Poked

by Naomi Niles

  “Did you ever read those books, Marsh?” Lori asked me.

  “Yeah, we had a few of the kid’s books in our living room. I’d pick one up every now and again when I was bored and had nothing better to do. I remember really enjoying The Tomb of Anak or whatever. And The Door in the Demon’s Throat.”

  “Dragon’s Throat,” said Sam with a faraway look. “It’s been ages.”

  “Yeah, and do you remember Ted Dekker?” asked Lori. “I used to love him!”

  “Dekker was actually legit. I feel like he deserved better than being shunted into the Christian fiction ghetto.”

  We went on talking excitedly about VeggieTales and Steven Curtis Chapman and Adventures in Odyssey while we waited for our checks. Lori began to feel more at ease as she reminisced about what she called her “misspent youth,” though I could tell that the subject of the bakery wasn’t far from her mind. As we were walking out to her car, I paused and rested a reassuring hand on her arm.

  “Listen, no matter what happens, we’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I’ll make sure of that.”

  Lori came forward and pulled me into a warm hug. It was the first time we had touched since our ill-fated date, and my body ached with the memory. “I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without your moral support over the past couple days. It means more to me than all the legal and financial help you’ve offered, just to know that you’re here and that you’re looking after me. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I’m really glad to have lost that bet. I won a good friend.”

  I froze, wondering if she was trying to suggest that we were only friends. Sensing the tension in my body, Lori took a step back and stroked my arm. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing—I’m just being an idiot, like always.”

  “Well, you know you can tell me. You don’t have to keep everything hidden away.”

  “I know,” I said tersely. “Thanks.”

  But my chilly response only seemed to increase her sense of unease, and she bid me good night in front of Sam’s car, looking dissatisfied. I walked back into the restaurant wondering if anything in love could ever go right, or if we were both going to be unhappy forever.

  I found Sean still sitting in the booth finishing the last of his Buffalo wings and drinking Sam’s Pibb, which she had given to him before she left.

  “I know we’ve met a couple times,” he said, “but that’s the first time I’ve ever had the chance to sit down and have a real conversation with Lori.”

  “And?”

  “And she’s really intelligent. If you do end up together, you’re going to have your hands full keeping up with her. You might need to go back to school.”

  “Well, we can worry about that later. In the meantime, I think there might be something we can do to help her and Sam. Do you mind if I come over tomorrow night?”

  Sean shrugged. “I’m not doing anything. And it feels good to finally be putting my legal expertise to use.”

  “You know if you wanted to, you could do this every day?”

  “I suppose that’s true.” He sipped his Pibb thoughtfully. “But then think of all the music that might never exist. Can you imagine if Springsteen had gone into law?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lori

  “I’m not sure how helpful that was,” I told Sam as we got into the car, “apart from showing us that we’re almost certainly doomed.”

  “I don’t know if doom is the right word, but clearing out the entire bakery within the next week isn’t going to be easy. Tomorrow, I’ll start calling around looking for a new space. I’m sorry, I just don’t feel up to it tonight.”

  “Nor do I. Let’s go home and make some quinoa.”

  “I don’t even feel like I worked particularly hard today,” said Sam, “apart from the cake for Sharon Abelson’s bat mitzvah, but I feel so emotionally exhausted.”

  “You know what I would love?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’d love to go home and kick off my shoes in the knowledge that I won’t have to get up in the morning. And I’d like to spend tomorrow on the couch buried under a pile of blankets watching Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries.”

  “It’s very tempting,” said Sam as she turned onto the freeway. “If we didn’t have so much to get done within the next week, I would be all for it. I just get frustrated that Jack and Phryne’s relationship never seems to advance beyond making eyes at each other. It’s been stuck in a holding pattern for three seasons now.”

  “I can relate.”

  “Of course you can,” Sam smirked. “The last time a guy tried to sleep with you, you pushed him away and ran off.”

  “For your information, I didn’t run off. I made him leave so I could close up the store. He was the first one out the door.”

  “Right. Very conscientious of you.”

  “I don’t want him stealing our macarons. Anyway, wasn’t he great tonight? So kind and loyal and—and supportive.”

  “I didn’t particularly notice,” said Sam, still grinning. “But I’ll take your word for it.” When I glowered at her, she added, “I’ll admit that he and Sean were both very helpful. Sean especially.”

  “Now you’re just trying to get on my bad side.”

  “What?” she said with a laugh. “Sean was very helpful. And I’m sure Miles or whoever was very supportive of you and whatever you’re going through.”

  I reached over and slugged her in the arm. “His name is Marshall, as you very well know. I might ask him on another date soon, one where there are no lawyers present. Do you think that’s appropriate, girls asking guys on dates?”

  “I don’t see why not, as long as you don’t throw him out of the building this time.”

  “Well, I can’t make any promises,” I replied. “You know, it’s odd—I can’t picture him sitting through a whole episode of Miss Fisher or Crime Brulee, or even accompanying me to World Market. We have so little in common, and yet somehow it works. We have fun together. How does that happen, that you can have so much fun with someone who is so different from you in every way?”

  Sam shrugged, as if not wanting to contemplate the mysteries of love and lust at this time of night. “I suppose it’s chemistry, or libido, or whatever you want to call it. You and Brad have a connection, and it transcends your narrow obsessions.”

  “Okay, now you are doing it on purpose!” I exclaimed, laughing in spite of myself. She flattened herself against the driver’s side door to avoid my fist. “Brad? You must not think very highly of me if you think I would date someone named Brad!”

  “Thank goodness!” Sam muttered under her breath.

  ***

  Yet in spite of the work we still had to do that week—or perhaps because of it—I found myself struggling to get out of bed the next morning. The first time my alarm went off, I hit the snooze button and rolled over, staring gloomily at the ceiling as though holding it personally responsible for the fact that I had to go to work. The room felt cold in the early dawn light, and I burrowed even deeper under my fox-print comforter to keep warm.

  At a quarter to eight, I heard a light tap at the door, and Sam entered carrying a plate full of waffles and a glass of mango lemonade.

  “Hey, hon,” she said, seating herself on the edge of the bed. “You ready to get up?”

  I mumbled something from under my blanket.

  “I feel the same way,” said Sam, “but I suppose we owe it to the community to finish out the week. Soon we’ll have moved into our new location, and we can take a few days off. But until then, ‘once more unto the breach,’ as they say.”

  Feeling cheered by the Shakespeare reference, I sat up in bed and began eating the waffles. “You brought me probably the only two things that could convince me to sit up this morning. How did you do that?”

  Sam shrugged. “The magic of being your sister, I suppose.”

  “Whoever marries me is going to have his work cut out. Nob
ody else knows me quite as well as you do.”

  “If he’s smart, he’ll be phoning me every day.”

  I downed the last of my lemonade and changed into my work uniform. The storm had subsided, but the sky was still overcast, making me feel lazy and sleepy. Or maybe it was just my depression. I hadn’t felt like doing much of anything since finding out that we would have to move. Customers would come in, and I mouthed words without really paying attention to what I was saying. They congratulated me on the new look of the dining area, and I didn’t have the heart to tell them that in a few days we would be tearing it all down.

  “It’s one of those days where I almost wish we could do magic,” I told Sam. “Not because I want to be particularly powerful, but because it would make certain mundane tasks a lot easier.”

  I didn’t specify which tasks, but I could tell she knew what I meant. “I’d much rather be a magical housewife than a regular housewife,” she said as she handed Alvin his apple berry juice. “Think how much labor Mrs. Weasley managed to avoid because she could chop onions and sweep floors with magic!”

  “I think it’s a bad idea, personally,” said Alvin. “Pastor Gustman says magic is seductive because it gives us the illusion of control over the world around us. But in reality, we’re allowing ourselves to be controlled by demonic forces.”

  My skin prickled at the mention of Pastor Gustman. “Alvin, when did you start attending services at SCHOP?” I asked him.

  “I just really like the teaching over there,” he replied. “They stand boldly against the spirit of the age. Brian has tried to talk me out of going because he thinks it’s dangerous, but I think he’s just mad because our church is losing so many members.”

  “I heard that Pastor Gustman claims he has the ability to cure sickness, predict the future, and raise the dead,” said Sam. “To me, that sounds a lot like magic.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Alvin. “It all depends on what the source of the power is.”

  Sam flared up as though wanting to argue, but I shook my head discreetly. There was no use trying to talk Alvin out of a position once his mind was made up.

  “Can he really do that?” asked Cheryl, who had been listening eagerly.

  “I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me.” Alvin shrugged. “This weekend we had four people come up onstage saying they had been cured of deafness when Pastor Gustman prayed healing over them.”

  “Fantastic,” she said in an awed voice. “For decades, I’ve been saying this was going to become more and more common as we approached the dawn of the new age.”

  Alvin looked flustered. Despite the fact that they were basically saying the same thing, Cheryl’s language made him uneasy. “What makes you so sure?”

  “In my twenties, I was a devoted student of Carl Jung—the renowned psychologist who discovered the concept of archetypes. Based on his study of astrology, he taught that we were leaving the age of Pisces, which had lasted for two thousand years, and were entering the age of Aquarius. In the present age, the supernatural is only contained in a few vessels, but in the new age, every man and woman will be able to work miracles, see the future, and do amazing things.”

  “Well, that sounds a lot like what the Bible says,” said Alvin, thoughtfully sipping his berry juice. “But I don’t believe we’re entering a new age; I believe we’re entering the last days.”

  “Call it whatever you like,” Cheryl replied.

  When we closed the register for lunch, I followed Sam into the back office.

  “You know how much those two used to get on my nerves?” I asked her, pulling my Caesar salad out of the fridge and carefully removing the almonds. “But I was sitting there listening to their discussion, and the thought occurred to me: I’m really going to miss them.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Sam, who was eating a tuna salad sandwich. “We’re only moving a few miles down the road.”

  “Yes, but what if this doesn’t work out? What if we’re not able to afford the cost of a new place? What if there are no spaces available, and we both lose our jobs?”

  Sam didn’t seem particularly concerned. “We’ll think of something—even if I have to sell cake and coffee out of our own home. Has it ever occurred to you how important our work is? All the stuff we provide: breads, books, baked goods. It isn’t just a luxury; it’s a necessity. And I’m not giving up on it.”

  I had never thought of it in quite that way, and it made me feel better about what we were doing. “Then I suppose we have to hold on—not just for ourselves but for the good of the town.”

  “Exactly,” said Sam. “You wouldn’t want the library to close down and for no one to have access to those books. Cakes are important, too. Food is important. And I think there ought to be spaces in this town where we can gather to hang out and read or talk or whatever we want to do.”

  “I just hate the idea that soon we may not be able to provide that,” I said sadly. “It may not be the end of the world, but it sure feels like it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Marshall

  “Remind me again why we’re doing this?” asked Sean as he climbed into my car. It was the end of the day, and we were leaving the lumberyard. A cloudy and still afternoon was rapidly giving way to a dusky twilight.

  “Because I think we could make a considerable amount of money by the end of the night.” We were on our way to the Celtic Knot, where according to Mr. Wood, a group of experienced poker players met on Wednesday nights. “And I think it would be fantastic practice. It’s been a while since I’ve played against anyone whose skills were the equal of mine, and I want to make sure I’m not losing my edge.”

  “If they live here, they’re probably not going to be as good as you,” said Sean. “If you want to measure your skills before the invitational, I recommend doing it in Vegas. Everyone here plays recreationally.”

  “Well, I think we ought to go check it out, anyway. Worst-case scenario, we lose the match, and somebody else goes home with a few thousand dollars.”

  “True, but they’ll be going home with some of our money,” he pointed out.

  I was getting irritated by Sean’s incessant warnings. “Look, do you want to go or not?”

  He stared at me for a moment, as if not used to hearing me raise my voice. “Yeah, I’ll go. I don’t have anything else going on tonight, and it beats sitting at home watching Deadliest Catch on the Discovery Channel.”

  I started up the car. “Okay, but if I hear one more complaint out of you, I’m turning this car around.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  We reached the Celtic Knot and, after some searching, found a flight of wood-paneled stairs leading into a dingy basement. “Freebird” was playing from a pair of speakers at the back of the room where a circular table had been set up. Five or six guys were seated there, their faces obscured by shadows.

  Sean paused on our way in. “I think I want another one of those Scottish salmon. Do you want me to order you anything?”

  It took me a second to remember what was on the menu; it felt like ages since we had last been here. “Get me the bacon cheese rarebit, a spinach artichoke pizza, and a soda—Mr. Pibb if they have it, Sprite if they don’t.”

  “You sure you don’t want a beer or something?”

  I shook my head. “I need to keep my wits about me.”

  Sean left, and I continued on my way toward the back of the room but froze as I neared the table. Our old friend Tom was seated at the far end, shuffling a deck and smiling ominously. Next to him sat River, looking as muscled and hairless as ever.

  Not wanting to stay here a second longer than I had to, I turned to leave. But as I did, Tom spoke up. “Where are you headed so fast? You’ve only just arrived.”

  “I n-need to go check on my order,” I said faintly. There weren’t many things that could scare me, but the sing-song tone of his voice, down there in that dark and mostly empty room, gave me chills.

  “It’s funny,” he said, “because
if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were scared of us.”

  I shook my head, struggling hard to swallow. My face and hands were beady with perspiration.

  “Are you a girl?” he asked. “You must be a girl, ‘cause only girls are scared of us.”

  “You know very well I’m not,” I replied, trying to sound menacing but failing badly.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” asked Tom. The hulking shadow of River stood up beside him. “You ought to at least wait until you hear what the pool is tonight.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “River, you want to tell him what the pool is?”

  “One hundred thousand dollars,” said River.

  “You couldn’t say no to that, could you? Not even a scared little girl like you?”

  I probably should have walked away then, or at least made the attempt, but at that point, I wasn’t thinking rationally. I was so mad at him for calling me a girl, and the memories of our last fight were still fresh in my mind.

  While I stood a few paces from the table, still hesitating, the door leading into the basement opened again, and Sean crept back down. “Hey, what are you just standing around for—oh, hello.”

  He let out a low whistle as the reality of our dilemma sank in. If we stayed and played the game, they might hurt us; if we tried to leave now, they almost certainly would. As if to prevent that from happening, River rose and moved toward the door, his broad back blocking out the light like the moon in eclipse.

  “How are we going to get out of this?” Sean whispered.

  “I don’t think we have a choice. They’re not going to let us go until we’ve agreed to play.”

  “And then what? Are they going to knife us in a dark alley and take all our money? I almost think we would be better off losing.”

  “But have you heard how much money is on the table?” I told him.

  Sean, however, remained unconvinced. “Playing with these guys, though? I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

  Tom began tapping his foot with impatience. “Are you two ladies almost done chatting? We’ve got a game to play here, and I don’t have all night.”