Normally, business didn’t pick up until later in the day, with a small peak around lunch and then a swell that started at four and grew until closing. Today was the exception, as people lined up against the wall, waiting for their favorite thriller writer to take the proverbial stage. The line snaked through the store, out the front door, and down the sidewalk. We couldn’t accommodate even half of them without opening up the café area, and then the audience wouldn’t be able to see anything because of where I’d had to set up the signing table.
“Excuse me, miss? You work here?”
I took a beat and let myself roll my eyes skyward. Do I work here? Nope. I just enjoy wearing florescent green polo shirts and rearranging bookstores in gazillion-degree weather. Then I fixed a polite smile on my face and turned around to greet the customer. “How can I—”
My voice lurched to a halt like the J train with a trainee conductor.
I’ve never met a famous person before. Once upon a time, Margot Robbie came into the Crawdad Shack, but as luck would have it, it was my day off. Then there was that time that Fall Out Boy’s tour bus broke down on the highway right outside of town and the band and all the roadies were stuck at the gas station for most of the day, but I’d been in Dallas on a field trip. There weren’t that many chances to rub elbows with the rich and recognizable in Piney Island, Louisiana.
The same can’t be said for Williamsburg, apparently.
Obviously, I knew that Geoffrey Tate was scheduled to appear at Untapped Books & Café to read a bit out of his latest bestselling novel and sign some books afterward. I’d spent the last hour prepping for his arrival. I just didn’t think, not in my wildest imagination, that I would have a chance to look him in the eye. If I was very lucky, I’d hoped that I would catch a glimpse of him from afar. And here he was, talking to me.
“Um, well, er . . .” I realized I was stumbling over my words, but in my surprise, I’d forgotten the question.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Geoffrey Tate.” He extended his hand to me. Tate looked exactly like his author picture on the back of his book jackets on the display I’d just set up, give or take a few gray hairs. He looked like he belonged on a lowrider motorcycle on the open road, wearing a red bandanna instead of a helmet. He looked like someone who would be cast in the movie version of one of his own thrillers—rough, tumble, and fit. He probably ate a lot of kale.
Behind me, I heard cell phone cameras clicking and the familiar chirps of people posting to their favorite sites. “Odessa Dean,” I managed to mumble, and shook his hand hastily. “How can I help you, sir?”
“What a lovely name. Odessa, would you be a dear and fetch me a pumpkin spice latte?”
“Huh?” I liked pumpkin spice lattes as well as the next twentysomething female. I was only human. I would never have imagined a man quite as . . . weathered . . . as Geoffrey Tate would touch a pumpkin spice latte with a ten-foot pole. I pictured him as a black-coffee man, or better yet, whiskey, neat, disguised in a coffee mug. “I mean, it’s June.” I wiped the sweat off my forehead before it could trickle into my eyes. “I don’t think they make PSLs for a few months still.”
“Oh. I was hoping, what with this being Williamsburg and all, there would be pumpkin spice lattes year round.”
“Don’t I wish?” Then a thought struck me, and I remembered what I’d learned when I was memorizing all the trivia about craft beer so I wouldn’t sound like a blathering idiot when I was serving them. “There’s kinda a joke, you know, that craft beers are the new pumpkin spice lattes. We have a great selection, if you’d like to try one.”
He grinned at me. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a beer before noon, but I am awful thirsty, and when in Brooklyn . . .”
“So what do you like?” I wished I’d taken the time to scan the cooler before his arrival. The last thing I wanted to do was oversell the virtues of Williamsburg After Dark Porter just to find out we only had Pale As Underground in stock.
“Surprise me.”
He wandered away to organize the desk I’d set up for him and I scurried off toward the café. “Parker, quick,” I said, dashing to the kitchen window. “What’s the best beer we’ve got right now?”
“I’m partial to Pour Williamsburg,” he replied. I noticed that his hairnet was askew and his workstation was even more chaotic than usual. I guess the extra crowd was keeping him hopping, too.
“Thanks. I owe you one.” I nabbed a bottle of Pour Williamsburg Pale Ale from the cooler, along with a bottle of water. I carried both out to Tate’s desk, set them down, and popped the top off using the bottle opener I kept on a string. I’d learned the hard way that if I didn’t keep a close eye on bottle openers, they grew legs and skittered away. “I think you’ll like this one. It’s got a smooth finish.”
Once he was settled, I helped Todd and Andre, who’d come in early for the occasion, wrangle the line of fans in a more-or-less orderly fashion to their seats. As I’d suspected, we had seats for less than a quarter of the swelling crowd. The rest had to stand wherever they found room, even if the stacks hid Tate from view. I’m fairly certain that we’d exceeded the fire marshal’s limit by double, but I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to call them and tattle.
“Odessa, you’re needed in the café,” Todd said, pulling me aside. I couldn’t help but notice he had a chair saved for himself right up front.
“But I won’t be able to hear anything from the café,” I argued.
“So? I’m not paying you to stand around and fawn over famous authors. Get to work. Chop-chop.”
He didn’t pay me to do a lot of the things I did around here. He didn’t pay me to lug the trash out to the dumpsters, walk Huckleberry, or stock the bookshelves. He didn’t pay me to set up the bookstore for author appearances, or to manage the social media accounts, either. Speaking of which . . . I took out my phone and snapped a couple of pictures, but all I could see was the backs of the audience’s heads.
I pushed my way through the crowd. “Excuse me! Coming through! Make way, please!” They parted as reluctantly as the first few rows at a general admission concert, but eventually I was able to squeeze through. “I’d like to get a few pictures, if you’re all right with that,” I explained to Tate as I moved behind him.
“Sure, of course.” Tate stood and turned to face me. He scooped a handful of his books in one arm and gestured at the crowd behind him with the other. They cheered loudly.
The problem was, I was having a hard time getting everything in one picture. I was too dang short. Right now, Tate blocked out the crowd. “Do you mind?” I pulled his chair back as far as I could against the wall and climbed up onto it. My cowboy boots, even with worn soles, were slippery against the plastic and for a second I wavered, trying to catch my balance.
Tate reached his free hand up to steady me and I clutched it for dear life until I knew I wasn’t going to fall. I let go, remembering too late that my hands were as dirty and sweaty as the rest of me. “Thanks,” I told him.
“Anything for a pretty lady,” he replied, and I tell you what, I almost lost my balance again.
He got back into position, posing with the rambunctious readers behind him and books on display like a proud peacock. I took a few quick shots, jumped down, and dusted off the chair before returning it to Tate. I reviewed the photos on my screen. “Yeah, these are great.” I held them out so he could take a peek.
“Love ’em. Tag me when you post, will ya?”
“Of course.” I couldn’t hide my grin. Tate was such a nice, down-to-earth guy, not at all what I’d expected.
I took a second to post the best picture to all of our accounts—Instagram, Twitter, and even Facebook—with the caption of “Geoffrey Tate with his loyal fans at Untapped Books & Café! If you couldn’t make it, swing by later for signed books while supplies last!” I tagged Tate, and watched the accounts’ traffic spike.
Making a path through the crowd was easy this time. They were eager to part so I could leave, each of them taking a shuffling step forward as I passed to jockey for a better position. Sure, I was going to miss the reading, but I’d actually gotten to talk to the man. To hold his hand, even for an instant. From now on, I could tell everyone the story of how Geoffrey Tate saved my life.
That thought was like a punch to the gut. Big flipping deal. I’d almost fallen off a chair, onto a carpeted floor. Two feet away. The worst that could have happened was I would have been embarrassed in front of a bunch of strangers I’d never met before and I’d never have to see again. Sure, someone would inevitably record it and post it on YouTube or something for all the world to laugh at, but ten seconds later, the clip would be forgotten, replaced by something more dramatic or more demeaning.
For that one second when I was off balance, I caught a brief glimpse of what Bethany had felt when she went over that walkway. Out of pure instinct, I had grabbed thin air, and if Tate’s hand hadn’t been there, I don’t know what I would have done. Fallen, probably. Humiliated myself, certainly.
So why hadn’t Bethany grabbed hold of the railing?
The only possible explanation was that she’d gone over backward. Which meant she’d been pushed. One hundred percent. No doubt in my mind. She had to have tried to grab hold of something. Her attacker, maybe?
“Earth to Odessa,” Parker said, and I blinked at him, trying to come back to the real world. “You were really out of it for a minute.”
I gave myself a mental shake. “Sorry.” I stuffed my messenger bag into the cabinet that doubled as an employee locker. “It must be a madhouse out there.”
“Nah. Everyone’s just here to see that Tate guy. It was busy before, and afterward we’ll probably get slammed. But right now, the most challenging order up is an everything bagel. But seriously, are you okay?”
“Ducky,” I assured him. I glanced out of the window. Kim was working the tables, along with another person I didn’t recognize. Three servers was a little excessive for a Wednesday morning. Either Todd had screwed up the schedule or expected a huge rush after Geoffrey Tate finished signing autographs. “Who’s that?”
“New girl,” he replied. He pulled the long sleeves down over his arms and turned to the fryer. Despite the soaring temperature in the kitchen, the cooks didn’t have the luxury of wearing ugly green polos, not if they wanted to have a single square inch of their arms unscarred or unburnt at the end of the day. Even with the long sleeves, Parker’s arms looked like he’d lost a fight with a wood chipper or two.
I was New Girl for my first week at the café, too. Apparently, the turnover was so high that no one bothered learning anyone’s name until they survived at least five shifts, and waiters had to make it past the three-month mark to get their own personalized name tag. Back home, we didn’t have that problem. If someone was lucky enough to get a job—any job—they didn’t up and quit without good reason. I’d been slinging seafood at the Crawdad Shack ever since I was seventeen, and if I’d stayed in Piney Island this summer, I’d probably be doing it right now. Knowing I’d be back in a few months, I’d even kept the name tag.
Then again, it wasn’t like they were going to ever replace me with someone else named Odessa.
Waitressing in Williamsburg wasn’t that different than waiting tables anywhere else. Long, hot shifts. Aching feet. Burnt arms. Greasy hair. Grumpy customers. But at the end of the day, having amazing coworkers like Parker and Izzy and working in an energetic environment made it all worthwhile. And the tips didn’t hurt, either—when people were generous enough to leave one.
Thinking of Izzy reminded me that I needed to call her. After retrieving my apron from its hook and tying the belt around my waist, I pulled my phone out and clicked on her contact. Right before it was about to go to voicemail, she answered with a sleepy, “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.” I know, I know, it was an inane thing to say. In the age of caller ID, I certainly didn’t need to announce myself. “You were supposed to be at work like two hours ago.”
“Huh?” She paused, then exclaimed, “You’ve got to be kidding!” I heard her fumble around and realized she was still in Aunt Melanie’s feather-soft bed. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I didn’t know you were on the schedule,” I told her. I’d asked Todd to email the schedule out once a week, but he was old-school and preferred to post it on the wall near the bathroom instead. I think he liked that it was easier for him to change it on a whim that way. “Didn’t you set an alarm?”
“I did,” she said. I could hear a suitcase zipper opening, followed by a muttered curse. “I can’t believe I overslept today of all days. And Geoffrey Tate’s coming in!”
“He’s here. Reading just started. If you hurry, you might catch the end of it, but you’ll have to come in the back way. No way you’re getting in the front door. Place is packed to the gills.”
She yelped as I presumed she tripped over something sharp and heavy. My aunt’s collection of oversized sculptures was impressive, but the first time I spent the night in her room, I almost broke a toe stumbling around in the dark trying to get to the restroom. I must have lost a quart of blood after getting my leg sliced by a four-foot-high realistic chimpanzee statue. Note to self—if I’m ever lucky enough to get my own Williamsburg apartment, fill it with pillows. Or go minimalist. No giant metal statues for me, no way.
Izzy disconnected. I hoped she’d hung up instead of tripping and breaking her phone, but in Aunt Melanie’s apartment, the latter was much more likely.
I put my phone away and headed into the café. I waved at Kim, who tilted her head in a half-hearted nod. I guess she still didn’t think I was worthy to wear an apron. I was determined to prove her wrong. Even if I burned all the skin off my forearm and got a loud group of seven drunks crammed into a four top, I was gonna smile and get every order exactly right. I was gonna get refills out on time and not let food sit in the window. I was gonna upsell, upsell, upsell. And if I noticed we were running low on coffee, I’d start a new pot. In other words, I was gonna be the best waitress this rinky-dink café had ever seen.
“Hey, you’re the new girl, right?” I asked, as soon as I noticed the new waitress didn’t have her hands full.
She had long blonde hair twisted into dreadlocks and wore no makeup except for pink eyeshadow. Unlike myself, the new girl was tall and willowy. She had to be almost six feet tall, and had narrow hips, a teeny tiny waist, and legs that a supermodel would envy. She blinked down at me. “You must be Odessa,” she said with a hint of a foreign accent I couldn’t quite place. “I visited Odessa once.”
“You’re from Texas?” I asked, surprised. I never would have guessed it. Texans had a unique drawl all of their own, about a hundred times thicker than mine. Odessa was a town out in the oil fields. I’d asked my parents once why they’d named me after such a dry, barren place. Maybe they’d met there? Or had a romantic date there? But alas, it turned out that they’d never even been within a hundred miles of Odessa. They just liked the sound of it.
“Odessa, Ukraine,” she clarified.
“So you’re what, Russian?”
“Slovakian,” she corrected me. “And you’re from here?”
Man, I could really get used to people mistaking me for a local. “Not quite. I’m from Louisiana, about fifteen hundred miles south of here.” One thousand, four hundred and thirty-two miles to be precise, but who’s counting? “You’ve been here long?”
“I just started today,” she replied. Her voice was lyrical but her expression was blank, with a touch of disdain maybe.
“I knew that. I meant how long have you been in Brooklyn?”
“A few years,” she said. “It’s nice.”
“It is,” I agreed. “Would you like a hand with your tables? Maybe split them up, or I can help you run drinks?”
“Everyone has their food,” she said, punctuating it with a sniff. “Maybe the waitress in black needs your help.”
I glanced over at Kim, who appeared to be playing a game on her cell phone and chewing bubblegum. Parker was right. No one seemed to be ordering much. I didn’t even see any beer bottles on the tables. I guess people were more interested in getting a book signed by Geoffrey Tate than the daily special. “Yeah, alrighty, then. Well, let me know if that changes. Good meetin’ you.”
She turned around and walked away. She moved like a dancer or a figure skater, all grace and poise. She’d gotten three steps before I realized I still didn’t know what to call her. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Hana,” she said, without turning around. She flipped her long dreadlocks over her shoulder as she glided toward her tables.
With nothing else to do, I returned to my review of the Instagram posts from Domino Park. Plenty of people uploaded pictures after Bethany fell, and I wanted to scroll past them, but I forced myself to look at each of them, carefully ignoring the central figure in each photo and concentrating instead on the crowd. I kept scrolling until timestamps were earlier than ten thirty. Bethany was still in the café with me at the time.
Out of the hundreds of photos I examined, not a single person jumped out at me. All of the faces began to blur together after a while, but I didn’t recognize anyone. Detective Castillo was right about one thing—even with dozens and dozens of camera phones snapping away, none of the photos showed so much as a glimpse of Bethany before she fell, or anyone else I knew.
The photos were useless.
12
Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting ∙ June 26
Always meet your heroes. Always. #GeoffreyTate
THE TABLES WERE taken care of, and from the bursts of laughter coming from the bookstore, Tate was a hit. I really wished I could hear his reading. Then I realized that I could. There was nothing for me to do here. I headed back toward the bookstore side of the shop. Even the steps separating the café from the bookstore were crammed with people, but I managed to squeeze myself into an opening. There are perks to being petite. I couldn’t see anything except the backs of the people standing in front of me, but I could hear Tate’s deep voice as he painted a chase scene through the bowels of a cruise ship.
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