Dance Away with Me(11)

Michelle was just as difficult to work with as her daughter. Her grudge against Tess had its roots in Phish hiring Tess instead of Michelle’s younger sister. “All that money you spent to go to college, and you end up working for Phish.” Michelle had smirked the first time she’d seen Tess in Trav’s Wisconsin sweatshirt.

Savannah and Michelle had their own problems, and after three weeks on the job, Tess had learned not to get in the middle of them. “It’s like she did it to get back at me,” Savannah hissed at Tess. “Having her pregnant at the same time as me makes me feel like a freak.” She took a swipe at cleaning off the steamer wand from the latte she’d made. “She’s like always doing things like this.”

“Getting pregnant?” Tess tipped the used coffee grounds from the dump box into the trash.

“No. Like trying to show me up.”

Tess was happy when two of the bartenders from The Rooster appeared at the counter. They chatted with her longer than was absolutely necessary, but they were more pleasant to talk to than either of her co-workers.

Eventually Tess made her way to the back room where she could continue the argument she’d been having with Phish for the past week. She was right. She knew she was right. “Just a small, out-of-the-way display,” she said. “So customers know they’re there.”

He pulled a burlap bag of coffee beans from the shelf. “Hey-ll, Tess, how many times have I gotta tell you I’m not puttin’ out rubbers. People who need ’em know I keep ’em in the back room.”

It felt good to try to do something positive, instead of being a drain on humanity, and she pressed him. “The men in hard hats might know, but what about the women who come in here wanting condoms? What about the teenagers who really need them?”

“And there you go. I put out rubbers for teenagers, and there’ll be a rumpus kicked up in this town like you never seen.”

“Give people a little more credit than that.”

“You’re an outsider, Tess. Rubbers stay in the back room, and that’s all there is to it.”

Instead of arguing, she waited until Phish wasn’t around and sneaked a small display of condoms onto a stand near the unisex bathroom. She set them between a stack of handmade soap, emery boards imprinted with Bible verses, and a two-page pamphlet aimed at teens that she’d driven fifteen miles to have printed out. At the end of her shift, she hid the condoms and pamphlets in the storeroom. Taking action, however small, felt like a small step forward, and what Phish didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

*

Ian hadn’t been to town since Tess Hartsong had started working at the Broken Chimney. He wouldn’t be here now except they’d run out of coffee. As he walked in, he saw Tess behind the counter. She’d tied a red apron around her waist and pulled her hair into a ponytail, but rebel strands curled around her face and down the back of her neck.

A man in jeans and a suede bomber jacket stood at the counter. Ian had overheard enough to know the guy operated a microbrewery nearby, and he’d seen enough to realize Mr. IPA was more interested in Tess Hartsong’s curves than in the pie he’d ordered.

“Let me take you out for barbecue after you get off work.”

“Thanks, but I’m a vegetarian.”

The hell she was. She’d made a BLT for Bianca and eaten one herself.

“How about drinks, then, at The Rooster?”

“It’s nice of you to ask, but I have a boyfriend.”

She was lying about that, too. He’d observed enough by now to know that Tess was a loner.

“If you change your mind, let me know.” The guy took his pie and a mug of coffee over to the community table but continued to watch her out of the corners of his eyes. No surprise that he seemed especially drawn to her hips.

The place was busy with a motley collection of the town’s citizens, too many of whom he’d heard about from Bianca.

“Tess is getting to know everybody. She says a lot of people in town owe their jobs to Brad Winchester. He’s the big shot around here. . . .

“Tess says the townies secretly look down on the retirees who’ve moved in from out of state, but they don’t show it because of the money they bring in. . . .

“Tess says she’s met some of the artists: a guy who works with iron, and she says there’s a woman who makes mandolins. We should have a party.”

Over his dead body. And he was getting more than a little sick of hearing “Tess says.” Apparently Tess hadn’t mentioned any of the homesteaders and survivalists hanging out in the mountains. He’d met a few of them when he’d been hiking, including some with kids. They were an interesting lot—earnest environmentalists who wanted to reduce their carbon footprint, conspiracy theorists hiding from the apocalypse, a couple of religious zealots.

Ian approached the counter. The dusting of powdered sugar on Tess’s apron must have come from the cake doughnuts. He’d never understood why those dense, powdery lug nuts were even considered doughnuts. Except for their shape, they had nothing in common with a light-as-a-feather glazed doughnut.

He knew what he wanted, but he glanced at the menu board anyway. “A cup of house blend, plus a pound of your darkest roast, and a couple of doughnuts. Glazed.”

Without asking whether the doughnuts were for here or to go, she slipped them into a white paper bag, rang up his purchases, and handed him the coffee in a paper cup instead of a mug. “Are you going to let Bianca drink any?”