Dance Away with Me(13)

“And good afternoon to you.” Tess hung her rain jacket in the back room and exchanged her sodden sneakers and wet jeans for the dry clothes she’d brought with her. An old Campari advertising mirror indicated that her hair was as wild as the weather. She snagged it back in a ponytail and retrieved the condom display from behind a broken table to put out.

“You’re going to get in trouble if Phish sees that,” Savannah said as she collected her coat to leave.

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Maybe.” She absentmindedly scratched her swelling abdomen. “Guys don’t like condoms.”

Tess suppressed half a dozen snarky responses. She’d been setting out the condom display for a week now, and the only person who’d protested had been Kelly Winchester. That had happened the same day Ian North had come into the shop. Kelly was the town’s social leader and the wife of Brad Winchester, the area’s state senator. Phish hadn’t yet said anything to Tess about the condoms she’d set out, so Mrs. Winchester must not have gotten to him, but from what Tess had learned about the power of the Winchester family, once Mrs. Winchester talked to Phish, the condoms would be gone.

For now, she counted the sale she’d made yesterday to the teenage boy—a boy she’d discovered was Savannah’s younger brother—as a major victory.

Phish was right about their customers. A steady stream came through the door with reports of the worsening weather, as well as news that the highway had flooded and the town was officially cut off. Everyone seemed philosophical about it.

“Happens a couple of times a year,” Artie, her cigarette-denied customer, said. “Usually in the spring, but not always.” Despite his vow not to return to the Broken Chimney when she was working, Artie kept showing up.

Fiona Lester, the owner of Purple Periwinkle Bed and Breakfast, shook out her down coat. “Remember when we had that big rockslide out by Ledbedder farm?”

The other customers chimed in. “Worst was that snowstorm back in two thousand fifteen.”

“Took the plows two days to clear us out. It would have taken longer if Brad hadn’t gotten on it.”

Tess hadn’t yet met Mr. Winchester, but she knew the town was proud to have one of their own holding such a lofty position at the state level. She’d also heard occasional rumblings from Phish about the control Winchester exerted over both the town’s budget and its jobs.

Even Courtney Hoover made it into the Broken Chimney later that afternoon. Courtney was Tess’s least favorite customer. In her early twenties, Courtney lived in Tempest with her family but worked as a front desk clerk at a budget hotel thirty miles away. Her greatest ambition was to become an Instagram star, so she spent vast amounts of time taking provocative selfies.

“Hey, Tess.” Her accent was all bruised magnolia petals.

“Hi, Courtney.”

Today Courtney had squeezed her enviable figure into a short V-necked tube dress with boots up to her thighs. Her thickly applied glimmer powder gave her complexion an odd iridescent glow. She studied the menu painted on the mirror behind the counter, even though she always ordered a medium mocha.

Tess wiped her hands on her apron. “What can I get you?” Tess made Courtney’s mocha exactly like Phish, Michelle, and Savannah made it, but Courtney only complained about Tess’s—too much espresso, not enough whipped cream, “old” chocolate, whatever that was.

“I’ll have a medium mocha.” Courtney’s toffee lip gloss was as hard as marine varnish. She regarded Tess critically. “Have you been sick, Tess? You don’t look too good.”

“Healthy as a horse,” Tess said. “Just not naturally beautiful.”

While Courtney tried to figure out if Tess was serious or not, Tess reached for the milk. “How many followers do you have now?” Courtney liked to be asked, and maybe it would keep her from complaining about the mocha.

“Almost three hundred. I picked up four more last week.”

“That’s impressive.”

“It’s harder work than you’d think.” She tossed her blond hair extensions. “Move over by the banana bowl. Let’s do a selfie.”

The only reason Courtney wanted a selfie with Tess was so she could hashtag it #BeautyandtheBeast, but Tess propped her elbow on the counter while Courtney adjusted her own pose half a dozen times. Nothing she saw, however, satisfied her. “Oh, well. I’ll try again sometime when you’ve had a chance to do your hair.”

“Good idea.” Tess produced the mocha. Courtney took a delicate sip and pronounced it too salty.

“The ingredients haven’t changed,” Tess said.

“Something’s changed. It’s salty.”

“How about a cappuccino instead?”

“Never mind.” She turned away in a huff.

By three o’clock, the Tempest Women’s Alliance had canceled their meeting, and the place was emptied out. By four o’clock, the rat-a-tat-tat of sleet against the windows had turned into a full-fledged ice storm. Tess was supposed to stay open until five, but as four-thirty approached and no more customers appeared, she flipped the sign to closed.

She briefly considered spending the night in the back room rather than tackling the storm-battered mountain after dark, but the prospect of making a bed from broken-down cardboard boxes and the moth-eaten quilt Phish’s old lab had died on was even less appealing than venturing out. She had a flashlight, relatively warm clothes, and common sense. She could make it.