by Mary Kennedy
“Tell me about your other neighbors on the block,” I said, eager to strike a positive note. “The flower shop looks interesting. Do you get much business from their customers?”
I’d spotted a flower market called Petals just a few doors away, and I pictured yuppie types buying fresh blooms and then dashing into Ali’s shop for a sugary treat. The shop was older, but neatly maintained with a green canvas awning, a cascade of pink and white petunias tumbling out of matching window boxes, and a stunning violet clematis climbing up a trellis near the front door.
I felt encouraged and immediately wondered if there was any way to attract the Petals customers to Allison’s shop. Maybe do some sort of joint promotional effort?
Flowers and candy. They were a natural combination. All we had to do was find a way to link these two products together. Holidays would be easy, of course. Everyone loves flowers and candy for Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, but we needed to think big. We needed to focus on a more general promotion, something that could run throughout the year. But what?
“There has to be a way we can capitalize on the flower shop being so close to your store,” I said. “At the moment, I’m drawing a blank, but I bet there are loads of possibilities there.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. I don’t think I can get any business from Petals.” Ali looked wistful. “Two elderly sisters run the place. They came to the Dream Club last night, the two ladies in the flowered dresses? You probably didn’t get a chance to chat with them. Minerva and Rose Harper are very nice but they’ve got to be in their eighties if they’re a day. They mostly do wreaths for funeral homes, and they seem to sell a lot of potted plants.”
“That doesn’t sound too encouraging,” I admitted, playing with my tossed salad. “And I don’t see any customers over there. That’s not a good sign, especially on a Friday night.”
“I’m sure they do a lot of home deliveries because I see them loading flowers into their van all the time. There’s not much foot traffic into the store. Petals has been here forever, and I don’t think they even have to advertise. Everyone in the district just knows about them.”
“It doesn’t sound like a good match for your business, after all,” I admitted. A failed movie theater and a flower shop run by geriatric owners. This was going to be a tougher job than I’d thought.
“Anyway, their customers aren’t the right people to target for vintage candy,” Ali said. “I can’t imagine anyone stopping to buy Mallo Cups on their way to a funeral.”
“No, I suppose not.” I smiled, pleased to see that Ali was at least thinking about coming up with a marketing strategy. “What about the dance studio over there? Look, there’s some people going in there right now.” Offhand, I couldn’t think of how a dance studio could help promote the sale of vintage candy, but I liked to look at all the possibilities.
Ali followed my gaze and her expression hardened. “That’s Chico’s place. Chico Hernandez. He’s offering a special on tango lessons this month, and he’s drawing quite a crowd. Mostly women, as you can see.”
I took a good look. The doors to the studio were open, and salsa music was pouring into the soft night air. “Tango lessons? That could be interesting. Have you met him? What’s he like?”
“Oh, I’ve met him all right. He’s quite the Latin lover,” Ali said shortly. “Thinks he’s God’s gift to women, an Antonio Banderas wanna-be. You know the type.”
“Sadly, I do.” I took another peek as a darkly handsome man with longish hair and flashing black eyes stepped outside, talking on his cell phone. He was wearing black pants so tight they could have been spray painted on him, along with a white shirt, a black vest, and Cuban heels.
A middle-aged woman brushed by him to enter the studio. We watched as he shoved his cell phone in his pocket, pulled her close to him, and planted a kiss on her cheek. He then executed a few tango steps before bending her backward in a spine-crunchingly low dip. You’d think he was auditioning for Dancing with the Stars.
He finished his little performance by pulling her upright and kissing her hand. Ali rolled her eyes, but the bystanders standing on the sidewalk seemed impressed by his impromptu performance and broke into delighted applause.
“That’s Chico in action,” Ali said with a rueful laugh. “Always on the move, always on the make. And the crowds eat it up.”
“Quite the ladies’ man.”
She nodded, her lips thinning in disapproval. “He tried to hit on me the day I opened the shop. He has a sort of superficial charm, you know.”
“Yes, I can see that,” I said wryly. His dance partner was giggling like a schoolgirl and blushing furiously as he bowed to her.
“I was crazy enough to go out with him a couple of times until someone told me he has a wife and four kids back in South America, so I ended it. I’m not even sure it was true, but things were headed downhill anyway. That was the last straw.” Ali’s tone was thoughtful. I wondered if she had actually cared about Chico but was putting on a brave front for me. It’s very possible he’d played her, and she’d been hurt by him. My sister’s track record with men was as dismal as her success as an entrepreneur.
I chuckled sympathetically. “A wise move.” I was helping myself to a slice of mushroom pizza when I heard Ali suck in a quick gulp of air.
“Oh no,” she muttered. “Chico’s spotted us. And he’s crossing the street, heading right this way.”
“Maybe he wants one last tango with you,” I quipped.
5
But Chico seemed to have more in mind than dance steps. He darted nimbly through traffic, leapt over a low concrete planter filled with coral and white petunias at the edge of the curb, and quickly crossed the space between us. He was flashing a thousand-watt smile, playing to the crowd, radiating a kind of rock star cockiness. A group of diners at a nearby table turned to stare at him, and he gave them a jaunty wave, basking in the attention.
“Mi muchacha querida!” he cried dramatically when he reached our table, bending to kiss Ali’s hand. “It’s been so long, I’ve missed you, I’m desolated without you.” He pulled over the extra chair in one swift motion and planted himself on it, his eyes never leaving her face. “I was getting ready to open my studio, and then I saw you sitting here as beautiful as a painting. I couldn’t believe my fortuna, my luck, and I couldn’t wait un momento mas to tell you how you make my heart race.”
Nothing subtle about Chico. He was laying on the compliments so thick, he could have been using a trowel. I winced, wondering if any woman in her right mind would really fall for his spiel.
Up close, I could see that he was a little older than I’d originally thought, with a few lines around his eyes and a certain softness blurring what was probably once a finely chiseled chin line. I noticed he was wearing a flashy ring with an insignia on it, but no wedding ring. I assumed that was deliberate; appearing single would be good for business.
“How are you doing, Chico?” Ali said evenly. Two little pinpricks of color appeared on her cheeks, the only sign that she was feeling a bit rattled by his attention. He tried to hold her hand, but she pulled it away and wrapped her fingers around her wineglass.
“How am I doing?” he repeated soulfully. “I’m lonely without you, my lovely Ali,” he said. He placed his hand over his heart, and his dark eyes flickered to me, shooting me a look that I couldn’t begin to decipher. “Who is your bee-oo-tiful amiga? Please to introduce us?”
Ali hesitated for a moment, and I saw a shadow of indecision in her eyes. “Chico, this is my sister, Taylor Blake, from Chicago. Taylor, this is Chico Hernandez.” She sent him her frostiest stare.
Chico immediately laser-locked me with his sultry gaze. “Taylor, a lovely name for a lovely woman.” He leaned across the table and touched me gently under the chin. “I can see very much the family resemblance.” I drew back slightly in my chair, shrinking from his touch. A heav
y wave of cologne hit me, and I wrinkled my nose, drawing back even farther. He wasn’t easily dissuaded and gave a throaty chuckle. “You will be staying long in our city, I am hoping?”
“I’m really not sure,” I said vaguely.
“If you need someone to show you the city, I am here for you.” He licked his lips, staring at me as if I were a Big Mac and he were a hungry hound. “I can show you things you’ve never seen before,” he said suggestively. I glanced up to see Ali giving me a delicate eye roll over the rim of her wineglass. I assume this was Chico’s standard line when talking to women.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much time for sightseeing,” I said curtly. I decided it was better to be blunt with the man. It was obvious he wouldn’t take a hint; only a verbal two-by-four would put a dent in his gigantic ego.
Chico grinned, reaching for my hand and running his thumb over my palm before I yanked my hand away. “Well, you never know, you may change your mind. And I’ll be here, waiting for you.” He gave me another soulful look, like a B-list actor in a cheesy Spanish soap, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
An awkward silence fell between us, and I noticed a slow flush creeping down Ali’s neck. Chico’s unwavering gaze and blatant come-on were making both of us uncomfortable. I kept my eyes focused on my quickly cooling slice of pizza, hoping he would get the hint and say adios.
“Chico!” a flashy redhead yelled from across the street. I recognized her from the Dream Club meeting. Gina Santiago. Her hair tumbled almost to her waist in soft waves, and she had a knockout figure with curves in all the right places. She was wearing a white ruffly peasant blouse with a full cotton skirt and black strappy dance shoes. “What are you doing over there? Class is starting, everyone is in the studio!” She waved her arm in the air, frowning, pointing to her watch.
“Un momento, por favor!” he called to her, holding up an index finger. He turned back to us, his lips tightening into a thin line. “My assistant is driving me crazy,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “She lives by the clock; no wonder her husband divorced her. She should be working in a factory, not a dance studio. She does not have the soul of an artist, like you, my beautiful Ali.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “But I’m afraid for once she is right. I must take my leave of you ladies. What is it you say in English? Duty screams, or is it duty shouts?”
“Duty calls,” I said flatly, willing him to be on his way.
“Ah yes, that is it, duty calls.” He stood up slowly, and I quickly grabbed my napkin in case he was going for the fingertip-kissing routine again. “I wish I could join you for dinner, my lovelies, but I’m having a special meal prepared for me later tonight. Veal scallopini, you know it?”
Ali gave a delicate shudder. “I’m a vegetarian, Chico. No meat, no fowl, no fish.”
Chico slapped his head. “Ah, querida, how could I forget? You don’t eat the animals, you eat the tofu and bean sprouts, of course I knew that. I was distracted by looking at you and your hermana, so much loveliness at one table.”
“Really?” Ali said, barely holding back a snort.
“Sí!” Chico replied, bobbing his head up and down. “My mind cannot take in such a sight! It’s too much belleza, how you say, beauty, for one man to grasp.” He slapped his forehead in a spot-on Ricky Ricardo imitation.
“Chico!” the redhead trilled. “We’re waiting for you!”
“Coming!” he shouted. He pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet, a scowl marring his handsome face. “Ladies,” he said, giving a little bow before darting back across the street.
“Wow. So that’s Chico,” I said the moment he was out of earshot.
“In the flesh,” Ali said wryly. “I think I made a narrow escape when I dumped that guy.”
I raised my wineglass and clinked it against hers. “I’ll drink to that, sis!”
6
I didn’t think to ask Ali about Sybil Powers until late Sunday morning, as we lingered over a breakfast of pecan waffles and veggie sausage patties. Ali was a talented cook, and I was still mulling over the notion of adding freshly prepared items to her inventory downstairs.
I was toying with the idea of serving homemade pastel mints along with gourmet coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Maybe we could even add a few interesting soups and salads to draw in the lunch crowd. I wanted to find recipes that were regional and representative of the Deep South, delectable dishes you wouldn’t see anyplace else.
“You didn’t happen to mention anything to Sybil about my nightmares, did you, Ali?” I kept my voice deliberately casual. Ali is often impulsive, and I didn’t want to lay a guilt trip on her in case she had blurted something out without thinking.
Ali looked up from the Sunday paper, blinking in surprise. “Tell her about your nightmares? Oh, gosh no,” she said, looking shocked. “You know I’d never discuss your personal life with anyone, Taylor. And especially not with Sybil. Everyone in Savannah knows you can’t trust that woman not to blab. She has no sense of boundaries, none at all.”
“Is that so?” Scout was winding around my bare feet, looking up hopefully for a morsel of veggie sausage. I wasn’t even sure if cats could digest soy protein, but the smell clearly had him hooked and he looked as if he were dying to sample it. I broke off a tiny corner of a sausage patty and slipped it to him under the table.
She gave a little snort. “Absolutely. Anything you tell Sybil is all over town by dinnertime. Last week I told her Barney had a hairball, and three people called me up that day with homeopathic remedies for him. One woman even dropped by the store with a little bottle of castor oil flavored with tuna fish. She guaranteed it would solve the problem.” She reached for the blueberry syrup and poured a hefty dollop over her waffles.
“I’m glad you didn’t say anything about my dreams to her,” I said, feeling a little relieved. “It must just have been a lucky guess on her part.” It was quiet in the kitchen. The Casablanca fan was whirring above us, and Barney was sleeping on the window ledge of Ali’s second-floor apartment. Ali didn’t open the shop until the afternoon on Sundays, so we had the early-morning hours to ourselves. I took another look and spotted Barney’s catnip mouse nestled between his front paws. Had he found it under the refrigerator as Sybil had suggested?
“What did Sybil tell you? Now you’ve got me really curious.”
“I suppose she was trying to be helpful, but she told me not to let the nightmares get to me.” I frowned. “That it was unhealthy to block my dreams. I guess she meant well, but the whole conversation was a little disconcerting, that’s all. She seemed to know I had a history of bad dreams and that I had them for a reason.”
“Wow, that’s very weird. Creepy, actually.”
“I know,” I agreed. “I wasn’t sure what to make of it.”
Ali poured more coffee for us, my favorite, hazelnut cream. “I don’t know how she could have figured this out on her own; it’s simply not possible.”
“Has she made these sorts of pronouncements before?”
“All the time. I’ve never really believed this dream-hopping talk of hers, but sometimes she seems to be dead-on in her predictions. She sees things other people don’t see. Not just in dreams, but she seems to sense things about people. It’s almost like she can look inside their souls and their psyches.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “So you think she’s psychic.”
Ali chuckled. “Well, she certainly thinks she is. I don’t know what to make of her comments,” she added with a little sigh. “But I’m sorry she said that to you. It must have felt a little intrusive, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Sybil has never been known for her sensitivity. She’s like a bull in a china shop, but you probably figured that out from the way she dominates things at the Dream Club. Along with Dorien, of course.”
“The two of them have strong personalities,” I murmured. “But maybe that’s n
ot a bad thing; they keep the conversation going. And they do have some interesting insights. They came up with some interpretations I never would have thought of.”
“I just hope they don’t drive new members away,” Ali said. “We want to keep the group small, but everyone has such busy schedules these days that I think we could accept a few more members. I like to have at least eight people for the meetings, so we can have plenty of material to cover.”
“Do you accept anyone into the group?”
“Pretty much. They have to be recommended by a current member, of course. It’s a tight-knit community in Savannah, and most of us who are doing dream work know each other. I like to be careful, though, and I don’t want to jeopardize the integrity of the group. I don’t want someone to show up one time just out of curiosity and never come back. And I certainly don’t want any reporters in the club.”
“A smart move,” I agreed.
Ali nodded. “We insist on discretion in our group; otherwise people won’t feel free to discuss sensitive material. I even ask members to sign confidentiality agreements. They probably wouldn’t hold up in court, but it just makes me feel better to have a signed document.”
“I can understand that. It sounds like you have a good plan.” I was surprised at how thorough Ali had been; it looked like she’d anticipated problems and covered all the bases.
Ali nodded. “My goal is to have a base of a dozen or so regulars with maybe two or three drop-ins. That way I can always be assured of eight people showing up on any given week.”
“Was Friday night a pretty typical meeting?”
“I suppose so,” Ali said thoughtfully. “No group is perfect, of course. You have to take the good with the bad, and Dorien pretty much hogged the discussion, as usual. Other people might have had different ideas, but everyone is afraid to disagree with her.”
“There was Persia and her murder dream,” I reminded her.
