The Enchanted Garden Cafe (South Side Stories Book 1)

by Abigail Drake

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  To South Side Vinni, who started this whole adventure by asking a young singer

  and a kid with a guitar to host an acoustic show one Saturday night.

  And to Kathleen, who still laughs about how

  a few hours spent in a smoothie bar turned into a novel.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Piña Colada Smoothie

  Moses’s Favorite Snickerdoodles

  Aunt Francesca’s Secret Sugar Cookie Recipe

  A big thank...

  Chapter One

  Falling in love is like baking.

  Results may vary with experience.

  ~Aunt Francesca~

  I opened the box and stepped back, tripping over a pile of Himalayan wind chimes I’d left lying behind me on the floor of the shop. They clanked in a discordant melody as I untangled them from my feet.

  “What the heck?” I asked, ignoring the chimes and focusing on the parcel that had arrived in the mail earlier that morning. Tiny stone phalluses in various shades of gray filled the container to the brim. Checking the return address, I noticed the shipping cost and wanted to cry. Most of our inventory budget for the entire month had been used to mail this one small box halfway around the world.

  “Mom, what exactly did you order from Inuyama, Japan?”

  My mother popped her head around the corner, a bright smile on her face. “Did they finally arrive, Fiona? I’ve been waiting for ages.”

  “For stone penises?”

  Why was I even surprised? This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. My mother, Claire de Lune Campbell, had never been the master of impulse control, and she had a history of making very poor decisions. She’d been born Claire Campbell and added the “de Lune” in, what I can only guess, was a moment of pot-induced inspiration. The pot no longer played a part in her life, but the total inability to make common-sense decisions remained.

  Mom picked up one of the stone penises, a happy twinkle in her eye. “Aren’t they lovely?”

  On the outside, Mom and I looked alike. The same blonde hair, the same blue eyes, the same stubborn tilt to our chins, but there the resemblance ended. Mom was as happy and bright as a butterfly landing on a flower, and she had the same level of fiscal responsibility. I stressed about everything, especially money, but I had good cause.

  My mom owned and operated the Enchanted Garden Café, where we served food, coffee, and specially blended teas and sold unusual items in our small gift shop. Nestled in the middle of the South Side, the funky hippie district of Pittsburgh, it was the perfect spot for my mom but a constant source of anxiety for me.

  I wiped sweat from my face and brushed off my clothing. Dust covered my T-shirt and shorts, and some kind of stone powder had fallen out of the box from Inuyama onto my tennis shoes. Mom, glowing in a dress made from recycled saris, didn’t have a speck of dust on her, but she hadn’t handled the phalluses.

  Kate, the girl who worked behind the counter, came over to us, her blue eyes alight with curiosity. “I want to see them,” she said. Mom handed her one, and she studied it closely, peering at it through the thick black frames of her retro hipster glasses. Her ebony hair was pulled off to the side in a low ponytail, and her colorful tattoos peeked through the crocheted black cardigan covering her pale skin. “At least they are anatomically correct. Look at those veins.”

  My cheeks grew warm, and Mom smiled, putting a cool hand against my face. “Aww, Fiona is blushing.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s hot in here.”

  “Of course it is,” she said, making me feel twelve instead of twenty-five, but it was hot for early June, and the air-conditioning was broken. Again. Even with all the windows open, it still felt stuffy.

  I ignored her and picked up a penis. “What are these things anyway?”

  She beamed at me with pure, unfiltered happiness. “Fertility charms from a little shrine in the mountains of Japan. They have a big festival there every year. I went once.”

  She sighed, most likely remembering happy times at the fertility festival, and went back to the kitchen. I looked at Kate and rolled my eyes, making her snicker, before getting back to work. The fertility charms came in all sizes and seemed handmade. I just wasn’t sure how to sell them or where to display them in our shop.

  A Victorian eyesore, the café was painted on the outside in what once had been a mix of bright pink and various shades of green. The pink had faded to a dull rose, and the green looked like the color of old limes just before they rotted. It needed work and a fresh coat of paint, but instead of doing so, we spent our money on phalluses from Japan. That was how things worked with my mother. No planning. No rhyme or reason. No logic. No rational thought.

  The bell above the door tinkled, and I turned, a penis in each hand, as a stranger walked into the shop. I couldn’t see his face at first because the sun was at his back, but he carried a guitar case. A sure sign of trouble.

  “Hello,” he said as he came closer.

  He had straight dark hair that brushed his shoulders, brown eyes, and a goatee. He reminded me of a sexy, naughty French pirate, and I knew his kind well. Close to my age, he was definitely one of the artsy, flighty types who always hung out around my mom. I could spot them a mile away.

  “Holy guacamole, if he were any hotter, I’d need new underwear,” whispered Kate, taking off to the back of the shop and leaving me alone to greet the stranger.

  “Hi.”

  For no reason at all, my cheeks grew so warm they pulsated. I needed to get the air conditioner fixed. Yet another item on my list of practical things we couldn’t afford to get done.

  Sexy French Pirate Man looked down and smiled. “Sorry to bother you. It looks like you have your hands full.”

  I’d almost forgotten about the penises. I quickly put my hands behind my back, a silly move since an open box of them sat right on the table in front of me.

  Composing myself, I casually placed the phalluses on a shelf next to some potted herbs, hoping they’d be mistaken for some kind of gar
den sculpture. They did look a bit like worms from a distance. Up close, unfortunately, there was no disguising them.

  Sexy French Pirate Man just stood there watching me. I found it extremely annoying. “Can I help you with something?” I snapped.

  He looked like he was trying not to laugh. “I’m here to see Claire.”

  “Of course you are,” I muttered under my breath. It took some effort to force a fake smile onto my face. “Hold on a second.” I stuck my head into the kitchen and yelled, “Mom, someone wants to speak with you.”

  She walked out in her apron, wiping her hands. When she saw the stranger, her eyes lit up. “You must be Matthew. How good of you to come.”

  He smiled with genuine pleasure. “Hello, Claire.”

  She pulled him into a hug. My mother was a compulsive hugger. She hugged everyone, even the mailman when he brought the mail every day. I preferred a handshake or maybe even just a nod.

  “Matthew Monroe, this is my lovely daughter, Fiona.”

  “Mom. Please.” Dirty, hot, and desperately in need of a shower, I felt far from lovely at the moment. I glared at her, but she ignored me.

  “Matthew agreed to host acoustic night for the summer while Frankie is away. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  I stared at her in shock. Acoustic night, held every Saturday, was a pain in the neck. She made it a BYOB event, which meant we usually had drunk people in the back garden until well past midnight and a mess every Sunday morning.

  The garden was normally a tranquil oasis, a place with crumbling brick walls, bright flowers, and a gurgling fountain in the center. Mom, in typical Claire Campbell fashion, thought the fountain possessed magical properties and was somehow connected to a mystical underground spring mentioned in ancient prophecies. My theory? The water probably came directly from the muddy Monongahela River just down the street.

  Either way, the garden was a big moneymaker for us. Every Sunday, ladies wearing fancy hats and white gloves came in droves, traveling for miles in their expensive cars for the chance to nibble on tiny cucumber sandwiches and drink my mom’s famous teas. They also liked to browse the shop and pick up little things, like books on natural remedies, jewelry made by local artists, and the occasional bong. We sold them as water pipes, but they knew what they were just as much as we did. The last thing those ladies would want to see, however, was vestiges left from a bunch of drunks at acoustic night. It would ruin the whole ambiance for them.

  I hated acoustic night, but we’d managed to keep it under control as long as my mom’s friend Frankie Quattrone hosted it. He was a tall, lean man with long curly hair and tiny glasses; people listened when he told them to get out or to stop smoking weed in front of the café. I doubted Matthew could do it. It would end up being complete chaos.

  I struggled to remain calm. “I thought we planned to cancel acoustic night until Frankie came back.”

  Frankie was currently staying in an ashram in India. It never ceased to amaze me how many of my mom’s friends stayed at ashrams. None of my other friends knew people who went to ashrams. They went to the beach or stayed in a cottage on a lake. Nice, predictable, normal ways to take a vacation. Ashrams weren’t even on their radar.

  Mom hugged Matthew’s arm. “We did, but Frankie called and said Matthew would help out.”

  “Perfect.”

  Of course, she missed the sarcasm in my voice. She had no sarcasm sensor at all. “It will be perfect. Exactly what we need. It’s been so stressful around here lately.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Matthew, his dark eyes immediately filled with concern. My mom had that effect on people. The top of her head barely hit his shoulder, and she looked like a tiny lost fairy. People naturally wanted to protect her. A few inches taller and a whole lot tougher, I didn’t need protecting and made that clear.

  “Mom, we shouldn’t talk about this with strangers . . .”

  “Oh, posh. Matthew isn’t a stranger. He’s one of us now. Aren’t you, Matthew?”

  Matthew nodded, so mesmerized I wanted to groan. “But this is a legal matter. We aren’t supposed to discuss it.”

  I felt the panic rising in my chest, but Mom remained unconcerned. “We can trust Matthew.” She lowered her voice. “A big corporation called Anderson Solutions is trying to buy up the whole block. They want to tear down all these beautiful little shops and build a giant, ugly parking garage.”

  “That’s terrible,” he said.

  “I know,” said Mom. “My aunt Francesca would be rolling in her grave right now if she had any idea what was going on. This was her house, you see. She left it to me when I found out I was pregnant with Fiona and had nowhere else to go, but the rest of the block is owned by a man named Mr. McAlister. He isn’t well, poor dear. He’s thinking about selling. And Anderson is doing what they can to intimidate us into selling, too, including filing a bunch of silly little complaints against us. Frankly speaking, I don’t have the resources to keep up. Lawyers are expensive creatures.”

  I’d lost sleep over it for weeks. On one hand, the café felt like a noose around my neck, strangling me ever so slowly. On the other, it was my childhood home and our entire source of income. If Mom had to close the café, I didn’t know what she’d do. She would never be able to find another job. The best she could hope for would be to buy another café and start from the ground up, but I wasn’t sure how she’d manage it. She’d put too much of herself, body and soul, into the Enchanted Garden.

  “They are,” agreed Matthew. “Is there anything you can do?”

  “There’s a city council meeting in a few weeks, and that’s why this is so important. Acoustic night is a big crowd pleaser and brings a lot of young people into the café. We need all the help and support we can get.” Mom had to blink away tears. “Aunt Francesca was . . . well, she was magical. There is no other way to put it. Other than a few pieces of jewelry and a book of her favorite recipes, this café is all I have left of her. Losing it would be like losing her all over again. I’m not sure if I could bear it.”

  I’d never met my great-aunt, and I didn’t care much about jewelry, but I’d grown pretty attached to her recipe book. A handwritten journal, with lots of odd notations and funny little quotes, it had been a constant source of inspiration for me. I’d found it hidden underneath the window seat by the big stained-glass window in the main room of the café when I was very small, and I’d learned to bake with it. And although I wasn’t sure I agreed with my mother’s conclusions about having Matthew play here all summer, she did have a point. We needed all the help we could get, or we could lose everything.

  The bell above the door tinkled again, and in walked my boyfriend. Tall, blond, and perfect, Scott wore an expensive suit and tie and didn’t seem to feel the summer heat. I stood on tiptoes to give him a kiss. As his lips brushed mine, he took one look at my hair and clothing and gave my ponytail a gentle tug.

  “Fiona, we’re going to be late . . .” His eyes widened when he noticed the box of stone phalluses. I hurriedly shut it and shoved it under a table.

  “Two seconds,” I said. “Promise.”

  Mom and I lived in the apartment above the shop, so I ran upstairs to my room, taking the steps two at a time. Hopping into the shower, I said a prayer that the hot water tank still worked and dressed as quickly as possible, donning a simple black sundress and pulling my hair into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. I put on a little lipstick, grabbed my purse, and ran downstairs. It was never a good idea to leave Scott alone too long with Mom.

  Back in the shop, she was forcing Scott to taste her new tea, explaining to him why the phalluses would be such a huge hit. “They’re part of our new fertility line. That tea is as well. I call it Fertile Myrtle.”

  Scott almost spat out the tea in his mouth, and Matthew bit his lip, probably an effort to keep from laughing at the horrified expression on Scott’s face. “What did you give me?” Scott asked, his cheeks growing pink.

  I grabbed his arm. “It’s nothing,
just herbal tea. We’d better go. We have reservations, right?”

  As I pulled him outside, I saw my old friend Moses walking toward us, his gait uneven because of his bad leg. Scott glared at me, probably knowing what was coming, and I gave his hand an apologetic squeeze. “Just a second. Promise.”

  I jogged over to Moses, and his whole face lit up when he saw me. He had the most beautiful smile in the world, a slash of white in his dark face that made each person he bestowed it upon feel loved and important. “Baby girl. How nice to see you on this beautiful evening.”

  I kissed his weathered cheek. He carried a beat-up saxophone case in one hand. “Are you going to play at the café tonight?”

  His dark eyes sparkled as he caressed the worn black leather. “You know I will. It’s the best part of my week.”

  “I put some soup in the fridge for you, and there’s fresh bread too. Make sure you eat. I mean it, Moses.”

  “You have a heart of gold like your mama,” he said, leaning forward to whisper in my ear. “And you’re far too good for that one over there.”

  Scott tapped his foot impatiently, but I ignored him, patting Moses on the shoulder. I felt his bones under the thin fabric of his meticulously ironed shirt, and it worried me. He’d been an adjunct professor at the university until he got sick last year, a job he loved but one that left him with no health insurance or pension. It made me furious. Moses deserved better.

  “You don’t think anyone is good enough for me. You never have.”

  He laughed, the sound rich and deep. “That is the honest truth, and I will not deny it.”

  “Go eat your soup.” I gave him a wave goodbye and ran back to Scott.

  He glanced at his watch. “If you are done socializing with the city’s indigent population, can we please go?”

  I frowned. “He isn’t homeless. He’s going through a rough patch.”

  “I’m sorry, Fi,” he said, drawing me close. “I know you’re protective of him, and I adore you for it. This isn’t about Moses. Your mom . . .”

  I squeezed his hand. “I understand. Trust me. So where are we going tonight?”