She carefully sticks it back on, then reapplies her lipstick. She waves at one of the baristas, a young man, who then rushes over. “Be my favorite and bring me a scone and a chamomile tea with a touch of honey, please. I need something calming.”
She needs something calming at least twice a week. Once a customer couldn’t find his money to pay for a book. After rummaging for a while, he reached inside the front of his jeans to his crotch. She took it with a stony expression, but as soon as he’d walked out the door, she did a hyena/banshee scream, then ran to the bathroom to throw up. Now she wears surgical gloves if she works the register.
Once she had a fifteen-minute stare-down with a kid who’d broken all the crayons (over two hundred) in the kid area and was throwing them in the store. He told her crayons were ugly, and so was she. She kept inching closer to him—who knows what would have happened—so I ran to the PA system and announced that someone needed help in the ER section, code for erotica. She snapped out of it and dashed to help a customer with one of her favorite genres.
Another time, a man came in dressed in a black-and-red cape and asked for a vampire cookbook. She hung crosses and tossed garlic around the next day.
“Where are you going?” she asks as I head down the hallway to the back of the building, where the offices are located.
“To talk to Terry.” And get to the bottom of this.
“Tell him we’re over, but if he calls me repeatedly and tells me I’m pretty on my voice mail, I might pick up,” she calls.
I flip her off behind my back and hear her laugh.
I knock at his door, and his raspy voice tells me to come in.
While Babs is coiffed and sophisticated, Terry sports a full head of gray hair that’s a mess. Tall and slim with a rugged face, he’s wearing rumpled jeans and a vacation shirt. This one is a faded peach color, with a “Bimini Beach” logo on it.
With a heavy sigh, he studies my face. “You’re pissed.”
“Some kind of notice would have been appropriate. I am the manager.” I lift my hands in frustration, my words clipped as I plop down in the leather chair across from his desk. The surface is scattered with messy papers and a half-eaten muffin from the bakery. I add, “I thought it would take a few years before you found a buyer.” And I was hoping my financial situation would be better when the time came.
A long exhale comes from him. “You had dreams of buying it someday, but we both know the situation your gran left you in. I should have called you, and I’m sorry. It was very sudden.”
My throat tightens. “I have artists who have their work here, authors scheduled, and we talked about expanding to comics and vinyl records . . .”
My voice trails off at the resignation on his face. My breath catches. Shit.
“It’s hard to compete with online stores. Bookstores close every day, Emmy.”
But we’re different. We make money.
I straighten my shoulders. “Jaws is the theme for summer, and I’ve got a papier-mâché shark and fake shark teeth ready to go. We’re more than just a bookstore. The Times called us a ‘truly religious experience.’ They love the displays, the staircase, plus Babs is perfect to start a book club. I’ve been meaning to bring it up in a meeting—”
“Emmy. Please,” he says as he interrupts me, then sighs, his voice softening. “The offer . . . it’s more than I planned to retire on.”
I deflate like a popped balloon. How can I be angry at a man who wants to retire?
“Dear, I’m sorry. Truly.” He stops at a bookshelf and gazes at a picture of a fishing boat he bought a few years ago. “I want to get away from the city. I want to drink tequila and watch the sunset.”
“Are they going to keep the store? The employees?” My hands clench, preparing for the worst.
“No. And the buyer wants to remain anonymous. I’m going to have a meeting with the staff in a few days with the particulars. Everyone will get a nice severance package.”
I don’t care about that right now. It feels as if I’ve just lost an arm. “What if they tear it down?”
“It’s a historical building.”
“They can still gut it. If they’ve got the city in their pocket, which they probably do, with that kind of money, then who knows what will happen. Was it the man who came in wearing a cream suit? I heard he asked for me.”
He sits down in a chair next to me and pats my shoulder. “Emmy, nothing changes if nothing changes—you know that. Maybe you need something different.”
He didn’t answer my question.
I rub my face. “My life is blowing up. Scorpions are after me.”
He gives me a worried glance. “Is that a gang or something?”
“No. I’m just in shock.”
“And it’s my fault.” He rubs his jaw. “You should take the day off.”
“What? No. I-I just got back.”
“I insist,” he murmurs, giving me a squeeze on the shoulder. “I feel terrible for not telling you before putting the sign up. Freshen your résumé and look for a new job.”
Oh God. This is really happening.
Numbly, I mumble an agreement and leave. I make my way to my office, my eyes drifting over the store. Owning it was just a pipe dream, something to keep me going. Part of me always knew I’d never have the money, but to not even work here anymore—I can’t fathom it.
Sitting at my desk, I cover my face with my hands. The anxiety that’s been growing in my chest ever since I saw the sign claws at me.
It’s all hanging over me, the bills, the Lamborghini, and now the bookstore.
In that moment, I wish desperately for Gran to appear at my side. She always knew what to do. She’d give me a hug and say, When the Darling women get lemons, we make lemon drop martinis.
A knock comes, and I start. “Yeah?”
A young man in a bike helmet and a messenger outfit eases in. He throws up a hand. “Hey. Babs sent me back here. I’ve got a letter for you. Can you sign for it?”
“Sure.” I scribble my initials and take the white envelope, frowning at the lack of a return address.
Sitting on my desk, I rip it open and pull out a handwritten note.
Emmy,
Got your note and thought I’d reply. Look at what you did (see enclosed photo), and you’re going to do something for me to make up for it. Because you stole my fucking car.
I’ll be in touch.
G
With shaky hands, I reach in the envelope and pull out a four-by-six photo. A gasp comes from me. No way. I can’t believe it. I’ve imagined his car at the airport, all nice and shiny and waiting for him.
It’s his yellow Lamborghini—only it isn’t at the airport. The once sleek and aerodynamic lines of the car are barely recognizable, twisted and curled up on a street. One of the doors is gone. The windshield is busted. A wheel is off.
Blood drains from my face. Holy shit.
I start when Babs appears in the door, carrying a tray loaded with cupcakes. Pink icing coats her lips. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
I tuck the letter and photo away and clear my throat. “Yeah?”
“My ma always said that life changes come in threes, especially the bad ones. Kian, the bookstore being sold, which means you’ve got another thing coming.”