by Ali Brandon
When Hamlet gave her a sour green look at this weak attempt at humor, she meekly emptied his water dish and looped the leash around her wrist before gathering her things again.
“Oh, and look,” she added, reaching into her purse and plucking out the small sack of coffee, which she dangled like catnip before him. “I picked up some of the competition’s prime roast so Robert can reverse engineer it and figure out why people like it so much.”
“Me-ROOOW!”
With that outraged sound, the cat whipped an oversized paw in her direction and smacked the bag of coffee right out of her hand.
“Hamlet! What’s wrong with you?” Darla scolded as she scrambled after the wayward small paper sack and stashed it back in her purse. Fortunately, his claws had been sheathed, so that coffee beans hadn’t spilled everywhere. She didn’t want to antagonize him further at the moment, so she opted to overlook the ornery feline’s behavior.
Seemingly appeased by the bag’s removal, Hamlet deigned to rise and pad alongside her for the short walk back to the store. To her relief, George apparently had taken a different direction for his own little stroll. One encounter with him per day was her limit.
Then she frowned, remembering Steve Mookjai’s account of the recent incident between his teenagers and the coffee shop owner. Did they really want someone like George King representing their retail neighborhood? What if he tried his insults on one of the block party guests? Maybe she should simply have given George back his money, and then told the committee that he’d decided to bow out of the event.
Darla was still second-guessing herself when she reached the bookstore. Determinedly putting those thoughts on the back burner, she hurried up the steps, Hamlet bounding ahead of her. A college-aged man in cutoff shorts and retro tie-dyed tee was leaving just as she headed in the door. She gave him a pleasant nod, encouraged to see that his reusable Pettistone’s tote appeared half full.
Robert was behind the front counter, which meant the coffee lounge upstairs must be empty. Reminding herself to meet with her young barista at the end of the day so they could try out the Perky’s blend, she unfastened Hamlet from his harness. Free of the collection of straps, the feline gave himself a shake, sending a fine dusting of black fur over Darla’s running shoes. Then he made a beeline for the children’s section, where he likely would settle into the oversized beanbag chair that was one of his favorite lounging spots in the store.
Darla, meanwhile, gathered up her gear again and joined Robert at the counter. “Any luck with your friends, the Babies?”
“I talked to Pinky. He doesn’t have a gig for the Fourth, so he said he’d, you know, come by and talk to you. He should be here any minute.”
“Perfect. I just hope you’re right, and that his band is as versatile as you think,” Darla replied as she bent to lock her purse and clipboard into the drawer beneath the counter. “Otherwise, it’s back to Jake’s plan B.”
* * *
Darla frowned at her watch. The “any minute” Robert promised had morphed into three quarters of an hour. Was this Pinky person going to be another Johnny Mack? If he didn’t show in a few more minutes, she’d let Robert know they needed a backup to their backup band.
Shaking her head, she pulled out some paperwork from beneath the counter and began going through invoices and billings while James dealt with a father and his young son who’d just walked in. She could smell the new batch of coffee Robert was roasting up in the coffee bar . . . an aroma faintly reminiscent of old, wet socks being burned. Not the odor that she’d expected when they had first begun the coffee venture; she’d expected something reminiscent of the intoxicating scent of freshly ground beans. In fact, the first time that smell had permeated the store, she’d been more than a little concerned that something was wrong with the process; this, despite Robert’s reassurances that he was following the roasting directions to a T. Darla had been relieved when Livvy had later explained her theory that if the roasting beans actually smelled like fragrant roasted coffee, it meant they were losing aroma and, thus, flavor. Still, the smell tended to bother those customers who weren’t coffee aficionados.
She bent to search the shelves beneath the open counter for the neutralizer spray she used downstairs to counteract the roasting smell. Someone—quite possibly a certain large, black feline—had knocked the canister over, and it had rolled all the way to the back of the shelves. Grumbling to herself, Darla half crawled beneath the counter trying to reach the spray, aware as she did so that the string of bells on the store door had jingled. Hopefully, James would take care of whoever it was, since she literally was in no position to wait on a customer at the moment.
“Gotcha,” she muttered a moment later as she dislodged the can from where it had been stuck between two boxes of returns. Mindful of hitting her head, she wriggled back out again and straightened, only to find herself face-to-face with a reject from horror movie central casting.
She gave a startled little cry and took a reflexive step back, only to realize a heartbeat later that this must be Robert’s tardy friend, Pinky.
At least she assumed so, given that the young man sported a single bright pink braid sprouting from the top of his otherwise shaved head. The pink theme carried to his beard, which had also been braided into two long dyed plaits that clung like colorful lampreys to his rounded chin. He sported black eyeliner and black lipstick, as well as piercings in his eyebrow and his nose. But even all those goth accoutrements couldn’t completely camouflage the youthful plumpness of his pleasant, round face.
“Are you Pinky?” she managed, recovering her composure.
“Yeah. My friend Robert told me that someone here is looking to hire the Screaming Babies for a gig?”
His voice was young and pleasant, too—hardly what she’d expected, given his band’s name. “I’m Darla Pettistone, Robert’s boss,” she went on, putting out her hand. “The band that was supposed to play at our July Fourth block party on Friday cancelled on us, and he suggested you might be able to fill in.”
“Depends,” Pinky told her as they shook. “What’s the pay?”
She gave him the same figure they’d budgeted for the Electric Trombone Band, and the young man nodded. “Yeah, that would work. So how late you want us ’til? Three, four in the morning?”
“Actually, this is a daytime, uh, gig.”
Doubt creeping in—she should have known better than to take advice on hiring a band from a nineteen-year-old—Darla gave Pinky a quick overview of the block party schedule.
“I know the Screaming Babies are a goth group, but Robert said you were a cover band, too. The block party will be a real family event, so we’re hoping for more traditional music . . . maybe even patriotic songs.”
“Sure, we can do patriotic. So, are we hired?”
“I thought Robert mentioned that we wanted to, well, audition you first.” Darla hesitated; then, remembering Penelope’s suggestion, she went on, “Can you sing a few bars of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ for me?”
Pinky frowned, his eyebrow ring twitching. “That’s, like, the song they always sing just before the football game starts, right?”
“Yes, that’s the one. The national anthem. You know, the one that begins—”
“O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light . . . ?”
A bell-like tenor belted out of the young man’s mouth, stunning Darla into silence. As she listened in growing amazement, Pinky sang a flawless a cappella version of the anthem, pink chin braids bobbing rhythmically as he hit every note. He finished a few moments later with, “and the home of the brave,” drawing a burst of applause from James and his customers, who had stopped on their way to check out at the register to listen along with Darla.
“Dude! That was, like, totally sick!”
Those words came from Robert, who was hurrying down the stairs. “I told the boss lady you were, you know, r
eally good.”
Darla gave an enthusiastic nod of agreement. “Robert was right. You are wonderful!”
Pinky shrugged, the rosy braid atop his head slipping down over his face. “Yeah, I guess,” was his modest reply before he repeated, “So, are we hired?”
“Most definitely,” Darla declared and reached beneath the counter for her clipboard. “Let’s fill out the agreement, and I’ll write you a check for the down payment.”
A few minutes later, all the paperwork settled, Darla smiled in satisfaction as she re-checked the Arrange for a band line item on her list. Johnny Mack’s cancellation might well turn out to have been a blessing in disguise, she told herself. Meanwhile, Robert and Pinky went upstairs to the coffee lounge to celebrate the gig. First, however, the latter had signed an autograph for the awestruck boy who’d overheard Pinky’s American Idol moment.
“Dad, Dad, I want to join the school chorus this year,” she heard the boy exclaiming as he and his father headed out the door with a bag of books.
In fact, the only one who hadn’t appeared impressed by the lead singer’s performance was a certain oversized feline.
Midway through Pinky’s performance, Darla had glimpsed from the corner of her eye a black shadow slinking away from the beanbag and heading toward the travel section. Nap time obviously took precedence over the arts, at least in Hamlet’s case.
On the other hand, the impromptu musical performance had seemingly met with James’s approval. He was smiling as he rearranged the shopping bags and then turned to Darla.
“As you know, I am quite the patron of the arts.”
Darla nodded, aware that her manager also sat on the board for a small musical theater group.
James went on, “I have attended every major musical production that has opened in this city for the past thirty years. Yet I have to say that this Pinky person is perhaps the finest tenor I have had the privilege to hear . . . with the exceptions, of course, of Placido, José, and Luciano.”
“He was fabulous, wasn’t he?” she agreed. “You know, James, after all this hard work, it seems that things have finally come together. Not only do we have a talented singer on board, but I was able to get the rest of the Perky’s money, so all our sponsors have paid up.”
“Prodigious job, Darla. Now, let us just hope that we can get through the next few days without any more drama and have an enjoyable block party.”
FIVE
“Robert,” Darla called in a warning tone the next morning, “you know the rules about Roma. She’s allowed in the store, but only if she’s on a leash or you’re holding her.”
“Sorry, Ms. P.!”
Sounding a bit out of breath, the youth rushed down the stairs in the direction of the sales counter where Darla was powering up the register for the start of another business day. “I had her leash hooked to one of the bistro chairs. She must have, you know, figured out how to untie it. And then she wouldn’t come when I called, so I’ve been chasing her.”
As proof of that last, a small white and gray blur that was a ten-pound Italian greyhound came flying over to where Darla stood. Smiling despite herself, Darla promptly dropped to one knee and gave the tiny canine a hug.
“What a bad little girl, running off from Robert like that,” she told the pup, laughing as she tried without luck to avoid Roma’s long pink tongue frantically washing over her face. Then, with a glance at the children’s section, she went on, “Look, Hamlet, here’s your favorite dog friend. Why don’t you say good morning?”
From his spot on the green beanbag in the kids’ story area, Hamlet opened one green eye at Darla’s announcement and let loose a soft hiss.
The sound was enough to distract Roma from her spa duties. With a pleased little yip, she promptly wriggled free of Darla’s grasp. Rose-shaped ears tucked tightly to her tiny head in racing mode, she turned and bolted in Hamlet’s direction, leash flapping behind her.
Robert rushed after her. “Sorry, again, Ms. P.,” he called over his shoulder. “I think she’s, you know, just excited to see everyone.”
Hamlet, however, did not share that same sentiment. As Roma skittered to a stop before him, Hamlet sprang up and clambered to the highest point of the beanbag, staring her down like a panther encountering a wolf cub.
Roma yipped again and with one tiny paw tentatively touched the cat’s squishy refuge. This time, Hamlet’s answering hiss sounded like an oversized tire rapidly losing air, and he raised a paw, as well. But rather than a delicate canine foot, his was a large, fluffy mitt complete with unsheathed claws.
“Hey, little goth bro,” Robert lightly scolded Hamlet as he caught hold of Roma’s leash and scooped her up again. “All Roma wanted to do was say hi. She’s smaller than you, so, you know, be nice.”
To make up for the rebuke, he leaned over and gave Hamlet a swift scritch under the chin. The gesture apparently mollified the cat, for he settled down upon the beanbag, paws curled to his chest, though he kept a watchful eye on the tiny hound that Robert held. For her part, Roma’s long pink tongue lolled out in a wide doggie grin that seemed to say, I won that round, cat!
Darla gave her head a rueful shake. “I have to say, I admire Hamlet’s restraint. It can’t be easy for him, putting up with a pesky little dog after all these years of being the four-footed boss around here.”
Robert grinned. “I think Hamlet’s just putting on a show for us. I think deep down he really likes having a buddy.”
“Right. And George King secretly wants to be besties with me,” she said with an answering chuckle.
While Robert hurried back upstairs, Roma safely tucked beneath one arm, Darla returned to her opening routine. Despite a few lingering worries about the block party on Friday, she had started the morning in a hopeful mood. She had a final get-together with Penelope scheduled for that afternoon, but otherwise she was looking forward to a relatively quiet day.
Which expectation was, she knew, an open invitation to a major smackdown from the Fates. Last thing they needed was for Penelope’s giant pinwheels to go astray, or her dancers to all come down with a nasty twenty-four-hour bug.
Fortunately, the rest of the morning proceeded smoothly. It was just before noon, while Robert was still busy upstairs cleaning up after the morning coffee rush and James had not yet arrived for his shift, when an unexpected customer dropped in.
“Livvy, what brings you by?” Darla greeted her. The young woman had only been by the bookstore twice before during Darla’s tenure as owner, so her appearance there was a surprise. Maybe the coffee business was slow enough that she needed a distracting book during the lulls.
Then another thought occurred to her. Please don’t be coming to get your vendor fee back because George changed his mind again, she thought in sudden dismay. She’d already deposited the check, and the sum was already earmarked for the pinwheel vendor.
Fortunately, Livvy didn’t appear to be on any sort of recovery mission. Moving as silently as Hamlet in her black yoga pants and a long, pale blue embroidered smock that appeared to be vintage, the woman joined her at the register. As always, she appeared not to have glanced in the mirror before she went out, for her dark hair was caught up in a messy bun, the slash of pink lipstick she wore was decidedly crooked, and her short pink nails were decidedly chipped.
“Hi, Darla,” Livvy returned her greeting, smiling as she glanced about the store. “I’m glad I caught you while it’s quiet. I’m on my way to pick up lunch for me and Georgie at the deli, but while I have a minute I wanted to see if you could special order something for me. I tried to buy it online, but I think it’s out of print.”
Relieved that this wasn’t related to the block party, Darla nodded and went over to her computer. “I’ll give it a shot. What’s the title and author?”
Livvy dug into the shapeless red linen hobo bag slung across her flat chest and pulled out a torn-off sl
ip of notebook paper. “The book is called The Medicine Woman’s Guide to Herbal Remedies.”
“Sounds interesting,” Darla said as she typed that title and the author’s name Livvy gave her into one of her book search sites. Within moments, she had some hits.
“Last edition was published in 1977,” she confirmed after scrolling through the handful of results. “You’re right, the book is out of print and it’s pretty much a collectible now. But it does look like a used copy or two is out there on the secondary market. James is our rare and collectible guru. Do you want him to scout around and see what kind of deal he can get you?”
At Livvy’s swift nod, she added, “But just to warn you, the prices I’m seeing start at around two hundred fifty dollars. Before I send James out looking, I need to make sure first that you’re willing to pay that kind of money for it.”
“I’ll pay anything!”
The vehemence in her tone made Darla widen her eyes. She’d seen avid collectors before, but they were rarely that overt in showing interest in a particular object lest someone hike a price on them. Livvy’s reaction was like someone tossing out a thousand-dollar bid for an item when the auctioneer’s opening was only fifty bucks.
Noticing Darla’s reaction, the young woman promptly tried to make amends.
“I’m sorry, Darla, I didn’t mean to raise my voice like that. But, yes, I really need that book, no matter what it costs.”
She hesitated, brushing back straggling strands of outgrown bangs from her face and looking like she was debating saying more.
Then, taking a deep breath, the woman went on, “It’s not a state secret or anything, so I might as well tell you. You see, I have RA—rheumatoid arthritis—and traditional medicine isn’t helping me much anymore. I was already selling herbal products at the store, mostly for cooking, but I’ve been doing a lot of research into herbal cures to get some relief for my symptoms. You know, the old self-medicating thing. I read at one of the online RA forums that this book has some really good home remedies.”
