I squinted harder. "Are you sure?"
Cat's gaze whipped to Bishop. "So," she said, "she's not just a bitch. She's a stupid bitch." Cat made a sound of disgust. "And you brought her here? To our spot?"
"Actually," I said, "I picked the place, so–"
She whirled on me. "Who the fuck asked you?"
Well, this wasn't awkward or anything.
Next to me, Bishop pushed up from the sand and stood, claiming the spot between me and Cat. "Time for you go to," he told her.
"If anyone's leaving," she said, "it's her."
"If that's what you want." Bishop turned to look down at me. He held out his hand. "C'mon Selena, let's go."
I looked up at the hand. Taking it seemed like such a bad idea on so many levels. "I dunno," I said.
"Hey!" the girl barked at Bishop. "Just because she's leaving doesn’t mean you are."
Slowly, he turned to look at her. "Where she goes, I go." He turned back to me, meeting my gaze. His voice grew softer. "Now c'mon. Please?"
It was the "please" that did me in. Silently, I reached out, and felt his strong hand close around mine. Gently, he tugged upward, pulling me to my feet.
Behind him, Cat was giving me the look of death. "This ain't over," she said.
Was she talking to me? Or Bishop? Before I could give it much thought, Bishop and I were roaring out of the parking lot, leaving Cat glaring after us. As we drove away, I swear, I could feel the malice of her gaze burning into my back.
If looks could kill, yup, I was definitely a goner.
When we reached my mom's store, Bishop pulled us up to the front door and cut the engine. This time, I practically jumped off the bike. I pulled off his spare helmet and handed it over.
"Thanks for an interesting time," I said.
Still straddling his bike, he pulled off his own helmet and gave me a long, serious look. "She's not my girlfriend, if that's what you're thinking."
"Oh yeah? Then what is she?"
He gave a half shrug.
Oh for Pete's sake. Did this have to be a multiple choice thing? With a sigh, I gave him a few options. "Ex-girlfriend? Random stalker?" I tried to laugh. "Rogue tattoo artist?"
He gave me a deadpan look. "None of the above."
"That's no kind of answer," I said. I turned to go.
"Hang on," he said.
I turned back.
"I don't have a girlfriend."
"Well, Cat seems to think otherwise."
"She's wrong," he said.
"Or you're lying."
I wasn't even angry. Mostly, I just felt stupid. Somehow, I'd actually imagined the two of us together, or at least, I don't know, getting to know each other. Insane, I know. He and I couldn't be more different if we tried.
"I'm not lying," he said.
"What about the tattoo?"
"Not my call."
I gave him the once-over. "So, is her name tattooed somewhere on you?"
"I dunno," he said, his tone colder now. "You wanna look?"
Part of me did, actually. But I told that part to be quiet. "I'd better go," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "You do that."
When I turned away this time, he fired up his bike. By the time I stalked into the darkened coffee shop, the rumble of his engine was fading fast into the distance.
Funny. I'd been meaning to ask him about Russell's Camaro, and for details about what exactly had happened that night. But with Cat's surprise arrival and the tense goodbye, I never had the chance. The way it looked, I never would.
That was probably a good thing. Or, at least that's what I told myself. But later that night, as I lay on my narrow cot, I couldn't help but wonder how differently the night might've ended, if only I'd picked a different destination.
Stupid beach.
Chapter 27
The morning after Conrad's visit, I woke determined to pay Edgar another visit. After an icy drive, followed by a miserable walk onto the river, I spotted Edgar's shanty in its usual spot. I recalled his propane heater and nearly climaxed with anticipation. I hustled to his shanty and knocked on the plastic door. There was no answer.
I knocked louder. "Edgar?" I called. "Are you in there?"
Still no answer. Edgar had claimed he'd be fishing every day until the thaw. I looked around. The frigid wind buffeted my face. No danger of a thaw any time soon. I gave the door a little pull. It swung open, revealing an empty shanty.
The heater, I thought. Where in Heaven's name was the heater?
I also vaguely wondered where Edgar had gone. I stood, dazed and disappointed, not sure what to do.
Finally, with my feet turning to ice cubes, I closed the shanty door and trudged back the way I'd come, cursing the shocking lack of pina coladas and tropical shanty comfort. I spotted the Mustang in the riverside parking lot and eyed it with concern. This time, my doors would open. Or else.
They didn't.
It took me twenty minutes to walk back to the coffee shop. I arrived cold, tired, and beyond crabby. What I saw when I got there did little to warm my spirits.
Inside, I found Crystal in the book room, her face glued to the big window overlooking the street. Shaking off my ski jacket, I joined her in watching what I’d already seen on my way in.
Outside our store, a dozen rough-looking characters paraded past. An unshaven man in a green parka carried a sign proclaiming "No Future in Fortune Telling." An equally unkempt man, this one in heavy camouflage, toted a sign that read "Fly Away Witches." I pressed my face against the window for a closer look.
I recognized one of the picketers. It was the scruffy little man from the council meeting. Another face caught my eye. "Oh for crying out loud," I said. "Isn't that the Darren guy who used our phone the other day?"
Crystal peered at him. "I'll be darned," she said. "Talk about ungrateful."
When Darren paraded by, I knocked on the window. I glared at him and mouthed, "Thanks a lot." He gave me a big smile and a hearty wave, and then turned away to complete his circular route.
"How long has this been going on?" I asked.
"Since nine o'clock," Crystal said. "On the dot."
"Have you called the police?"
"Nothing they can do," she said. "These guys aren't blocking the entrance, and so far, they haven't made any trouble."
"How can they picket in this weather?" I asked. "Damn, you'd have to pay me to do something so stupid." "What are we gonna do?" Crystal asked.
"Nothing," I said. "In this cold, they won't last another hour."
I was wrong. At noon, they were still going strong. Once again, I was standing at the window, thinking about our bottom line. With no fortune-telling revenue, our sales were down thirty percent and showed signs of dipping further.
Crystal and joined me at the window. "What are you thinking?" she said.
"About the fortune rock idea."
"No fortune rocks," Crystal said. "I'm not hiding in the shadows."
"Oh for crying out loud. You're quoting Gabriel again."
"So?"
"So he's not even here."
As she spoke, Gary, the comic store guy, appeared outside with a jumbo thermos. He passed out insulated cups to all the picketers. One by one, Gary filled their cups with thick steaming liquid. The picketers sipped the drinks. They brightened considerably.
"Is that what I think it is?" Crystal asked.
"Yup," I said. "Hot chocolate."
"Son-of-a-bitch," Crystal said.
Gary looked toward our store. When he saw us staring, he smiled and reached into his duffel. He pulled out a plastic bag filled with puffy white blobs.
Crystal gave a little gasp. "Is that–?"
"Yep," I said. "Marshmallows."
Gary plopped a couple of marshmallows into a waiting cup. He tossed a marshmallow into his own mouth. He smiled, gave us the finger, and swallowed the marshmallow whole.
Chapter 28
Instead of fortune rocks, we opted for fortune-themed espresso d
rinks. To the next customers who wanted their fortunes told, we sold the newly created Magical Mocha, an obscenely overpriced beverage that included a free fortune.
It was insane. Nothing had changed. Our customers received the same beverage along with the same fortune-telling services. The only thing that really changed was the amount of explaining we'd have to do.
By mid-afternoon, we had settled into a routine. We told fortunes, watched the picketing, and drank coffee. Even though the situation seemed under control, I hesitated to leave. But I still needed to find Edgar, and there was the matter of my frozen car.
I called my brothers. During the day, Steve and Anthony work for my Dad's construction business. At night, they live in my Dad's basement. I dialed Steve's cell phone.
"What's up?" he said.
"I need a favor."
"Yeah?"
"Can you and Anthony go down to the river?"
"What for?" Steve asked.
"To see if our city councilman's there," I said. "He was supposed to be fishing today, but I went down this morning, and he wasn't there."
"There's gotta be a hundred guys on the river," Steve said. "How the hell am I supposed to find this one?"
"He fishes off Third Street," I said. "In a Gilligan's Island shanty."
"Who's Gilligan?" Steve asked.
"You know, from that old TV show?" When Steve said nothing, I added. "They live in tropical huts."
"Holy shit," Steve said. "I always wondered who that crazy old dude was."
"He's not that old," I said. On the crazy part, I wasn't so sure.
"What are we supposed to do when we find him?"
"Just give me a call," I said. "I'll go down and talk to him myself."
"Like you talked to the comic guy?" Steve asked. "Heard you beat his ass at the council meeting."
"Hey, I barely touched him."
"That's not what I heard," Steve said.
"From who?"
"From dad," Steve said. "He heard it from some customer."
"I'm afraid to ask," I said. "But what'd dad say about it?"
"He was all proud," Steve said. "Said he was glad to see that living South hadn't turned you into some pantywaist."
Somehow, I doubted my dad had used the term pantywaist, but I wasn't going to quibble. I needed another favor. "Oh, and one more thing," I said.
"What?"
"My car's frozen shut."
"Again?"
"Yes, again. Can you guys go get it?"
"Again?"
"Yes, again," I repeated. "Need my keys?"
Steve snorted. "Yeah, right."
My brothers aren't thieves, exactly. Steve drives a stock car at the local race track. He likes to practice at odd hours. From time to time, they borrow stray vehicles in the middle of the night. They always return them, normally in one piece. Sometimes, they even fill up the tank.
An hour later, the Mustang flew by the front window, followed by a Moon Construction pickup. Even from a distance, it was easy to tell my brothers apart. Like me, Anthony resembled my dad, with olive skin, dark eyes and black hair. Like my sister, Steve resembled Crystal, a blue-eyed blonde.
As soon as my brothers walked in, Anthony pointed toward the picketers outside. "Want us to take care of those guys?" he asked.
"Yeah, that's just what we need," I said, "you guys landing in jail for assault."
"You should talk," Steve said.
I changed the subject. "Was Edgar in his shanty?"
"Nope," Steve said. "Got your car though. Love that ride."
At precisely five o'clock, the picketers cleared out for the day, except for one, Darren, the phone-freeloader. Crystal and I watched him walk into the store, wearing his oversized jean jacket and dragging his sign behind him.
He greeted me like an old friend. "Hey there," he said with a big smile. "How ya doin'?"
I made no response.
He turned to Crystal. "Hey there," he said. "I'm Darren." He removed his glove and stuck out his hand. Reflexively, Crystal took it. Darren pumped her hand with gusto and said, "Nice to meet ya."
Crystal cut the handshake short and gave him a dirty look.
"Cold hand?" he said. "Sorry about that."
"We don't have a public phone," I interrupted.
"I ain't here to use the phone." He took off his Detroit Red Wings cap. He tucked it into his back pocket. "I'm here to get my fortune told, just like I told you before."
"And like I told you," I said, "we don't take checks."
Crystal was still glaring at him. "Wait a minute," she said. "Did I hear you right?"
Darren's brow wrinkled. "What's the problem?"
"Look at that sign you're holding," she said. "Here you spend all day protesting our fortune telling. And now you come in, wanting your fortune told?"
Darren looked at his sign, a huge placard with only two words, Fortunes Bad. "Hey, I didn't do this sign, And I don't mean no offense by it."
"How can we not take offense," I said. "You're demonstrating against our business."
"Shoot," Darren said, "I'd picket my own mom for fifty bucks."
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"You told me you wouldn't tell my fortune if I didn't have no cash," Darren said.
"So?"
Darren pulled a crumpled fifty from his pocket. He slapped it on the counter and said, "Well, I got the cash. So c'mon, gimme the works!"
I stared at him. "You were paid to picket us?"
Daren looked from me to Crystal. His eyebrows furrowed. "I ain't gonna freeze my ass off for nothin'."
My mind was reeling. "Who's paying you?" I asked.
"Scruffy."
"Scruffy who?"
"I dunno," Darren said. "His real name’s Harold something or other, but everyone calls him Scruffy."
"The guy with the green hat?" I asked, thinking of lunatic from the council meeting.
"That's him." Darren's face lit up. "Harold Scrufton! That's it. I remember thinking, hey, that's one stupid-ass name."
"Who is he?" I asked.
"Don't know," Darren said. "Met him in jail."
"Are all the picketers from jail?" I asked.
"Don't know," Darren said. "A couple guys are. Don't know about the rest. They don't talk much." Darren leaned his sign upside-down against the coffee bar. "Hey, you gonna tell my fortune or what?"
I picked up his sign and stashed it behind the counter. Out of sight, out of mind.
"Oh, and gimme a coffee too," Darren said. "I froze my ass off today." He removed his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. "That comic store guy was real neighborly though."
In the end, we sold Darren a Magical Mocha with a free palm-reading. He took his mocha first. "Damn, this is goooood," he said, slurping the drink. "What's this thing, again?"
"A café mocha," I said. "It's a cross between a hot chocolate and a super-charged coffee."
"I gotta remember this tomorrow," he said.
A half-hour later, Darren shrugged back into his coat. He retrieved his sign. "See ya in the morning," he said.
That night, as I lay in bed, my mind was churning a million miles a minute. None of this made any sense. Sure, our business was a little unconventional, but we'd never had any trouble before.
My thoughts drifted to Bishop. He was good at solving things. There was only one problem. His solutions wouldn't be to my liking.
I sighed. When it came to Bishop, I knew way too much. But seven years earlier, I knew way too little. Funny how quickly things changed.
Chapter 29
After that ugly beach-encounter with Cat, I figured that was it. I'd never see Bishop again. Our parting hadn't exactly been friendly, after all.
But one day, maybe a week later, I looked up, and there he was, leaning against the far wall of the coffee shop.
I stifled a gasp. "How do you do that?" I said.
It was early evening, and I was tending the nearly empty coffee bar while Crystal was off givin
g someone an astrology reading.
"Do what?"
"You know what," I said. "Sneak up on people."
"I wasn't sneaking." He grinned. "I was watching. And waiting."
Something about his smile warmed me in all the wrong places. "Watching and waiting for what?" I said.
"You."
I laughed. "Yeah, because watching someone clean the espresso machine is soooo entertaining."
"No." He moved closer, standing just the other side of the counter. "But watching you is." His gaze flicked to the door. "You're closing in ten minutes, right?"
I nodded.
"How about a do-over?"
My gaze narrowed. "How about Cat?"
"Ancient history."
"How ancient?"
"Ancient enough," he said.
"She seems to think otherwise."
"She seems to think a lot of things," he said. "Don’t make 'em true."
I stared at him. If Cat was any indicator, I was a whole lot different from the girls he usually hung out with. So why was he here? And what had really happened with that so-called carjacking?"
As if reading my thoughts, he leaned over the counter and said in a very low voice, "Say yes, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."
"Anything?" I asked.
He nodded. "Anything."
Twenty minutes later, we stood outside the coffee shop, now closed, with Crystal somewhere upstairs.
I looked around our small parking lot. "Where's your bike?"
"Back home. Want me to get it?" His tone grew teasing. "We could hit the beach again."
"Or," I said, "we could hit each other with hammers and call it good."
"You got a hammer?" he asked.
"No."
"Well, that rules that out." He flicked his head toward the river, just a few blocks away. "How about a walk?"
Soon, we were strolling along the city sidewalk, heading toward River Walk, a long, winding path favored by bikers, skaters, and power-walkers. It was a beautiful evening, balmy with the hint of a breeze.
"So," I said, "is your bike in the shop or something?"
"No."
"So why didn't you ride it?"
"Hard to talk on a bike," he said.
"Or maybe," I said, "the bike makes it hard to sneak up on someone."
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