“Thanks, but no. I really do have to go home.” Ray stretched, wincing as he turned his back from side to side. Rana slid his leftovers into the aluminum container. “I appreciate the invitation though. And the food.” He tucked the container in the bottom of his lunch bag and gave them both a wave as he left.
“So, what did you find out?” asked Rana, bringing out a pair of clean ceramic plates with a gorgeous red-and-blue geometric pattern and then a big platter with meats, grilled tomatoes, fried cauliflower, and what looked like falafel. Beside it, she placed a bowl of cucumbers, peppers, and tomatoes sprinkled with feta.
“Jeez, is there an army coming I don’t know about?” Marianne surveyed the mounds of food in front of her. “Or do you have a secret life as a competitive eater?”
Rana shrugged, settling into the seat across from her in the booth. “I thought you might want to taste a variety of things, since you hadn’t come by yet.”
“Sorry about that,” said Marianne. “I don’t usually come to whatever restaurant is renting the space.”
“Why not? I was sort of offended. It didn’t seem very neighborly.” Rana took the spoon and started loading the plates. Marianne reached to help but was stilled with a look. “Oh, the bread!” She reached back over the counter and found a basket of small round pitas. “Here.” She held the basket out to Marianne, who took one and placed it on the very edge of her towering plate.
“It wasn’t,” said Marianne. She copied Rana, who layered meat and vegetables on her bread and then drizzled sauce over it all. “I wasn’t exactly gracious. My family has been bitter about this place for a long time.”
Rana looked up from her food, surprise flashing across her face. “Bitter? Why? The parking lot issue?”
“That’s only been the last few months.” Marianne took a bite as she considered how to answer. The spice and depth of flavor of the meat and sauce shocked her out of her train of thought, her eyes drifting closed as she savored. “Oh my god, Rana,” she said when she finally swallowed. “This is incredible. How had I not been here before?”
Rana laughed a little. “Family bitterness, I’m told.”
“I’ll explain in a minute once I’ve tried this salad.” Unsurprisingly, the salad was also delicious, light and tangy with vinegar and cumin.
“I would have saved you some hawawshi, but I sold out today,” said Rana apologetically. “I’ll bring some by later in the week if you’d like.”
“Are those your meat pies? People have been talking about those nonstop.” Marianne leaned back against the booth’s vinyl. “You’re singlehandedly increasing the spice tolerance of our little town, you know.”
“My food isn’t spicy!”
“For Swanley? It’s nuclear. This town is a steak and potatoes kind of place usually. But I’d give up both for this meatball thing.”
“Kofta,” said Rana, cheek dimpling as she smiled. “And you keep dodging my question. What’s wrong with my store?”
Marianne sighed. “It used to be ours. That’s all.”
“That makes sense,” said Rana thoughtfully. “I had wondered why a bakery that had been in the town as long as yours has would have a little rental like this. At first I thought Mr. Leventi owned your bakery too—”
“I know you did, and don’t even joke about that!” Marianne shuddered. “He’d love to get his hands on the bakery, and he never, ever will even if I have to live to be a hundred to outlast him.”
“I found out he didn’t very quickly!” said Rana. “Your friend Ray gave me hell when I mentioned my mistake. I promise.”
“Good old Ray,” Marianne said. “As well he should. Ray’s no friend of the Leventi family either.”
“I get the feeling not many people are.”
“Enough are,” said Marianne. “Just not the ones I prefer to spend time with. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be as powerful as they are.” She shook her head. “Powerful people always have friends. Doesn’t matter who they are.”
“That’s true everywhere in the world I’m afraid. So, if the old grudge isn’t about the lot, then what is it? And speaking of the lot, I’m still waiting for you to give me your update! What did you find out about the parking situation?” Rana set her now empty plate to one side and rested her elbows on the table, leaning forward over crossed arms.
“Unfortunately, not much. They won’t tell me anything without proof I own the lot.”
Rana frowned. “Isn’t ownership of property public information?”
“Apparently real estate transactions are public information, but if those transactions happened before the current system was in place, it’s not so easy. That seems to be true for a lot of places that were bought before the eighties. And because it’s not just a sale, it’s a splitting of a lot, I’m going to guess it’s more complicated.” Marianne spooned a little more of the salad onto her plate. “Rana, this is so good.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Rana’s cheeks dimpled. “So, you’re saying because you’ve owned it longer than forty years, they can’t tell you for sure you own it? Even though you pay taxes on it?”
“I guess they can’t tell me how much of the land I own. They know I own some of the lot and how much that part of the lot is worth. I guess they increase it by the amount of inflation every year, or something like that.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure where to go from here. Even if I do have a deed, a bill of sale, or a receipt or something, I have no idea where my dad would have put it.”
“I didn’t have much luck either.” Rana sighed. “I called CoffeeGuru’s contact number. I thought they’d want to know they were alienating the locals.”
“That’s a great idea!”
“Maybe, but I didn’t get anywhere. I explained the problem—I thought maybe they’d want to know where their customers were parking and perhaps they’d put up some sort of sign saying not to park in the town for the shuttle, but they said they can’t make any statements about any parking spot they don’t own. They were not very helpful. They said if I wanted to file a complaint, I’d have to talk to their legal department.”
“And it’s the same problem we have here. We can’t prove we own it, so we can’t complain.”
“Are you sure you do?”
Marianne opened her mouth to answer and then closed it and considered the question. “I’m pretty sure.” Two years ago, she’d had the thing paved, and the bill had been enormous. If it turned out she was doing someone else’s work for them—well, she wouldn’t be thrilled. “And my father wouldn’t have sold it.”
“Why did he sell any of it, anyway?”
“He didn’t want to.” Marianne straightened her napkin on the table with restless fingers. “At least, I don’t think he did.” She paused to gather her thoughts.
“If you don’t want to tell me—”
“It’s all right.” Marianne surprised herself with her vehemence. “I mean—it’s been so long since I thought about it, about that time. I was nine then. I didn’t know what was going on. Just that my dad had been away for a long time and he came back much sadder. He fought in Vietnam and came home in 1968, and I hadn’t seen him in more than a year. And then a few months later, he sold part of the bakery to Simon Leventi.”
“That’s Luke’s dad?”
“Exactly. They’ve been big landlords in town my whole life.” She shook her head. “He and my dad were friends, though I can’t imagine how now. Maybe he was different when they were young. And I guess Simon seemed like a nice enough guy when I was a kid. But when my dad got sick, he paid Simon to run the place. He didn’t get drafted, or he got out of it somehow, so he wasn’t a mess like the rest of the guys his age. And I guess he made a lot of money while my dad was away because when dad got back and needed money, Simon offered to buy the other storefront and keep running our half until I was old enough to take over. I came back to take the bakery back in ’92, but he kept your part.”
“So, that’s why he owns my suite but not yours.” Rana looked th
oughtful. “But you don’t know if your father sold the parking lot as well.”
“Exactly. And now I can’t even find proof my dad owned the lot in the first place.”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“He had it paved when I was thirteen or so,” said Marianne. “And I’ve paved it twice more. And painted its lines.” She shook her head. “If I don’t own it, that’s a lot of money the city should be paying me back.”
“Or my landlord.”
“Exactly.”
Rana picked up the dishes and stacked them neatly on a tray. Marianne rose automatically to help, gathering napkins and glasses and bringing them around the counter behind Rana. Rana’s red-checked apron tied neatly around her waist, a nice touch of homey, classic-diner fashion Marianne found adorable.
She found everything about Rana adorable, actually, and not for the first time, she wished she’d behaved better after their night together. That snowy evening lay misty in her mind, and sometimes she wondered if she’d dreamed kissing that perfect mouth and holding those long, elegant hands. Rana was so different from Kevin, but no less stubborn and competent. If Marianne’s few crushes had anything in common, it was competence. She loved a person who knew what they were doing.
She followed Rana to the sink and grabbed a fresh towel from a cabinet above the drying rack. “Would you like me to dry?”
Rana glanced up, seemingly startled to have company in the kitchen. “Oh, you don’t have to.”
“I’d like to,” said Marianne. “I ate, you cooked, and the least I can do is help clean up.”
Rana looked unconvinced. “How about you keep me company instead? I like things done the way I do them.” She smiled. “But I’d love to have someone to talk to.”
Marianne was happy to do that much.
Chapter Six
Zeke clomped in through the front door the next morning, letting in a blast of cold air as he shoved the door closed and shook snow off his boots onto the mat in the entryway. “It’s freezing out there!” he called to Marianne, who’d poked her head through the kitchen door when she’d heard the bell over the entrance jingle. “Just me, no customers.” He shivered. “They’re saying we’re in for another week of this damn arctic weather. So business might stay slow.”
“I wouldn’t be out in this weather either,” said Marianne. “We had a little rush earlier when the sun came out. Sold out of hot cocoa and cider.”
Zeke groaned. “Really?”
“Not quite.” Marianne smiled. “I saved you a cider, don’t worry.”
He gave her a thumbs-up as he peeled himself out of his coat and slung it over a chair. In the warmth of the bakery, the snow on his collar and sleeves immediately started melting into a puddle on the floor. “I’ll clean that up,” he reassured her. “Hey, the parking lot is looking a lot less full today.”
Marianne gave him a look. “You know the train’s not running today, right? Because of the storm?”
He winced. “Ah. Sorry. I thought maybe the city got off their asses and did something.”
“Well, we haven’t made much progress yet, but Ray came by and plowed anyway. I hope they won’t make him stop now that we’ve started asking questions.”
“Ray loves you.” Zeke started stacking baking trays to bring to the dishwasher. “He’d plow you out even if they told him not to.” He stopped for a moment at Marianne’s muffled snort and then rolled his eyes, not amused. “That didn’t come out right.”
“Anyway.” Marianne suppressed a laugh. She had some dignity to maintain, after all. “I’m thinking of making one myself. A sign, I mean.”
“Can you do that?”
“It’s my building. If I hang something on my wall, it’s my business.” She sighed. “I have to figure out how to make a sign now.”
“I can help!” Zeke abandoned his efforts to fit the baking sheets in the dishwasher, grabbing his computer from his backpack instead. “We have to get a nice laminated piece of board, is that all?”
“That would survive the winter, right? It wouldn’t melt in the first snow?”
“It should.” Zeke pulled up an art program and started typing.
“No commuter parking,” read Marianne. “Hey, that looks good!”
Zeke smiled. “I took a design class last year,” he explained. “I’ve been practicing on band logos for my friends’ groups, but this is cooler, mostly because I’m a giant nerd.” He pulled up a browser window and searched for parking signs, scanning them quickly and formatting his the same way. “Okay, I can print this out at school for you.”
“What would I do without you?” asked Marianne as the door jingled again, heralding the arrival of three actual customers.
Grinning, Zeke clapped her on the shoulder on his way to the register to meet the customers. “You’re not going to find out any time soon.”
She watched him sell a bag of assorted pastries and a baguette to the customers, a tall ginger man she’d seen around a few times in the last week and two younger white brunettes, and then he poured the coffees they’d ordered and passed them over the counter.
“Really, Zeke, I’m going to be in trouble when you move away.”
“Who says I’m going to move away?” asked Zeke. “I’m going to be just like Joe, bothering your grandkids’ customers someday.”
“I hope I can get somebody to take over the place before my nonexistent grandkids,” said Marianne. “I’d better not be behind this counter when I’m ninety. If I am, you better take me out back like Old Yeller.”
“One of your kids’ll step up eventually.” Zeke gestured up at the thick oak beams crossing the ceiling, weathered from a century and a half of steam and history. “They can’t let this place disappear. Don’t worry, I’ll bribe them or threaten them or something. I like this job too much.”
Marianne was about to reply when the bell over the door rang. Marianne’s calm evaporated when she caught sight of who was shaking snow from his coat in her entryway.
Luke Leventi didn’t spend much time in town these days. He was campaigning for the soon-to-be open House of Representatives seat and spent most of his time in the surrounding towns where he wasn’t quite so well known.
“Marianne,” he said, the joviality almost believable. “How’s business?”
“Lucas,” she replied, trying to keep the smile on her face as natural as it had been with Zeke. “What can I do for you?”
“Hmm.” He leaned in, ignoring the customers in the corner eyeing him curiously. The race had been hard-fought so far, the polls showing Leventi and Hechevarria neck and neck for the lead. People outside of Massachusetts had started paying attention, and locally, the election was the biggest news since Shari Ng’s llamas had gotten loose and stopped traffic on I-695.
Marianne fought the eye roll that tried to escape at the fuss the girls were making. He cut a striking figure in his suit and wingtips, and he had been making the rounds on the local news circuit lately, but that didn’t mean they had to be so obvious about it.
“An apple Danish, I think,” said Leventi. “Do you still use all local apples?”
“For a few more weeks anyway,” said Marianne. “Until I run out of the ones from Collins Farm. I like to keep things in the county.” She pulled one out and put it in a bag, handing it over the counter. This was the awkward part: As the son of her dad’s best friend, as her sort-of neighbor, and as a public figure in the town, did he expect free food? They’d considered each other cousins when they were kids, and he liked to bring that up at awkward times. Sometimes he paid; sometimes he didn’t, and she was never sure which a particular day would hold. She was just glad he didn’t come by more than a few times a month.
Her stomach unclenched a little as he handed her a crisp five, and she smiled and gave him his change, as well as a coffee, black with one sugar, exactly like his dad had liked. “On the house,” she said. She could afford that much for the sake of peace, at least.
He leaned in conspiratorially.
“I hear you’re starting a fight with those tech people,” he said. “Let me know if you need advice. I’ve kept them out of our town for years now.”
Marianne tried not to laugh. Tech startups speckled the area, including Swanley, and CoffeeGuru straddled the border with Wilshire. Its address was only technically in Wilshire because the front entrance happened to be on the Wilshire side. It was even called Wilshire-Swanley Tech Campus. Not to mention all the Airbnbs and the scooters people could rent on their phone that were cluttering the sidewalks. “Thank you,” she said instead. “But we’re figuring it out.”
“I can count on your vote in the special election next month, can’t I?”
“Of course.”
He took a long look at her, long enough that she had to fight the urge to shift on her feet like a naughty child and then nodded. “Well, good luck to you.”
“You too,” she said, somewhat mystified. She watched him as he left, getting back into the BMW he’d parked illegally in front of the building; of course, his cousin was the Chief of Police, so he wasn’t going to get a ticket anyway.
Now she really hoped he wasn’t going to win. She didn’t need to be represented in the state house by someone she was sure was up to no good.
The man had been family once, or near enough to it. She remembered building LEGO towns with him when they were in elementary school, forced together by their fathers’ friendship. But he’d always been pushy and grasping, always stretching rules and breaking promises even then. That didn’t seem to bother the folks with big money in the district—Marianne figured he probably kept most of the promises they bought from him. And what did he charge all these people for his special favors? Just a seat in the state government. Not too pricey. Not for the last time she wished Josh Robertson had turned down the governor’s appointment. She knew Josh. She’d liked him. She’d voted for him all three times he’d run and won. He wasn’t the brightest politician she’d ever met, and he didn’t get much done as far as she could tell, but his heart was in the right place. She wasn’t quite sure where Luke’s was these days.
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