No Parking

by Valentine Wheeler

  “Tori tells some good stories about the two of you,” said Lila, laughing. “You were quite the pair.”

  “Couldn’t last,” said Tori, leaning over to kiss her wife’s cheek. “I had to dump Marianne to find you.”

  Lila chuckled. “Since I was a toddler when the two of you dated, it’s for the best.”

  The bell over the door chimed as another couple walked in, looking damp and bedraggled, and with a quick goodbye to the Shapiros, Marianne got up to usher them toward the counter.

  “See you tomorrow,” Lila called as Marianne slid behind the pastry case. “Don’t forget the paperwork.”

  *

  Boxing Day dawned cloudy and gray, warm enough for the slush to melt but not enough for anyone to be comfortable. After the quick drive across the border into Wilshire, Marianne parked in the county lot and walked the two blocks to the county court complex.

  The probate court was held in a grubby little building off the main courthouse. Marianne had just paused on the steps, turning to look back the way she came, when a voice startled her from much nearer than she was comfortable with.

  “Marianne.” Luke Leventi stood less than ten feet behind her in a dark suit, a manila envelope in his hand. “Fancy seeing you here,” he said.

  “It’s not nice to sneak up on a woman,” said Marianne, trying to calm her racing heart. “Or anyone, really.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not nice to try to steal someone’s business either, but here we are.”

  “Steal your business? What?”

  He smiled.

  As her eyes met his, Marianne noted the dark patches under his eyes and the slight looseness of his usually perfectly tied tie. His shoes were still perfectly polished, reflecting the sunlight, and his shirt had a subtle blush color against the dark gray pinstripe of his suit. Even angry and stressed, the man could dress.

  “My property. It’s brought in business for you, too, having that suite working next door to you. That would have fallen by the wayside, wasted space, if my father had left it in your father’s hands. Look how few customers you get in your shop.”

  “It’s not like they have any parking,” snapped Marianne. And you haven’t exactly managed to keep businesses going over there, have you? Rana’s the tenant you’ve had the longest in decades, if I recall correctly. I’m not sure why you’d give that up by kicking her out—she’s the only one who’s made that space work.”

  He snorted, a jarring sound out of his put-together appearance, and one that reminded her he didn’t grow up in the fancy suits and well-bred manners he liked to posture in these days. “I don’t give a shit about the restaurant,” he said. “I care about you screwing up my deal to sell it.”

  “You’re trying to ruin my life and Rana’s too. You don’t think I’m going to take that, do you, Luke? I would have thought after fifty years you’d know me better than that.”

  He shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You wanted to look into this mess, fine. We can do that. My dad might have bought that place, he might not. Either way, it’s mine now. You won’t be getting it back. And neither will your Egyptian friend. She’ll be gone. And in a year or so, once the Dunkin’ is up and running with their dollar coffees and sixty-five cent donuts, backed up by CoffeeGuru and their delivery scooters all around town, you’ll be begging to sell.”

  “Sell?” Marianne laughed. “Luke, I’m never going to sell to you. You should know that right now.”

  “No?” His smile widened. “Are you sure about that?” He glanced behind her at the building and then over toward the train station down the road. “Did your property taxes seem a little higher this year, Marianne?”

  They had, but Marianne wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a yes.

  “We’ve had a huge influx of commuters over in Wilshire, did you know that? Folks who think that forty-five minutes on the train is a great deal for rural living. And folks who aren’t going to get their coffee from a crappy local shop that’s falling apart at the seams. If they don’t come by my Dunkin’, or order through CoffeeGuru, they’ll hit the Starbucks in South Station and whine about the lines. In a few years, this piece of land will be so expensive your flagging profits won’t be able to pay the tax bills anymore. I can help you, if you’d rather do this that way.”

  “What do you mean, help me?”

  He shrugged. “We can make some kind of a deal.”

  Marianne let out a bark of laughter. “I don’t think so. You try anything, and I’ll see you in court, asshole.”

  He shrugged. “That’s Representative Asshole, to you. And fine. See you there. It’s all the same to me. You’ll sell when you’re broke from legal fees just as easy as broke from property taxes.” He turned. “See you around, Marianne.”

  She stood on the steps, shaking with adrenaline, as he slid into his car and pulled away. Then she carefully climbed the steps, leaned her shoulder against the wall, covered her face, and took a moment to pull herself together.

  It took longer than she’d expected, residual stress making her heart pound and her hands shake. She tried to breathe deeply, her breath catching in her throat and a low tingling in her belly, cold trickling down her spine. Finally, she swallowed hard and straightened her dress, pushing into the building. As she came through the doors, she found Lila inside the vestibule typing on her phone. She looked up when Marianne came in, nodding a hello distracted and then glanced more closely at Marianne, face softening a little into concern. “Hey,” she said. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Marianne pulled her coat tighter around her. “This seems like a lot of fuss that might open a big can of worms.”

  “Second thoughts?”

  Marianne sighed. “I’m not sure, Lila. I don’t want to make things worse.”

  “How much worse will they get without you doing this?” asked Lila. “Because it sounds to me like you’re going to lose your bakery to Dunkin’ Donuts if you don’t do something.”

  “I hate having to choose between two bad choices; that’s all,” said Marianne. She didn’t want to tell Lila about Luke’s veiled threats. It was just talk, after all. “I hate being forced into action.”

  “I get that,” said Lila. “I really do. But you know, this is righting a wrong. You shouldn’t have to do this, but once you do, it’ll be as your dad wanted it—you in charge of the family business, not some sneaky interloper.”

  “I guess.”

  “Are you ready to go in?”

  Marianne swallowed hard and clutched the accordion folder holding the will and deed closer. “All right.”

  Lila grinned and led her up the steps and in the main entrance to the courthouse proper, stamping her feet on the mat inside to knock off the caked slush. Marianne followed suit. The building was relatively empty, though they could hear a muffled argument through the thin walls to their left. Marianne followed Lila through a short maze of hallways to a winding set of stanchions and up to a long desk where a clerk sat clacking away on a keyboard. Lila paused in the doorway for a moment, taking a deep breath and then continued in. The woman looked up as they stopped in front of her.

  “Hello, Gloria,” said Lila, smiling carefully at the small woman behind the desk. The woman stopped typing, turning to them.

  “Ms. Shapiro,” she said, voice stiff. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re here to file a will,” said Lila, holding out a hand to Marianne. “It’s for an estate settled in the eighties. It’s 121 Main Street in Swanley.”

  Gloria picked up a pair of bright pink reading glasses and set them on her nose, glancing at Marianne over them. “Hmm, 121 Main Street, is it?” She took the folder, flipping it open and pulling out the form Marianne and Lila had spent the evening perfecting. Her eyes darted down the spread pages and then back up at Lila and Marianne. “There’s a problem here. I can tell you that already.” She shook her head. “Somebody beat you to it.”

  “Beat us to it?” Marianne shook her head. “Th
is is the only copy. There was no other will.”

  “Oh, they didn’t file a will,” said Gloria. “They challenged this one.”

  “But we hadn’t even brought it in yet!”

  Gloria pulled her glasses back off, letting them dangle on the chain around her neck. “That doesn’t matter, honey.”

  “Who filed a challenge?” asked Lila, though Marianne knew the answer already.

  Gloria typed another string into her computer and then looked up. “Lucas Leventi. Just this morning.”

  “That’s what he was doing!” Burst out Marianne. “I just saw him,” she explained to Lila. “Outside, on my way in. He was hinting about something, trying to get me to sell him the whole building.”

  Lila’s mouth thinned into a tight line. “All right. We can weather this.” She turned back to the desk. “Gloria, is there a date set yet for the trial?”

  “Trial?” asked Marianne.

  “He’s contesting the will,” explained Lila. “Usually people wait until after it’s filed in probate, but this is, unfortunately, legal. We have to meet in court to figure it out.”

  Gloria’s eyebrows rose. “It’s scheduled as of this morning. In a week.”

  “A week?” Lila said, astonished. “That’s impossible! Nothing moves that fast around here.”

  Gloria shrugged. “It does when the person initiating the challenge got elected to the House. Representative Leventi knows how to work the system. You know that.”

  Lila tipped her head up, sighing heavily. “All right. Looks like we’ve got some work ahead of us.”

  *

  When Marianne pushed open the door to the bakery, Zeke looked up from the register and grinned. “Just took a catering order for sixty muffins,” he called as he handed a woman a tea. “For next Friday. Some kind of fundraiser.”

  “That’s great, Zeke,” Marianne replied distractedly. “Give me a couple minutes, and I’ll come relieve you, all right? I know you’ve been stuck here a lot lately, and I appreciate it.”

  He shrugged. “I’m fine here, and I need the overtime. Take your time. I’m saving up for a new phone.”

  Marianne thanked him and headed around the building to update Rana. She’d seen her once with Kevin since she’d gotten back from her trip, and once through the window as she walked by the bakery, but they hadn’t had a moment to have a real conversation alone since the news about Rana’s lease. Marianne’s stomach burned, unsettled with anxiety as she trudged through the snow.

  If I win this and somehow own both sides of the building, I’m putting a door back in between the suites, she said to herself and then pushed the thought down. She didn’t want to jinx herself by planning for an outcome she wasn’t sure was even possible. And she didn’t want to think of herself as Rana’s landlord; that was for sure.

  As Marianne wiped her feet on the mat inside the Cairo Grill, Rana appeared from the kitchen. Her face lit up when she saw Marianne.

  Rana’s eyes were beautiful, dark brown and wide with scattered crow’s-feet fanning out from the corners, and her smile drove deep dimples into her cheeks. Marianne smiled back, warmth coalescing in her chest. All nonsense about legal things and all the awkwardness of their aborted relationship aside, she liked Rana. She just did. She liked her humor and her food and her smile, and she liked the way Rana had somehow gotten to know everyone in town so quickly. It made her realize a little how isolated she’d become—seeing Rana laughing with customers like they were old friends, customers Marianne had known her whole life and wasn’t that open with. But Rana, in only a few months, was part of Swanley. “Hi,” she said, suddenly a little uncomfortable.

  “Hi,” said Rana. “I heard there was news.”

  Marianne blinked. “You heard already?”

  Rana laughed. “Ray was in earlier. He said his sister-in-law works at the courthouse and saw you and Lila coming out looking angry.”

  “Even in Wilshire I can’t get away from the gossip network,” grumbled Marianne. “But it’s not good news. I’m sorry to say.”

  “I didn’t expect it to be good. Sit,” said Rana. “I’ve got a few minutes. You know I don’t usually have many afternoon customers.”

  “I can’t stay long,” said Marianne. “I left Zeke with a line.” She slid onto a stool, sighing as her weight shifted off her feet. She wasn’t used to wearing business casual like she’d decided to do for the trip to the courthouse. Making a good impression might not be worth wearing fancy boots. “Leventi is suing us.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Well, not us. The will, I think? I didn’t quite understand what he’s doing, but the point is, we have to go to court to prove my dad’s will is valid.” She shook her head. “I hate this.”

  Rana reached over and placed her hand on Marianne’s forearm, hers cool and dry through Marianne’s sleeve. “I do too. But we’re going to fight it.”

  “We are,” said Marianne. “We don’t have a choice.”

  Rana laughed a little. “When you put it that way, it sounds less noble, Marianne.” The door whined as it opened, letting in a group of chattering teens. “I have customers,” she said apologetically. “Let me know how I can help.”

  Marianne nodded. “Thank you. I will.”

  *

  Marianne hadn’t taken out her only business-like dress in years—not since her cousin Lydia’s funeral in 2012. And she had had a suit at one point, but she hadn’t seen it since the late nineties. Even if the outfit was still lurking somewhere in her closet, it was unlikely to fit anymore, or be in style. She’d gotten by for years in long skirts and blouses on the few occasions she’d needed something more formal than jeans and less fun than her blue dress. She sighed heavily, staring into her closet.

  Lila had told her she had to dress nicely, but not too nicely. Professional, not attention-grabbing. They’d spent nearly as much time on demeanor as they had on the actual will. That had mostly been Lila, the legal end of it—the will was witnessed by two signatures, and Lila had found other documents signed by the same old military buddies of Marianne’s father to match up to the witness signatures. It would have been better if one of them had been alive, but no such luck.

  Getting ready for the paperwork side of court had been one thing. Now facing the actual day in front of a real judge, she froze.

  It doesn’t matter what you wear, she thought to herself. You’ve done nothing wrong, and they’ll see that.

  But Luke Leventi was always so put together, looking sleek and masculine in suits and ties, almost presidential. Kevin was the same way, and for a moment, she wondered if she should have called her ex-husband for fashion advice. But that was a ridiculous thought, and she cast it aside as fast as it occurred. She had no interest in inviting him into her bedroom, even for something this innocuous.

  Rana always looked good, she thought, closing the door. Maybe she could ask her.

  Her chest warmed and she closed her eyes, trying not to freak herself out with the thought. So, they’d kissed and spent a night together on the couch. So what? If Rana had wanted more, she would have said something by now. They were friends these days. Marianne didn’t even know if she wanted more. It was so rare that she did. Friendship was easier. Friendship was great. And Marianne didn’t exactly have a lot of friends. She was happy to have Rana in that capacity. It wasn’t less than dating. It was just different, and if Marianne was honest with herself, maybe not quite what she wanted.

  Rana was smart and gorgeous and thoughtful a great cook, something Marianne had never expected to find in a friend. She was always the cook in any relationship, friendship or otherwise. Owning a bakery kind of guaranteed that. Spending time with Rana and getting to have new, delicious things brought to her by a beautiful woman? She saw the appeal.

  She pulled on her coat and trudged outside, shivering in the biting wind, though it felt good to cool off her burning face. She needed to shove this crush down further, if she didn’t want to make Rana uncomfortable. A sudden thought
occurred to her—Rana had never seen her bedroom. If she invited her up to help her dress, it would be in her bedroom, next to her bed. They’d walk right by the couch they’d spent their one evening of intimacy on. She had to pull herself together.

  Marianne was too old for this nonsense. She peered into Rana’s front door, squinting through the dark room. She hadn’t realized how late it was. The shop was closed. Rana was probably long gone. She stood there another moment and then turned back to the slushy sidewalk. She had just begun walking through another particularly chilly gust of wind when a burst of warmth and sound behind her made her turn back around.

  “Marianne?” called a familiar voice. “Is that you?” Rana stood in the doorway, shivering in a thin sweater, and Marianne felt a broad smile spill over her face. “Come inside!” Called Rana. “You’re letting all the heat out.”

  Marianne followed the warm smell of bread and lamb through the door, letting out a deep breath of relief as the warmth of Rana’s shop enveloped her. “Sorry to bother you,” she said as Rana shut and locked the door behind her, leading her into the room behind the big sinks across the back counter. She hadn’t been back here in years, maybe even decades, and it was so strange to see how completely different Rana had made the room from the way the previous tenants had arranged it. Neat stacks of paper lay across a modern brushed metal desk, a wooden rolling chair that looked older than either of them tucked in behind it. A framed black and white photo of a cityscape, the tip of a pyramid cresting over skyscrapers, hung on the wall behind the bookshelves.

  “I must apologize for the mess,” said Rana. “I was doing the accounting. But it’s warmer back here, and no customers can see us and think we’re open for business. They’ll leave instead.”

  “Like I nearly did,” said Marianne smiling. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “You’re not a customer.” Rana’s cheeks dimpled. “Don’t worry.”

  “A customer would buy things,” replied Marianne, but she settled into the overstuffed loveseat across the back of the office. “I enjoy what you give me for free.”