Anything But Extraordinary (Extraordinary Series Book 1)

by Mary Frame

  “Absolutely.”

  We sit on the porch and watch Troy, who now has a boy on the end of either arm while he spins them in circles and Paige looks on and claps.

  “Whose rug rats?” Tabby asks, taking a sip of lemonade.

  “I’m not really sure. Their names are Greg and Gary. I bought Gravy from them.”

  “That’s a whole lot of G names,” she says, scratching her head.

  “Did you see that Mr. Bingel is talking to Jared?” I ask her in a low voice, leaning a little toward her so they won’t hear.

  She peers around my new porch banister and watches them for a second. “Crazy. Mr. Bingel is actually talking, and not just spewing insults. Well, not shocking exactly. Everyone in this town loves Jared. And I bet despite his grumblings, Mr. Bingel actually wants someone to talk to.”

  I’m sure he does. And he still looks stiff in the hips. He’s probably too proud to ask someone for help, but . . . Standing, I wipe my hands on my shorts. I really hope this doesn’t blow up in my face.

  “Greg, Gary,” I call out.

  Troy is lying on the lawn, pretending sleep, while the boys tug on his arms and try to wake him up and Paige pulls on one of his legs. The boys stop when I call out their names.

  I motion for them to follow me across the lawn.

  Mr. Bingel eyes the boys as if they are feral dogs that might bite, and for a second I waver. What if this is a bad idea?

  But I have the boys standing next to me, their shoddy clothes apparent in the bright light of the late afternoon, and I have to at least try.

  “Hey, Mr. Bingel.”

  Instead of returning the greeting, he scowls. But I think that’s an improvement; there’s no talk about idiot girls or other insults.

  “This is Gary and Greg. They’re helping me with some chores and odd jobs to help earn a little cash. Is there anything you need help with around your house?”

  I take a breath and wait. This could go one of two ways. One, he says no and he goes back to pretending I don’t exist and insulting me under his breath. Or two, he could actually take this opportunity to help a couple of struggling kids. He would have some company, maybe his arthritic hip could take a rest, and then maybe his attitude would also improve.

  Having Jared standing there might actually work to my advantage, because Mr. Bingel glances over at him before peering down at the boys over the top of his glasses.

  “Well, now. I might have some things that they can help me out with. Why don’t you boys come over after school on Monday?”

  They both quickly nod and agree to come back, their voices full of “thank you sir.”

  I can’t help but grin.

  Jared meets my eyes over the boys’ heads as they talk to Mr. Bingel.

  He smiles at me. The big kind of smile that crinkles the eyes and makes his whole face light up.

  My heart does a somersault.

  I’m in so much trouble.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The rest of the afternoon moves swiftly. A guy shows up to set up the bounce house, the kids help with some finishing touches, sweeping and the like, and I barely have time to run inside and shower off the dust and grime before customers start arriving.

  I find a long skirt that Ruby must have left behind that looks sufficiently bohemian, and I pair it with a plain white T-shirt. I put my hair up and frown at myself in the mirror. My roots are growing out, but there’s no hope for it. It’s not like I can run over to the salon and get it fixed.

  I have to take a moment to breathe deeply and try to remember why I’m doing this. I’ve been going through the books in the shop, and I think I have enough canned phrases to make it through some quick readings. Really, it’s just like any other con, but with the added layer of mysticism thrown in for giggles.

  When I get downstairs, it’s not three yet, but people are already in line and Paige is taking their money at the register and writing all their names down on a list.

  “We’ll call your name when it’s your turn,” she’s yelling over the line of people. “First come, first serve, and we’re shutting down by nine.”

  “Paige,” I get her attention from the doorway.

  She comes loping over. “I already have five hundred bucks. Some of these people are giving me more than ten dollars and I told them I can’t make change.” She grins at her own ingenuity.

  “Paige, no taking advantage.”

  She raises a skeptical brow at that.

  “No taking more advantage than we already are,” I clarify in a whisper.

  I feel bad enough as it is. Sure, we need enough money to blow town in a few months, and this psychic shtick is harmless compared to the stuff we used to do with Mom and Dad. But running cons on people we know and like just feels . . . uncomfortable. Maybe I can inject these “readings” with legitimate advice. Or something.

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll start sending people into the reading room. Tabby let us borrow her kitchen timer.” She hands me a circular white timer, the kind with a screw knob.

  I take it and glance around the shop. There’s more of a crowd than I expected. People are perusing the books and other items Ruby has for sale. I see Tabby. She changed into a short skirt and a low-cut top. She’s bending over in front of Ben to show him something, making the top dip even further and Ben impossibly flustered, which makes me smile.

  Amid the throng of blue-hairs, I recognize Mrs. Olsen and Miss Viola, who’s asleep in her wheelchair.

  I don’t have time to stand around though. I tell Paige to go ahead and start and then I go to the reading room and light the candles and wait.

  My first ten customers are elderly women, including Mrs. Olsen. Her main concern is getting “all these stupid young people” to hook up. I try to hint to her about Tabby and Ben, but for some reason she doesn’t take that bait.

  Getting people involved in their reading is the easy part. First, I ask them what they want to know about. This information alone is telling. If someone is concerned about their career, I can tell them they have a promotion or a change in circumstance coming their way. For most people I’ve met throughout my life, it’s either about love or money. Or both. But Castle Cove is different. Most of the people I talk to have already had their great love, and they no longer work, so the career angle is out.

  I’m surprised to discover that a majority of them are more interested in hearing information and reassurances about their family than about themselves, although there is the occasional more personal concern.

  “I want to know if my son is going to get divorced.”

  “Will my granddaughter go to college?”

  “Will this rash ever go away?”

  I keep the predictions or insights vague—using terms that can apply to everyone, like, “Your son has a great deal of untapped capacity that he could use to his advantage.”

  I also put a positive spin on it. “He’s going to be successful, eventually. As long as he moves past his insecurities.” It helps that this is what people want to hear. It makes it easier for them to accept it as truth.

  I don’t see any canvas bags or frayed shoelaces, but I do talk to Mrs. Hale, the cupcake thief. In the video, I only saw her from behind, but she always wore funky hats, like she was going to a royal wedding or something. Today is no exception; the hat she has on matches her suit. It’s bright blue, and a waterfall of fake silk flowers cascades from the brim.

  “My husband, George, was a wonderful man,” she tells me. She hasn’t really asked for any information at all, more content to talk to me about whatever.

  “You were married a long time,” I say, deciding to phrase the sentence as a statement instead of a question to make it seem like I know, instead of what I’m really doing, which is fishing.

  “Nearly sixty years. I used to bake for him, you know. He had a big sweet tooth.” She laughs.

  I smile and nod, feeling slightly ashamed about the whole accusing-her
-of-theft thing.

  “The day he died, he wanted me to make him some chocolate chip cookies. They were his favorite. But I was too busy.” She frowns a little and looks down at her hands. She has matching blue gloves. “He wasn’t mad. He was always so easygoing, nothing ever got him riled up, and if it did, I knew it was serious. Now I wish I had made him the cookies.” She sighs. “He died that night in his sleep. You just never know what’s going to happen in life,” she says, raising her eyes to mine. “Don’t forget that.” She reaches out and pats my hand. “If someone you love wants cookies, even if you don’t want to make them, you should.”

  I fleetingly wonder if making cookies is a euphemism for something else, but I shove that thought aside. Obviously Mrs. Hale feels guilty about not making cookies the day George died. No wonder she brings him cupcakes every day.

  “I’m sure George understood that you loved him.” I cover her hand with my own. “It’s plenty clear to me.”

  That makes her smile.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The grand opening is a major success. We sell a lot of product in addition to making bank on the readings, and I make note of the bestselling items so we can order more and keep track for Ruby when she returns. Even though we won’t be here then, at least we can leave her with a little head start on the shop since we’re already using her enough.

  It’s so busy that I barely see Tabby, Troy, or Jared throughout the whole thing until they’re leaving. By then, I’m so wiped I can’t do more than tell them thank you and goodbye. Tabby gives me a hug, Troy pats me on the back, and Jared waves from a distance as he helps Mrs. Hale into his Jeep to take her home.

  Paige and I are exhausted though, and we spend most of Sunday alternating vegging out and cleaning up the leftover mess.

  It’s on Monday, after I walk her to school, that I come home to find legs sticking out from underneath the frame of our car.

  I walk over and stand next to the legs. Waiting.

  Eventually, Jared rolls out from under the vehicle.

  “Hey.” He shades his eyes from the morning sun. “What’s up?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Fixing the car.”

  “I told you I don’t need your help.”

  He sits up on the rolling contraption and frowns up at me. “You let Tabby help you with the roof and stuff. Why can’t I help you?”

  Why indeed?

  “Because . . .” I start, but I really don’t have a good excuse. “Why do you want to help me, anyway?”

  He wipes his hands on a dirty rag and as his arms flex, I try to ignore how sexy his shoulders look in the gray tank top he’s wearing.

  “Why not?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer that question. “Hey, hand me that socket wrench, would you?” He leans down and rolls back under the car.

  With a huff, I find the wrench and hand it to him.

  I can’t have a conversation with his feet, so I give up and go inside.

  By the time I finish moping around inside and come to the humbling realization that I’m being a complete ninny, Jared seems to be done under the car. I bring out some ice-cold water as a peace offering, and he chugs it down in a few quick gulps.

  “I changed your oil and installed a new battery.”

  I swallow back my pride. “Thank you.”

  That makes him smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re welcome.” He hands me the keys. “Let’s see if she starts.”

  ~*~

  The car starts. I try to tell him I’ll pay him back but he changes the subject. After Jared leaves, a shipment comes in. It’s a bunch of crystals and unicorn figurines. They’re individually wrapped and have to be handled with care. I’m bringing in the last box when Gary and Greg walk by, heading toward Mr. Bingel’s house.

  “Hey.” I put the box back down. The boys are covered in mud up to their knees. “What happened to you guys?”

  Gary looks up at Greg and he answers for them. “We were walking home from school and got caught up in some mud.”

  “I can see that. Do you want to come in and clean yourselves up?” Mr. Bingel will freak out if they come into his house covered in muck.

  They hesitate, glancing at each other again.

  I need a bribe. “You can see Gravy. And I’ll make some lemonade.”

  That seals the deal.

  They run up into the house, backpacks bouncing on their shoulders. “Do you have extra clothes?” I ask once we’re inside.

  Greg shakes his head. His shaggy hair flops about. These boys need haircuts more than I do.

  “Only shoes,” he says.

  “Well, you’ll have to clean up as much as you can.”

  I show the boys the bathroom and laundry room.

  “You should probably rinse off the shoes and then throw them in the dryer,” I suggest. “It will be faster that way.”

  I have some cookies leftover from the festival and I pull these out along with the lemonade.

  Greg and Gary make quick work of the cookies. They even eat the oatmeal ones, not being as particular as Tabby is, apparently.

  “Did you tell your dad about how you’re helping Mr. Bingel?”

  Greg nods.

  “I think I would like to meet your dad. Where do you guys live?”

  “He works a lot. But I’ll tell him. I think our clothes are dry. Come on, Gary.”

  Gary is on the floor, petting Gravy, but when Greg speaks, he stands and they both head down the hall to the laundry room.

  Point taken. Greg does not want to talk about his father. I can totally understand that, but I wish they would open up to me.

  Maybe their dad is the violent type, but I haven’t noticed any bruises or flinching. Maybe he’s one of those non-present parents; too drunk or drugged up to care so they’re mostly alone. That scenario makes the most sense. Should I tell Jared? No, I can’t do that. Jared seems like he genuinely cares, but a cop is a cop. He’d report them to CPS and they’d end up in foster care, which would be worse than being on their own. And they’d probably be separated. At least this way they have each other. They seem to be doing okay. Happy, healthy, still in school. Just perpetually hungry and dirty. And selling three-legged cats. And refusing to answer simple questions about their living situation. But those are typical boy things, right?

  Okay, maybe not. Indecisiveness shifts through me. I’ll just do whatever I can to help them.

  They both thank me for the cookies and lemonade and I watch them head over to Mr. Bingel’s.

  Paige comes home and we finish unpacking the figurines and putting them in the display case. By the time we’re done, the sun is setting, casting pink and orange shots of color through the sky.

  While Paige is upstairs doing her homework, I hear children laughing outside and peek out the window in time to see Greg and Gary leaving Mr. Bingel’s, their backpacks slung over their shoulders and their arms full of small boxes.

  I step outside to see how it went.

  “Did you guys help out a lot? How did it go?” I ask, meeting them at the end of the sidewalk.

  “Yes. He gave us lots of food.” Gary holds up his boxes, which I see now are reusable plastic containers full of food.

  “That’s nice of him.”

  “And twenty dollars each,” Greg adds, grinning widely.

  “That’s really something.”

  I knew it. I knew Mr. Bingel had a heart under the gruff exterior.

  “We have to be home before dark,” Greg says.

  I wait until they disappear around the corner and then I turn toward Mr. Bingel’s house. A light comes on in the front room.

  It’s probably a bad idea. But since I’m full of bad ideas lately, and it doesn’t stop me from following through with them, why stop now?

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I march up to Mr. Bingel’s house and knock on the door.

  There’s a shuffling from inside before the door swings open.

  “Hey, Mr. Bingel,” I wave
and then immediately wonder why I made such an awkward gesture when he’s standing right in front of me.

  His mouth pops open a smidge and he clears his throat and his eyes land anywhere but on me. “What— I— Uh, come in.”

  Okaaay.

  He moves back, opening the door further, and I slowly step over the threshold as if it’s a portal into another dimension and I don’t want to get sucked in too quickly.

  We stand in his living room, staring at everything but each other.

  Apparently he doesn’t know how to talk unless he’s hurling insults from a distance, and I have no idea why I came over here in the first place. I didn’t actually expect him to open the door.

  Oh, the boys, right.

  “Thank you for helping Greg and Gary,” I finally say.

  He nods. “It’s not a problem. They’re good boys. It’s nice to have children in the house again. Would you like tea?”

  He looks as surprised by the offer as I am. As if the words wiggled their way from his mouth without his consent.

  “Yes, please,” I say before he can retract the offer.

  He motions for me to sit.

  His living room is small, with wood floors, a thick rug under a small coffee table, and a few chairs. It’s clean and well put together though. There are a bunch of pictures cluttered on a side table, but I can’t make them out clearly from here.

  I sit in one of the chairs and he sits across from me. There’s a teapot and cups on a small platter on the table and he pours me a cup. The platter even has a small jar for milk, and sugar cubes in a glass container.

  I feel like I’m in Regency England or something.

  We go through the motions of taking tea together. I drink mine straight and he drinks his with milk and sugar.

  “You said it’s nice to have boys in the house again,” I say, emphasizing the last word.

  Mr. Bingel nods. “My son.” He tilts his head at the cluster of pictures on the table next to his chair.

  I squint at the one he’s referring to, but there are too many and I can only see the ones closest to where I’m sitting.