Dance Away with Me(8)

At four o’clock, she waited on her first customer. Two scoops of butter pecan ice cream and a copy of the National Enquirer. At five o’clock, as the Grateful Dead finished the final chorus of “Bertha,” Phish pulled his apron over his head and headed for the door. “Savannah’ll be in at seven to take over.”

“Wait! I don’t—”

“If you have questions, hold ’em till tomorrow. Or ask one of the customers to help you out. We don’t get a lot of strangers around here.”

As quickly as that, she was on her own. A barista, ice cream scooper, pie server, candy bar purveyor, and cigarette vendor . . .

She sold two slices of pie—one à la mode—a pack of AA batteries, a cup of hot chocolate, and some breath mints. She made her first cappuccino, only to have to remake it because she screwed up the proportions. The store was finally between customers when he came in, a trucker’s cap growing from his head, a rusty mustache growing down his chin. He took his time checking out the swell of her breasts under her apron bib. “Pack of Marlboros.”

She should have anticipated this, but she didn’t anticipate much of anything these days, and she played for time by rearranging the bananas in the bowl on the counter. “Do you have any idea what those things do to your body?”

He scratched his chest. “You serious?”

“Smoking increases your risk of coronary heart disease, lung cancer, stroke. It also gives you bad breath.”

“Just hand me the damn cigarettes.”

“I . . . I . . . can’t do that.”

“You what?”

“I’m kind of a . . . a conscientious objector.”

“A what?”

“My conscience objects to selling something that I know is toxic to the human body.”

“You for real?”

Excellent question. “I guess.”

“I’m callin’ Phish!”

“I understand.” It wasn’t as if she had a personal investment in her new career, and getting fired was fine with her.

He stood right there at the counter as he made his call, giving her the stink eye the whole time. “Phish, it’s Artie. This new lady won’t sell me my Marlboros. . . . Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay.” He thrust his cell at her. “Phish wants to talk to you.”

His phone reeked of tobacco. She held it slightly away from her face. “Hello.”

“What the hey-ll, Tess!” Phish exclaimed. “Artie says you won’t sell him his cigarettes.”

“It’s . . . against my belief system.”

“It’s part of your job, damn it.”

“I understand. But I can’t do it.”

“It’s your job,” he repeated.

“Yes, I know. I should have thought about that, but I didn’t.”

His grumble rumbled through the odoriferous phone. “Well, okay. Let me talk to Artie again.”

Dazed, she handed the phone back.

Artie snatched it from her. “Yeah . . . Yeah . . . You shittin’ me, Phish? This place is goin’ to hell.” He shoved the phone in his pocket and glared at her. “You’re as bad as my girlfriend.”

“She must care about you.” She studied his T-shirt. The front read will buy drinks for followed by a picture of a cat. It took her a few moments to get it. “What does she think about your shirt?”

“You don’t like it?”

“Not so much.”

“Shows what you know. My girlfriend’s the one gave it to me.”

“I guess nobody’s perfect.”

“She is. And I ain’t coming back in here when you’re workin’.”

“I understand.”

“You are crazy, lady.” And he stomped out the door.

She’d won some kind of victory, and she thought about how much Trav would love this story. But there was no Trav waiting for her. No Trav to throw back his head and give that big, loud, shake-all-over laugh she’d loved so much. She had a new town, a new house, a new mountain, and a new job, but none of it mattered. She’d lost the love of her life, and it would never get better.

Phish’s niece Savannah arrived and took an immediate dislike to her. The girl was a belligerent nineteen-year-old with choppy magenta hair, cat-eye glasses, ear expanders, and an armload of tats. She was also pregnant, although Tess didn’t have a chance to ask how far along she was because Savannah immediately insisted Tess clean the toilet.

“Phish cleaned it a couple of hours ago,” Tess said, not adding that Savannah had shown up late, and Tess’s shift had been over half an hour ago.

“Clean it again. When he’s not here, I’m in charge.”

Unlike the cigarettes, this was wasn’t a fight worth having, at least not on her first day. She found the cleaning supplies, gave the bathroom a quick once-over, and left by the back door before her unpleasant co-worker could stop her.

When she got back to the cabin, she shed her sweatshirt, stuck in some earbuds, and went outside to dance. She danced through a stubbed toe, through the first drops of rain, through the evening chill. Danced and danced. But no matter how fast she moved, how hard she pounded her feet, she couldn’t dance through to the other side.

*

The cupola atop the schoolhouse’s peaked roof still held an iron bell, but the three steps that led to the shiny black double doors were new. She remembered Ian North’s warning from the day before but knocked anyway. The door flew open almost immediately, and a beaming Bianca stood on the other side, a single blond braid falling over her shoulder, like Elsa in Frozen.