Dance Away with Me(7)

Bianca had said he was “overprotective,” but this seemed more like smothering. Something felt wrong between these two.

A muddy pickup sped past, blowing exhaust. She’d come to town for doughnuts, not to become enmeshed in other peoples’ lives, and she returned her attention to the sign in the window.

help wanted

She was a midwife. Any day now, her anger, her despair, would fade into resignation. It had to. And as soon as that happened, she’d be ready to look for work in her field. She’d find a job that would let her recapture the satisfaction of helping vulnerable mothers give birth.

help wanted

She didn’t need to go back to work yet, so why was she staring at the sign, as if her whole messy world had been reduced to this backwater coffee shop?

Because she was scared. The solitude on Runaway Mountain that she’d thought would heal her wasn’t working out. It had become too tempting to stay in bed. To eat doughnuts and dance in the rain. Last week, she’d gone four days before she’d remembered to take a shower.

The bitter swell of self-disgust ballooning inside her forced her through the door. She could either ask about the job, or—a better idea—she could buy a doughnut and leave.

A counter to her right held cookies and doughnuts, but this was no funky urban coffee shop. A compact freezer showcased eight tubs of ice cream. Open shelves offered up cigarettes, candy bars, batteries, and other oddities not normally found in either a doughnut, ice cream, or coffee shop. A pair of spinning wire racks for paperback books were tucked in a corner, and a rock song she vaguely recognized but couldn’t name played in the background.

An espresso machine hissed. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirrored wall behind the counter. Puffy face, purple shadows under her eyes, a thick tangle of hair that hadn’t seen a brush since . . . maybe yesterday, maybe the day before, and Trav’s worn maroon Wisconsin sweatshirt.

The man operating the espresso machine passed the finished drink across the counter to an elderly customer with a cane. The old man hobbled to a table, and the espresso operator turned his attention to her. A thin, graying ponytail snaked down his back. He regarded her with small eyes folded into a leathery road map of a face. “Doughnuts or pie?”

“How do you know I want either one?”

He tucked his thumbs through the tie of the red apron he’d knotted in the front. “Reading people’s minds is my business. You’re new around here. My name’s Phish. With a p.h.”

“I’m Tess. You must be a big fan.”

“Of the band? Hey-ll, no. I’m a Deadhead. Greatest band that ever lived. I got ‘Ripple’ playing now. . . . It’s the only song most people know.” His grimace telegraphed his opinion of such unaccountable human ignorance. “Phisher is my last name.”

“And your first?”

“Elwood. Forget I told you.” He tilted his head toward the three-tiered acrylic display case on the counter. Next to it, a small, erasable whiteboard read pie of the day. “Dutch apple,” he said. “One of my bestsellers.”

“I’m more into doughnuts.” There wasn’t much variety. Glazed or powdered, which she could never think of as real doughnuts, more as cake masquerading as a doughnut. She tipped her head toward the door. “Broken Chimney is a strange name.”

“You shoulda seen the place when I bought it. Cost me twenty grand to fix it up.”

“I noticed you didn’t fix the chimney.”

“The fireplace is bricked up, so there wasn’t much point. Good way for people to find us.”

She scraped the side seam of her jeans with her fingernail. “I . . . saw your sign in the window. You’re looking for help?”

“You want the job? It’s yours.”

She blinked. “Just like that? I could be an escaped felon, for all you know.”

He shouted to the old man across the store. “Hey, Orland! Tess here look like an escaped felon to you?”

The old man turned his attention from his newspaper. “She looks ’talian to me, so you never can tell. She’s got some meat on her bones, though. I like that. Wouldn’t mind looking at her when I come in.”

“There you go.” Phish’s grin revealed a set of crooked teeth. “If Orland likes you, that’s good enough for me.”

“I’m not Italian.” She ignored the whole “meat on her bones” thing.

“As long as you’re willing to work for minimum wage and take the shifts nobody else wants—plus put up with my niece and my sister-in-law—I don’t much care what you are.”

“I only came in here for a couple of doughnuts.”

“Then why did you ask about the job?”

“Because . . .” She dug her fingers into her hair and caught a tangle. “I don’t know. Forget it.”

“You know how to make espresso?”

“No.”

“You have any experience working a cash register?”

“No.”

“You got anything better to do right now?”

“Better than—?”

“Grabbing an apron.”

She thought about it. “Not really.”

“Then let’s get to it.”

For the next few hours, Phish showed her the ropes as he waited on customers. She went along with it, not sure how she’d let this happen but too aimless to do anything about it. Before long, she felt as if she’d been introduced to half the town, including a local microbrewer, some retirees from up north, the head of the local women’s alliance, and two members of the school board. Everyone was curious about her—exactly what she’d been wary of—but it was the normal curiosity of people meeting someone new, and the evasive answers she’d given Bianca seemed to satisfy them.