At 1:30, Ellen turned off the lights, turned the sign to CLOSED, and locked the door behind her. She replaced the key in the envelope and slipped it back under the door, the telltale corner sticking out in case she needed to get back in. She could not imagine a reason why. She had Jack’s book; she needed nothing else. But maybe after tea, if Mr. Dabble had not yet returned, she would reopen the store for him.
Thinking so, she left.
From one of the windows over the bookstore, Nicholas Dabble watched. He had been there all morning, listening to the sounds from below: the sound of Ellen breathing, her heart beating, the pages turning. He could still taste her on his lips from the day before. Risky business, stealing a kiss from something like her. But worth it. Through the heat vents, he could smell Ellen Monroe in his bookstore: the clean scent of her skin, the artificial fragrance of flowers that her shampoo left in her hair, the light trace of musk that she placed on the insides of her wrists, along her throat. Was that for today’s tea? Unlikely. Perhaps she merely thought so, the perfume intended for another.
He hid upstairs, breathing her in, listening to her sounds, and remembering her stolen taste. These things he would keep with him long after she left.
Outside, the world had stopped.
* * *
Ellen stepped into the street like an actor discovering too late that the budget had been pulled on her movie and all of the extras, the behind-the-scenes people, the director, the cast and crew, had all simply left, leaving the sets and props behind, empty and purposeless. No cars or buses or trucks. No pedestrians or stray dogs. No mournful sounds from the pigeons and doves that normally adorned the ledges and rooftops. Only the wind remained, boiling the sky overhead. She was alone, caught in the middle, the calm within the eye of the storm. She could sense the electricity in the air, a sense of anticipation, of … tightening. Yes, that was the exact word. It felt like reality was tightening, like it was caught, its ends twisting and bunching as it turned mercilessly, trying to break free … or destroy itself in the process.
Ellen found herself in the middle of the road, lost in thought, feeling the tightening of reality, the stillness that belied the twisting universe. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a figure in the street, motionless. But when she turned, there was nothing there, only an empty street and a blur existing perpetually on reality’s periphery like a ghost.
Maybe it was Jack? she thought. But why would he disappear without talking to me?
In the other direction, the street was just as empty, just as eerily abandoned. To one side, a white garbage truck, no sign of the driver. But he left the steel beast behind like a guard dog. It made her acutely aware of standing in the middle of the road, not moving, caught between choices that were not altogether choices … and hesitating.
He who hesitates is lost.
Maybe I should have left before, she thought suddenly, looking at the frozen world, the dead space. Maybe I lost my window.
She heard a sudden wrapping against glass, knuckles upon a thick windowpane that forced her eyes to break away from the pale hauler.
Serena was moving like a shadow just inside the coffee shop. Ellen saw her, saw her rap the glass a second time and wave her inside, wave her out of the middle of the road like an indulgent guardian. Then she disappeared, lost behind the glass, only dark reflections of herself standing in the empty street. And behind her, caught in the reflection, she thought she saw Mr. Dabble staring out the window at her back, watching her, his face fraught with emotion.
But when she turned back, the ghostly image was gone.
Ellen quickly crossed to the coffee shop and stepped inside, closing the door behind her, the bell chiming in rapid succession. She looked back, but found everything unchanged, the bookstore dark and empty, the street still deserted.
Keep it together, she thought fiercely. For Jack’s sake.
“Ellen, thank goodness.” The proprietor of the coffee shop said, oblivious to Ellen’s haunted gaze, her usual poise and calm looking frayed. “I feel terrible imposing upon you, but I’m afraid that with the morning rush, I haven’t been able to get anything done for this afternoon’s tea. If you could be so good as to help me set up, I would be ever so grateful. I wouldn’t ask, but they will be here in fifteen minutes, and I am running short on time.”
“If this is a bad time, we could—” Ellen was already turning towards the door, sensing herself strangely out of place, lost at sea in water well over her head, and unaware of it for the darkness.
“Nonsense,” Serena said, running a wet rag across a countertop of splattered coffee stains, spilled sugar granules, forgotten stir sticks. “I invited you for tea and it would be unforgivable of me to cancel now, so late and without warning. Besides,” she added, nimbly collecting crumpled napkins and forgotten cups, “I could use your help if you wouldn’t mind?”
Ellen nodded, caught in Serena’s implacable gaze.
“You’re a saint. Just turn the sign in the door so that everyone knows we’re closed, and follow me upstairs to my parlor, and I’ll get everything ready. I shouldn’t need you to do anything more than put out a few things: napkins, hors d’oeuvres. Everything’s ready, but I need to make a few last minute touches. And I need to get the tea brewing.”
What she said after that, Ellen wasn’t sure. Serena spoke as she walked, and was halfway down the hall leading off the back of the shop before Ellen could think to follow. She turned the sign in the front window just as the shop went dark.
“Please hurry along,” Serena said. “We haven’t much time.”
Ellen followed the sound of her voice, catching a glimpse of Serena’s dress as she rounded a corner and went upstairs, light spilling out from above.
And she found herself in the foyer of a Victorian parlor every bit as comfortable and elegant as Serena herself. A low table had been cleared of everything but a white linen cloth, a loveseat along its length and two tall, wing-backed chairs on either end; a cozy setting for an intimate tea with close friends.
“Who will be joining us?” Ellen asked, hoping the question was not impolite.
Serena spooned raw tealeaves into a small tisane while a large kettle of water heated upon the stove behind her, blue flame licking the edges of the blackened copper. “Don’t concern yourself over that. It will be you and me and a couple old friends. I daresay you know them; they certainly know you. We have matters between us that need to be settled.” Serena dangled the tisane down into the large silver teapot and reached for a half-pint carton of whole cream, pouring the contents into a small silver pitcher.
“Be a dear and put this on the table with the sugar. After this morning, it’s all the cream I have left.”
Serena slid the newly filled pitcher towards Ellen then turned her attention to the trays of food: finger sandwiches and crackers topped with watercress, anchovies, and white cheese mixed with bacon. She set the tray on the countertop for Ellen and turned away to assemble another tray of biscotti, cinnamon biscuits, ladyfingers, and gingersnap cookies. “I don’t expect Arnold will be much for the fancier hors d’oeuvres,” she remarked almost to herself. “The cookies should be fine for him, though I expect he’s a dunker.” This notion made her pause a moment, considering. Then she seemed to dismiss it with a wave of her hand. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for it but put out extra napkins and hope for the best.”
“Serena?” Ellen asked, “What did you mean when you said your guests knew me?” It was as close as she dared to asking outright.
The coffee shop owner produced a silver tray, a complement to the articles Ellen assumed were all part of an incredibly elaborate and expensive tea set—she was beginning to feel underdressed for the affair—complete with intricately detailed china cups and saucers, when a chime sounded, leaving Ellen’s question unanswered. “That would be them now, right on time.”
The tall grandfather clock in the parlor read exactly a quarter to two, the doorbell ringing just as the hand click
ed over to the nine, and not a second later.
“Ellen, would you greet our guests for me?” Serena asked, turning her attentions to the tea.
Ellen nodded and opened the door.
And there on the narrow landing of Serena’s parlor stood Nicholas Dabble in a charcoal coat and old-fashioned bow tie, resembling a turn-of-the-century southern preacher.
And standing beside him in an awkward, powder-blue suit was the Garbageman!
TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT
The reaction was not altogether unexpected.
“What the ‘ell is she doin’ ‘ere, Serena?” the Garbageman demanded.
“She is my guest, Arnold, as are the both of you.” The coffee shop owner stepped into the parlor carrying a tray of china and the tall silver teapot, steam spilling gently from the spout. “There are things between us that we must settle. Now be polite and come inside, won’t you?”
“What kind o’ game are you up to?” the Garbageman wanted to know. “You know exactly what it is we’re ‘ere to settle. So what’s the idea of invitin’ the damn problem to sit in with us? You plannin’ on offerin’ ‘er a cookie an’ a bloody cup o’ tea?”
Ellen was not exactly sure how to feel about her presence being bantered around like nothing more than an inconvenience by two comparative strangers, her life reduced to a jury duty summons, tedious and unwanted, but unable to be ignored. The Garbageman disliked her for no reason he felt inclined to share, believing she was a matter that needed to be settled—a word not so far removed from concluded.
And there was that. Amidst the flare of anger over her right to be here was a feeling of imminent peril, as if she was in the presence of someone who could end her existence on little more than a whim. And she had the suspicion that the Garbageman was not the only one in the room who could.
She found her hand holding tight to the doorknob long after she should have released it, her knuckles white, knees weak. A part of her wanted to run—no thought given to where or why, simply run; run because that was what you did when you saw him.
Jack warned her to stay away from the Garbageman.
But how could she when he was standing so close she could smell his breath—a thick reek of garlic and carrion—as he blocked her only way out, his face angry and contradicted: should he just let her go, taking whatever problem she caused him with her, or choke the life out of her right there, consequences be damned.
Ever the good hostess, Serena intervened. Setting the tray upon the table and advancing towards the door, she placed a reassuring hand around Ellen’s shoulder. The Garbageman’s confusion registered in his eyes, and Ellen felt the weight of his stare shift to Serena. “Arnold, please. This behavior is inappropriate.”
The rebuke made the Garbageman pale.
“As to who joins us, that is entirely at my discretion. Now both of you please come in and make yourselves comfortable. I will make introductions for those of us who do not know one another—”
“We all know who we need to know ‘ere, Serena, and you bloody know it,” Arnold said, hooking a finger into his collar to loosen his tie.
“There is an order to things,” she replied. “It is unwise to ignore such fundamental principals, especially for the sake of mere convenience. If you disagree, then you should leave, and Nicky and I can settle this business between ourselves without the benefit of your counsel.”
Arnold Prosser looked visibly wounded by Serena’s suggestion, his scowl lines deepening. He threw a withering stare at Nicholas Dabble, but the bookshop owner appeared oblivious to the exchange, strangely fascinated by some random swirl in the surface of the paint on the hallway walls. “Alright, Serena,” the Garbageman acquiesced. “We’ll try it your way. But for the record, I don’t like it.”
Serena tipped her head politely. “Your objection is noted.”
Nicholas Dabble seized the moment to step by Arnold, tipping a nod to both Ellen and the hostess. “Charmed as always, Serena. Are places already set?”
“I shall be by the clock. Ellen will sit opposite me.” She gave Ellen a look, as if to make sure the arrangement was satisfactory. Ellen simply nodded, unsure if it was really a question at all, or merely a statement masquerading under the guise of etiquette. “Beyond that,” Serena added, “you are free to sit wherever you like.”
Like participants in a game, members of some impromptu play, everyone moved to their respective seats. But while Ellen would have sworn that Serena’s high-back chair was the twin of hers, the hostess seemed completely at home in the deep, comforting arms of the enormous throne, in perfect repose as she commanded the stage before her. Ellen felt engulfed. If she sat back, her feet lost touch with the floor, dancing on her toes like a child attending a party of grownups. She had to sit forward, hoping her posture would be construed as polite attentiveness. Mr. Dabble sat to her right on the adjacent loveseat, but looked ill at ease. When he thought no one was watching, his expression slipped like a thin mask worn to conceal a face fractured by pain. She guessed from the glimpses between the cracks that Nicholas Dabble would rather be anywhere but here.
Arnold Prosser was the last to take a seat, his hesitation leaving him with the mixed prospect of sitting on the loveseat between Nicholas Dabble and Serena, the bookstore owner like a watchful chaperone with Arnold the unlikely courtier of Serena’s affections. The absurdity was intolerable. That he should share a seat with the pompous, meddlesome, salt-licker for the duration of the tea was almost more than he could stand. But the choice was already made, his position only worsening with each passing moment, a steady erosion of his leverage as he stood in the open doorway and looked on sourly. Soon he would be nothing more than a vagabond on the doorstep: unlucky, unwelcome, and soon to be asked to leave.
Arnold took his place on the loveseat, flashing Nicholas Dabble a dark expression. At least the sofa was comfortable. And he would have Serena’s ear. That counted for something, no question about that. And he was in front of a plate of cookies left waiting on the low table. A smile creased his features. Yes, that did count for something.
“The tea should only be a few more minutes,” Serena said. “For everything, there is a time. Even for tea. Wouldn’t you agree, Arnold?”
“Yes,” he replied with absolute seriousness. “A time for everything, and everything in its own time.”
“All the same, don’t let me dissuade you from enjoying the hors d’oeuvres,” Serena persisted. “Please, help yourself. I think you will find the gingersnaps quite delicious.”
Arnold Prosser was only too eager to oblige, lifting the entire tray of cookies and biscuits up for inspection. He chose one, popped it immediately into his mouth, and smiled pleasantly. Mouth still full, he said, “Tasty.”
Serena nodded graciously. “Thank you, Arnold.”
He palmed four more into his fist then offered the tray to Serena. She politely thanked him and shook her head no, so he passed them back to Nicholas Dabble without looking, the contents of the tray nearly landing in the bookstore owner’s lap.
“I think formal introductions are long overdue,” Serena announced.
The two men turned, the suggestion startling them both.
“I would advise prudence upon this path,” Nicholas cautioned, a flare to his gaze suggesting his remark bordered upon a warning.
“He’s right,” Prosser said, nodding emphatically. “You can’t just blurt that kind o’ thing out to jes’ anybody. She may be more than she appears, and likely more ‘an she knows, but some things ain’t for the likes o’ ‘er to know.”
Serena dismissed their concerns with a wave, a gesture that might have been intended to quiet talkative children. “Some of us here know one another. Some of us do not. And it is unsuitable to have tea while any one of us is a stranger to the other. At this time, it is appropriate that introductions be made. I will do what it is time to do.”
Then she was looking at Ellen, and the young woman found herself suddenly at the center of attention. She tried to s
hrink herself down but was obstructed by the chair, which offered only two alternatives: stay forward or be swallowed whole.
“Ellen, I am Serena, owner of Serena’s Coffee Shoppe over which we sit. And this is my home. To your immediate right is Nicholas Dabble, owner of Dabble’s Books. I’m sure you think you know him very well.”
Mr. Dabble nodded politely, his controlled expression cracking only the barest fraction at Serena’s barb. Ellen knew her boss had secrets; the only seeming purpose behind Serena’s remark was to let her know that Serena knew more about her boss’s secrets than she did.
“And the gentleman to my immediate left is Arnold Prosser. He is the Garbageman. While I imagine that the two of you have had some near collisions, I don’t expect that either of you have met previously. I would be aware of that, I’m certain.”
Arnold Prosser gave her a look neither pleased nor angry, but might best be called relief with a hint of annoyance.
“I expect we would all be aware of such a meeting,” Dabble interjected.
“A lot o’ this is your fault, dabbler, so no pissing about me doing what I’m supposed to do. You were the one what caused this by hidin’ her, knowing what she was and what she can do. You were pokin’ yer nose where it don’t belong, and now you’re sour ‘cause I caught you by it. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let you go just for running to Serena. This here is my problem.”
“It is not a problem, and it most certainly is not yours,” Nicholas shot back.
“Gentlemen, please,” Serena said. “In the first place, I know about Ellen Monroe: who she is, what she is, and why she is here. In that respect, I daresay I know more than she does. Secondly, while her presence here does represent a problem, it does not represent your problem so much as our problem. You are simply seeing one side, and assuming the rest is alike for that view. It is not. Further, your solution would be catastrophic on a myriad of levels, and cannot be allowed.”
The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2) Page 34
