waited a while for Maria to finish getting ready, then together they went to Mass at St. Stephen’s nearby.

When they got home, Victor, expecting nice things to be reported about their life’s work, confidently went to the computer and kicked up the newspaper again. He searched for and found it and began reading. His eyes got big, he felt hot under the collar, narrowed his eyes, and then got angry at what he saw.

I Could Eat Restaurant Guide

This place is so overrated. The nepotism obviously employed at this establishment" does it no favors. The staff was rude, incompetent, and knew nothing about their own offerings.

The place was dirty and in need of a serious upgrade. Do they not know how to call a contractor? If they do, I hope they can get the contractor to cook, because it would have to be better than this junior-high school cafeteria menu.

The drinks were overly sweet and the alcohol must have just passed over the top of the glass as they were all weak.

The pasta was overcooked, the meat was tough, and the desserts must have come from a day-old sale at the supermarket.

Just like the drinks that the alcohol just passed over I’d pass over this place."

—Ineeda Miele

Victor tried to exit out of the newspaper before Maria saw it, but he was too late. She was standing right behind him, a hopeful look on her face, reading the wretched words on the screen. It pained him to see her smile turn into sadness and watch the tears flow down her still lovely face.

Mara’s friend Amy, a posse member and co-worker at the paper, was a gourmet cook. She had taken cooking courses at the local high school, at a cooking school in Vermont, and even a few classes whenever she traveled. She had learned how to make Cajun food at a class in New Orleans and even took a one-day class at the Cordon Bleu on a trip to France. She experimented all the time and enjoyed trying challenging recipes with a large number of steps and ingredients when she had the time. So she decided, having been the recipient of many restaurant meals to help Mara with her restaurant review column, it would be a nice thank you to Mara to have her over for a home cooked meal with the other two posse members. Amy loved to have dinner parties and set the table with her prettiest dishes.

Mara seemed to be pleased at