No Parking

by Valentine Wheeler

  “I forgot how dim that room can get. We always meant to put in more windows but never got around to it. And if you’re making food this good for me,” said Marianne, picking up a fork, “you can use my kitchen any time.”

  “Is that a promise?” Rana sat beside Marianne, her knee brushing Marianne’s. She wore the same clothes as the night before, close-fitting black-and-white patterned pants with a loose tunic that skimmed her curves. The silk of her blouse was slightly creased, and her hair mussed, but she looked even more beautiful than she’d been the night before.

  There was something intimate about Rana using her kitchen. Marianne didn’t know much about this woman besides that she could cook and had won over Joe and Ray, at least. Her hands on Marianne’s tools though—her spatulas and pans and spoons? The thought made something warm curl in her chest. Below that feeling, Marianne’s stomach growled.

  “Eat,” said Rana. “I made it for you.” She picked up the second fork. “Of course, I also have to try them to make sure they taste right.”

  The eggs were, in fact, as delicious as they smelled. Garlicky and savory and peppery, the meat was the perfect complement, all cumin and fenugreek and paprika with the slightest hint of salty sourness. The thin slices were fried tender, chewy, and crisp at the same time. “If all your food tastes like this, it’s no wonder your shop is so popular,” said Marianne, swallowing. “Oh my god, Rana. This is so good!”

  “I can’t take credit for the basturma—the meat,” she said. “A friend of mine makes it and sells it to me. But you should come try the hawawshi some time. If you like this, you’ll love my pies. Since I assume you like things wrapped in bread?” The laugh lines around her eyes deepened, and in the morning sunlight Marianne noticed the faintest streaks of silver in her thick, dark hair.

  “I wouldn’t run a bakery if I didn’t,” Marianne replied. “That’s a meat pie?”

  “It’s my best seller,” said Rana. “A recipe from my grandmother. Come over when we get our power back and I’ll make you one fresh, on the house.” She smiled. “But you must be busy too. You’re a town institution, I’m told. All that history!”

  Marianne ate the last slice of meat and leaned back into the couch, content. “We’ve been here long enough to count, I guess.” She waved at the walls around them. “I grew up here, you know. In this apartment.”

  “Right here?”

  “This was our room, all the kids.” Marianne looked at the mantle, where her childhood bunny and her cousin Johnny’s wooden locomotive sat, a little worse for wear. “I hated it in the summer. You could never get the air cool enough since the heat came up through the floor.”

  Rana smiled. “You’ve lived here all your life?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. My husband and I—ex-husband, now—had a house a few miles away. We sold it when we ended our marriage.”

  “I didn’t know you used to be married,” said Rana. “Is he still nearby?”

  Marianne grinned suddenly, remembering Kevin’s griping the previous day. “You kicked him out of your shop last week.”

  Rana frowned. “I don’t remember kicking anyone out. I feel like I would remember that.”

  “Tall, gray hair, Kennedy smile?”

  Rana considered it for a moment and then brightened. “Oh! He was whining about parking on the street. You were married to him?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, he is attractive if you like men like that.”

  “I don’t know that I do,” said Marianne thoughtfully. “I think I knew he thought he was good-looking, and so I didn’t bother checking for myself.”

  “Oh, I am sure he would love to hear you describe your marriage that way,” said Rana. “He doesn’t seem the type to appreciate a comment that insightful.”

  “He also wouldn’t enjoy knowing you didn’t remember him.” Marianne tucked her feet under herself, tugging the blanket around her shoulders.

  “Most men want to be remembered.” Rana’s face turned thoughtful. “My husband was a quiet man. He let me do all the talking. But he wanted to be remembered.”

  “He…” Marianne trailed off, not wanting to assume.

  “He died, yes. A year before we came to the United States. He’s been gone nearly twenty years now.”

  “You miss him.”

  Rana nodded. “I do. But it’s been long enough that I can remember him and enjoy the reminder instead of just feeling the pain.” She laughed suddenly. “Look at me, rambling about my husband when I’ve woken up with a beautiful woman. He’d call me a fool.”

  Her face warm, Marianne reached out and rested her hand over Rana’s. “You’re not a fool. I’m a good judge of that.”

  Outside the window, something heavy thudded to the ground. Marianne pulled herself away from Rana reluctantly and peered down at the street. “The snow’s starting to melt off the roof,” she said. “Maybe it’ll fall off the powerlines, too, and we’ll get electricity back.”

  “I hope so,” said Rana, standing up and stretching. “Thank you for letting me stay with you,” she said, turning to smile at Marianne. “I had a really lovely time last night. And this morning.”

  “Will I see you again?” The words spilled from Marianne, and she laughed a little. “I mean, not only as neighbors.”

  “I would like that.” Rana leaned over and kissed Marianne’s cheek with warm, dry lips. “Maybe I’ll come over for some of that pie my customers keep telling me is so wonderful.”

  “And I’ll be by for a meat pie one of these days.” She smiled. “I know how busy you must be.”

  “I’ve been doing relatively well, yes, although not as well as you seem to be.”

  “Why do you say that?” Marianne gathered the plate and forks and stacked them together to take back to the kitchen.

  “Well, I know the parking lot is always crowded.”

  “Most of my customers walk,” said Marianne. “We never had a problem with the old neighbors.”

  “Well, my customers always say they’d come more often if they could park.”

  “They must not be telling you the truth then,” said Marianne. “Because they’re certainly parking in the lot like you are.”

  “Are you calling my customers liars?” Rana’s eyes glittered, the flirty smile gone from her face. “I hope you are because otherwise you’re calling me one.”

  “Nobody had a problem parking in that lot before the Grill moved in; that’s all,” said Marianne. “If you told them to move their cars when they finished eating—”

  “Do you think they’re parking all day?” Rana put her hands on her hips. “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know! Maybe they park there and go shopping in town!”

  “Maybe your customers are the ones doing that!”

  Marianne shook her head. “My customers know how to be polite,” she snapped. “They don’t take up space that’s meant for other people.”

  “Are you saying I’m not allowed to use the parking lot? Because I don’t see a ‘Bakery Parking Only’ sign anywhere, Ms. Windmere.” She shook her head. “But I’m a tenant, not a city institution. I’m not from around here, not like you. I’ve only been in town six months, not sixty years. What do I know.” She gathered her coat from the chair it had been drying on. “I think it’s time for me to leave. I know where I’m not wanted.”

  Marianne crossed her arms, stomach turning sour, and didn’t reply, just watching as Rana gathered her things and disappeared out the door. How had the wonderful morning gone so wrong?

  The scent of garlic, paprika, and cumin lingered in the air from the eggs and the turnovers the night before. Marianne picked up the dishes and slowly walked them down to the kitchen.

  They were the only businesses on the block. All the residents had driveways. Farther down Main Street, toward the center of town, street parking was plentiful. And the train station had its own giant lot. Why would Rana be so sure it wasn’t her customers?

  Guilt sat in Ma
rianne’s chest like stubborn heartburn, nagging her throat. She was used to that feeling–an automatic reaction to arguments ingrained in her by years of society pushing the notion that ladies stayed calm and let things go. But that wasn’t all.

  She hadn’t liked someone like that in a long time, and she’d somehow chosen precisely the wrong person to feel one of her unexpected and rare moments of attraction to. And now that person was gone, back to her side of the building, and Marianne probably wouldn’t see her again. She groaned and got out the shovel to clear the front walkway.

  Chapter Four

  Marianne had been up and down the stairs all day and hadn’t heard a peep from the Cairo Grill side of the wall. Despite everything, she hoped Rana had gotten home safely instead of shivering in her still-powerless bakery. Their building was close enough to the main road that she shouldn’t have too much unplowed territory to get through, and the sun was already melting parts of the snow over the asphalt. According to the electric company’s website, the bakery would be getting power back within a few hours. If it did, she could start serving coffee. And she could start muffins now, at least, in the old gas oven. People would appreciate that in weather like this.

  Marianne glanced out the window, catching the sun starting to peek out through the clouds on the pristine sheets of snow past the train tracks. Out front, Ray was already out plowing, cutting neat lines through the parking lot on his way back out to the roads. She waved down when she saw him glance up, and he grinned and waved back. On the tracks, a snowblower rolled by and shot gray piles of slush to either side of the rails.

  She knew she should get up and open the bakery doors, knew that she’d have customers soon enough who depended on her bakery in weather like this, but it wasn’t appealing today. She pulled her old robe tighter around her shoulders, shivering. The heat from the stove below had finally dissipated, leaving her apartment chilly and quiet as a tomb. At least if she got the old stove going, it would warm up the building. It would even help shake the worst of the chill from where Rana had sat beside her last night.

  No, Marianne wasn’t going to think about Rana. She wasn’t. She barely knew the woman. She’d had some kind of bizarre lapse, kissing her nemesis, and now she was paying for her behavior with all of these thoughts that didn’t do her any good.

  She shed her robe and got dressed, going for warmth over fashion, and headed down the steps into the bakery. It looked forlorn in the morning light, its counters crumb covered and the trash full. She sighed, rolled up her sleeves, switched on the gas, and got to work. The old monster sputtered and caught when she touched the match to the pilot. She sent a silent thank-you to her grandfather for picking an oven that would last eighty years, and to her father for retrofitting it to 1980s safety standards so none of them would blow the bakery up trying to use it.

  Tori Shapiro, the town’s veteran librarian, knocked on the door a few minutes past nine. Marianne unlocked it, letting her in.

  “Hey, honey,” said Tori, kissing Marianne’s cheek. “I don’t mean to be pushy, but if I don’t get some coffee before work, I’m going to murder someone. I love my children, but they’re monsters on a snowy day.”

  Marianne laughed and pulled out the French press and ground coffee, sticking a kettle on the gas stove to boil. “All this snow and you have to work?”

  Tori shook her head. “You would think being the boss would mean I could avoid coming in on days like this one. But no. No power, and all this snow means there might be problems. So, Lila’s home with the kids while I’m stuck at the office watching for leaks.”

  “Remember when snow days were fun?” Marianne poured the hot water over the grounds, letting them steep. “I wonder if kids still sled over at the high school.”

  “Not since they built that new development out there,” said Tori. “They’d land right in the swimming pool if they tried sledding where we used to.” She leaned her elbows on the counter, tucking her long auburn hair back behind her ear. “Remember when Kevin ran right into the mayor’s car?”

  Marianne laughed as she plunged the press down. “He never confessed. I think the mayor knew it was him, but he could never prove it. Kevin used to avoid him every winter, just in case his guilt would show somehow, or he’d blurt a confession out.” She handed Tori a paper cup that steamed with hot coffee. “Honey in there, right?” She pulled out a jar. “I’ll let you do the honors.”

  Tori brought the cup up to her nose, eyes fluttering shut as she breathed in. Taking the honey, she grinned at Marianne. “At least they can’t get up to the kind of trouble we did back then, now that that old shed is gone.” She patted Marianne’s hand. “Ah, our wild youths. Thank goodness that’s over.” She straightened. “Thanks for the coffee, M. You’re a lifesaver. I’ll let folks know you’re open.” She dug out her wallet and handed Marianne a five. “Keep the change. This was worth it.”

  “Just make sure they know the internet’s out, so I can’t take cards, okay?”

  “I’ll tell people you’re cash only.” Tori took a long sip of the coffee before tugging her coat collar up closer around her neck and turning toward the door. “Wish me luck in the cold, dark library.”

  *

  Zeke shuffled in around ten, shaking snow from his boots and shivering as he slung his backpack into the chair in her office and hung his coat on a peg to drip dry. “Warming up out there,” he observed, rubbing his hands together. “What’s up, boss? Power’s not back yet?”

  Marianne shook her head. “They say it’ll be back soon, but who knows? Yours is out too?”

  He nodded. “I set Granddad up with the woodstove, and Ms. Shapiro’s gonna check on him too. Uh, Lila, not Tori. Tori’s wife.” He snorted. “That’s one reason not to change your name.”

  “Doris will probably stop in on him too,” said Marianne. “I’ll mention it when she comes by. Or I’ll let you mention it.” She glanced out the window. The sun shone bright against the snow. “Don’t know if we’ll get many customers today, so if you want to leave early, let me know.”

  He shrugged. “I need the money more than the time.” He washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel, tossing the paper in a graceful arc into the trash can across the room.

  Marianne turned, putting her hands on her hips. “What did I say about throwing flammables near the stove?”

  Zeke scratched the back of his neck. “Not to?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It was a good shot though,” he pointed out.

  Marianne shook her head. “Good shot or not, I’m not burning this place down so you can make the basketball team.”

  He cocked his head. “You look weird, boss.”

  This time she did laugh. “That’s exactly what every woman wants to hear, Zeke.”

  “You okay?” The question was unexpectedly soft, and Marianne suddenly felt herself blinking back the beginnings of tears. It had been a strange, fraught morning after a weird, wonderful night.

  “I’m all right, Zeke.” She cleared her throat and patted him on the shoulder as she pulled down a new tub of shredded cheddar from the fridge. “Let’s get some work done, okay? I’ll start cooking if you start shoveling.”

  Just as Marianne pulled the first tray of muffins from the oven, the bell on the door jingled. She heard the cash register ding as she came around the corner to find Jesse Laurence chatting with Zeke as he poured sugar into his coffee.

  Jesse was someone who’d always been around, another town fixture like herself who’d been born in Swanley and would die there. His family and hers had never really gotten along, but the last few years she’d come to appreciate his dry humor and his devil-may-care attitude toward the rest of the world. When they’d been in school together, he’d had a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas. He’d mellowed since meeting his partner in his late thirties, growing up more in the two decades since than she ever expected him to.

  “Jesse! How’s Jo?” she asked, brushing her hands off on her apron. “
Haven’t seen them around lately.”

  Jesse grinned. “Hey there, Ms. Marianne! We’re good. They’re outta town. Enjoying the sun down in Arizona with their sister. Some kind of bonding something, I don’t know, but they’re glad to be missing the snow.” He held up the coffee Zeke handed him. “Hey, thanks for being open. I needed this.”

  “You know I’m always here.” She waved as he pulled his jacket closer in around himself. Marianne watched him go, envying the ease with which he moved through the town and its politics despite having dreams of moving away when he was younger. She wished she’d been able to let go of hers so easily. She loved Swanley, but being here in her grandfather’s apron in her family’s hundred-and-fifty-year-old business was not the life of travel and excitement outside small-town Massachusetts she’d hoped for at twenty.

  She pushed back through the doors and pulled another pair of muffin trays out, cheddar-chive and cranberry, and set them on racks to cool. There was something oddly satisfying about cooking in the old green monster of a stove though. Its heavy-hinged doors swung smoothly after a little grease, and the blasting heat gave the muffins a crisp top that the newer electric stoves couldn’t quite achieve. She felt like her grandfather and father were cooking beside her when she used it, and the feeling was comforting rather than stifling. She popped out a cheddar muffin, juggling it from hand to hand, and bit into its steaming top. There was nothing in the world like a hot baked good.

  *

  A week later, the snow still hung around the parking lot and sidewalks, gray with mud and dirt and freezing solid every night to melt to progressively larger puddles every afternoon. Marianne had shoveled the front as best she could, but the ice kept reappearing. She lived in terror of being sued when some commuter inevitably slipped.

  On the other side of the wall, she heard movement. It sounded like someone digging through metal pans. She tried to block out the sound. She didn’t need to remember Rana’s hands against her own, or the softness of her skin. She needed to forget anything had ever happened. The few glances of Rana she’d caught through the window of the Cairo Grill had left her frazzled, and she didn’t need that.