The Enchanted Garden Cafe (South Side Stories Book 1)

by Abigail Drake

  I stared at the fountain, trying to figure out what happened. “It’s never done this before,” I said. Thankfully, it stopped spurting water. In fact, I couldn’t even figure out where that stream of water had come from. It now gurgled softly, as normal, like nothing had happened.

  “I’d better go,” he said, wiping his face in disgust. “That water is filthy. I’ll have to take this suit to the dry cleaner, or it’ll be ruined as well. I’m still waiting for them to finish cleaning my other one. I’ll be going to work in sweats if this keeps up.”

  I tried not to pout. Another case of coitus interruptus. After a long dry spell, I’d finally found Scott, someone I actually wanted to sleep with, but it seemed like nothing went right for us.

  I kissed his damp cheek. “I’m sorry, Scott.”

  His blue eyes softened. “It isn’t your fault. But think about what I said, Fiona. This place is a money pit. Your mom should get rid of it before something else happens. What if that fountain shoots water at an old lady during one of your tea parties and she falls? What if one of these walls finally collapses? Or the roof caves in? You’re a sensible person. Surely you see my point.”

  I did, but it made no difference. After he left, I changed out of my damp clothing, got up on a ladder, and checked the fountain from every possible angle. I couldn’t find anything, not a crack or even a hole in the solid, carved piece of stone. It made no sense.

  “I was about to have sex,” I muttered to the fountain as I folded up the ladder and carried it angrily away. “Thanks a bunch.”

  I heard a sound behind me, almost like the giggle of a small child. It made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. When I turned around slowly, my heart pounding in an erratic dance in my chest, no one was there. The garden was empty, and other than the gurgle of the fountain and the sounds of birds rustling in the trees, it was completely and absolutely silent.

  Chapter Six

  Cooking is the best kind of therapy.

  ~Aunt Francesca~

  Tuesday, Mom hosted an all-day reiki therapy session. Usually, I went to the farmer’s market in the morning and used the afternoon to run errands. Because we had a record number of people signed up for reiki this week, however, I planned to help with lunch preparations in the morning, sneak in a quick visit to Moses after we finished, and go to the market in the afternoon.

  I enjoyed working in the shop, but the kitchen was my favorite place. I loved chopping and sifting and kneading. When the aroma of baking cookies filled the air and I smelled spices like cinnamon, nutmeg, or cloves, I felt happy and content. I couldn’t cut a lemon without lifting it to my nose for a whiff of its bright, citrusy beauty, and there was nothing as satisfying as putting bread dough into an oiled bowl and coming back to see it doubled in size.

  I needed a “Kitchen Witch” apron instead of “Kitchen Bitch” because this was the kind of magic I could believe in. It wasn’t the magic Mom and her friends talked about, with omens, charms, and crystals. My magic was practical. Scientific. I mixed the right ingredients in the correct amounts and created something wonderful.

  I planned my life this way, too, putting the right things together in the correct amounts to get the desired results. If I had a recipe, it would read, “Take four years of undergrad in a useful major. Add an MBA. Work hard. Stir in the right man, if desired, and enjoy a happy and successful life without ever worrying about things like peeling paint, broken air conditioners, leaky fountains, or irresponsible parents.”

  I sighed. Mom would never change, but at least I could control the other elements in my life. Any cook knows, to get the best outcome from a recipe, choose the highest-quality ingredients and buy only the best in kitchen supplies. That’s what I’d done by choosing Scott. He was as reliable as a good copper pot.

  I couldn’t help out in the shop as much during school as I did over summer break, so my mom’s best friend, Maggie, filled in the rest of year and also taught reiki therapy. I’d known her since the day I was born. In fact, she’d been in the delivery room when I popped out. I called her Auntie Mags, and although she spent most of the summer enjoying her brood of grandchildren, today was her reiki class.

  I carried out some pitchers of ice-cold water infused with cucumber and mint, and Auntie Mags smiled. “Thank you, Fiona. You’re always able to anticipate our needs before we even know them ourselves. It’s a gift.”

  The people in the class nodded, although most of them had never met me. Auntie Mags had that way with people. She saw positive energy in every person she met and made them want to see good in others too.

  Auntie Mags was a big lady, a few years older than my mom. She wore bright colors and flowing skirts and blouses. She towered over Mom and me, but she embraced her size the way she embraced all things in life, the good and the bad. She called herself “the last of the Amazons.”

  I turned to go back to the kitchen, but Auntie Mags stopped me. “Fiona, we need a volunteer. Would you help us?”

  I froze. “That depends on what you want me to do.”

  She laughed. “Nothing scary. Just lie down on the floor so I can demonstrate to the others how to unblock a chakra.”

  I clutched my serving tray, still wet from the pitchers, to my chest. “I have to make the salads for lunch. Can’t Mom do it?”

  Auntie Mags shook her head. “She doesn’t have any blockages. Her chakras flow perfectly.”

  Mom squeezed my arm. “I’ll make the salads. Help your auntie Mags.”

  She took the tray, and I gave her a dirty look. “Thanks.”

  Auntie Mags patted the blanket in front of her, and I stretched out on the floor with my head next to her knees. The group of reiki practitioners surrounded me, making me nervous and a little claustrophobic.

  Auntie Mags spoke, and the class hung on to her every word. “First, make the patient as comfortable as possible. Are you comfortable, Fiona?”

  I felt far from it. Yet again, I’d allowed Mom and her lunatic friends to pull me into something crazy and stupid. Auntie Mags must have read my thoughts from the expression on my face. She gave me a wink, pursing her lips so she wouldn’t smile.

  “Good. Now, as you all know, reiki can be performed either by gently touching the body or by letting your hands hover just over it. Fiona, which method would you prefer?”

  I shot her a dirty look, and she bit her lip to hold back a laugh. “I think she would prefer that we not touch her today. Let’s begin. Close your eyes, Fiona.”

  She’d tricked me into doing this. She knew I didn’t believe in chakras or energy fields or any of this nonsense and had avoided her and her reiki hands for a long time. But when Auntie Mags started to work, I felt a strange pulse of energy, and I wrinkled my brow in confusion.

  “Relax, Fiona,” whispered Auntie Mags.

  I forced myself to do as she asked, but as soon as she resumed, I felt the same pulse of energy. Like a soft, low-pitched hum, it vibrated as it traveled through my body. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just unexpected and strange.

  Auntie Mags went from my head down to my throat. It was soothing, but when she got to my chest, she stopped.

  “Oh my. Her heart chakra is completely blocked. Feel this.”

  Suddenly, a whole bunch of hands hovered over my body, and the hum intensified. A strange, heavy pressure built inside my chest.

  My eyes flew open, and I pushed their hands away. “Stop. I don’t like this.” I tried to sit up but swayed, dizzy and disoriented. Something strange had just happened. Something I couldn’t explain.

  Auntie Mags put an arm around my shoulders to steady me. “Someone get Fiona a glass of water, please.”

  My hands shook, but the water made me feel slightly better. Auntie Mags studied my face with concern. “I’m so sorry, Fiona. I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t know what?”

  She pulled me into a gentle hug and whispered in my ear, “What you’ve been carrying in your heart. You poor little thing.”

  I got to my
feet and took a deep breath. I felt thrown off but wasn’t going to share that with a bunch of strangers. “I’m fine.”

  Auntie Mags rose to her feet, too, and spoke to the class. “We’ll take a five-minute break. Please go out and enjoy the back garden. It’s incredible.”

  The class went outside, and Auntie Mags took my hands in hers. Her skin looked very brown next to mine. With her long, dark curls streaked with gray, she looked a bit like a gypsy fortune-teller. Part of that may have been the brightly colored scarf she used to hold back her hair and the big silver hoops in her ears. The effect proved pretty exotic for a lady from Cleveland.

  “I never would have let you volunteer if I’d known how bad it was.”

  I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Auntie Mags made a tsking sound with her tongue. “You have possibly the worst blockage in a heart chakra I’ve ever seen. It’s emotional, pumpkin. I think you’ve done it to yourself.”

  “How could I do that?” I laughed and tried to pull my hands away.

  She wouldn’t release me. “You can’t control everything, angel. You’ve got to let it go.”

  I gave her hands a gentle squeeze and moved away from her, shaking my head. “I don’t believe in magic or charms or crystals or fortune-telling or energy fields. If I can’t see it, I don’t want any part of it.”

  Her warm brown eyes were sad. “What about love, sweet Fiona? Do you believe in that?”

  “I have a boyfriend,” I said with emphasis.

  “Well, you can’t see love. You can’t calculate it or qualify it or even understand it, and yet it is there. The most powerful, wonderful, magical thing in the universe.”

  I snorted. “I believe in more practical sorts of emotions, the kind you can depend on. The kind that won’t use you and leave you all alone when you’re pregnant and helpless.”

  My gaze flew to the kitchen. Mom was making the salads, humming along to some soft music playing on the radio. I was fairly certain she had not heard me.

  “Is that what you think happened to your mom?” asked Auntie Mags, putting her hands on my shoulders. “Well, you’re wrong, Fiona, but it isn’t my story to tell. You’ll have to ask her about it.”

  “I can’t. I’ve tried. It makes her sad,” I said softly.

  She pulled me into a hug, enveloping me in her soft warmth. “When you’re ready to know, she’ll be ready to tell you. But for now, we have to talk about your heart.”

  I pulled back. “No, we don’t.”

  Auntie Mags pushed me gently but firmly onto a cushy chair. “Yes, we do, and you’re going to listen.”

  I crossed my legs and looked at my watch. “You have five minutes, or your reiki people will have to forage for nuts and berries in the garden.”

  She didn’t look concerned. “Your mom is perfectly capable of making a few salads. It’s you I’m worried about. You seem to have lost touch with your heart center.”

  My confusion must have been apparent. Auntie Mags sighed and sat down next to me. “The heart center is that glowing place inside your chest. When you close your eyes and relax, you can almost see it. Try.”

  I tapped my foot impatiently. “I don’t have a glowing place inside my chest.”

  “We all do, Fiona. You just have to know how to access it. Humor me, okay?”

  “If I do, will you let me get back to work?”

  She nodded seriously. “Yes. Now close your eyes. Relax your neck, your shoulders, and your arms. Let the relaxation flow through your body until it’s as limp as a rag doll.”

  I complied, mostly to make her leave me alone, but it felt good to sit still and let all the tension drain from my body. Once Auntie Mags was apparently satisfied I’d followed her directions, she continued.

  “Now breathe slowly in and out, never losing that relaxed state. On your next inhale, I want you to feel what’s in the center of your chest.”

  Auntie Mags was right. It was like a small, glowing ball of energy. My chest felt strangely tight when picturing it, but not a scary tightness.

  My eyes flew open, and Auntie Mags smiled. “You did it.”

  I stood, feeling like I’d had a long, peaceful nap instead of two minutes of quiet time. “I think that was the power of suggestion more than anything else.”

  She shrugged. “Believe what you will, but I know you found it. I hope you learn to use it.”

  “Thanks, Auntie Mags.” She genuinely wanted to help me, and I knew it. It wasn’t her fault I thought her chakras and energy fields were a little west of crazy.

  Kate had come in and helped Mom pull the salads together and heat up the soups for the lunch crowd. “How is Auntie Mags?” she asked.

  “Great, except she tried to unblock one of my chakras in a room full of people and made me touch my heart center.”

  Kate giggled. “You make it sound so dirty. I might have to try reiki one of these days.”

  “Oh, you should,” said Mom as she mixed up a poppy-seed dressing for the strawberry, spinach, and pecan salads. “It’s a way to connect with places in your body where no one has gone before.”

  She carried the dressing out into the garden. Kate and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “She kind of makes it sound like Star Trek,” she said, wiping a tear away from her eye.

  I agreed. “A pornographic sort of Star Trek. This is her second Star Trek reference in as many days. I had no idea she was a Trekkie. And she mentioned out of the blue that Aunt Francesca had been friends with Grace Kelly.”

  Kate’s eyes widened. “The Grace Kelly?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Add that to the list of fascinating facts about Francesca. I wonder if I’ll ever know the real story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I leaned closer. “She never married, she had tons of money, and she hung around with famous people. Also, she had parties all the time. Her life seemed to be a constant celebration.”

  “That’s wonderful. I want to be Aunt Francesca when I grow up.”

  “Me too,” I said. “But I feel like there was something tragic about her too. Like she had a hole in her heart. Maybe I’m just reading into things, but don’t you think she had sad eyes?”

  I pointed to the black-and-white picture of Aunt Francesca that we kept on the wall in a silver frame. She was in this very kitchen, her hair perfectly coiffed and an apron covering what looked like a sequined ball gown. People surrounded her, watching her cook, all of them in formal dress and holding fancy drinks. She smiled at the camera, her delicate arms covered nearly up to the elbows in flour, and looked absolutely at ease, but she looked something else too.

  Lonely. Or at least I’d always thought so.

  “It might just be me,” I said. “How could she not be happy? She had everything a woman could want, right?”

  “Almost everything,” said Kate with an oddly wistful little smile.

  We both looked up when the bell on the front door of the shop tinkled and Chad came in. He froze as soon as he saw Kate. She inhaled sharply, her cheeks turning pink, and knocked a pile of neatly folded napkins onto the floor. He helped her pick them up, and I watched them closely. Something had changed between them. They’d been flirty for a while, and I had a feeling they finally hooked up. Judging by the way they acted, though, it must not have ended on a good note.

  As they stared at each other, I realized this could get awkward. I held my breath and waited.

  Kate fidgeted. Chad stroked his dark beard, a nervous habit. The air grew thick with sexual tension. Chad was getting his master’s degree in philosophy and Kate just finished her PhD in poetry. If they did get involved, it was a relationship doomed to fail tragically and with lots of introspective musings.

  “Hello, Kate.” Chad’s voice seemed an octave or two deeper than normal.

  “Chad.”

  Kate acted incapable of forming a complete sentence, which made me roll my eyes. “I’d better take these salads out. Do you need anything,
Chad?”

  Normally, Chad didn’t come in during the week. He pulled his soulful brown gaze away from Kate and turned to me. “Your mom asked me to help in the kitchen so you could go to the market.”

  I smiled at him. “Thanks, Chad.”

  If I left right away, I could see Moses and still might have a chance at getting some decent tomatoes and herbs from my favorite stall and even pies from the elderly Amish man who came every week. I handed Chad an apron from the bin, and he slipped it over his head. I had to stifle a laugh when I looked at his apron, which was black with the word “Stud” above a drawing of a muffin. Chad glanced down and grimaced.

  “Nice,” he said.

  Mom swished back into the kitchen and stopped when she saw his apron. “Oh. We have to get more of those. They’re adorable.”

  We’d ordered several of each style of apron, and wearing the samples seemed to boost sales. I had to admit the aprons were pretty funny.

  Auntie Mags came into the kitchen and grinned at the miserable expression on Chad’s face. “It’s nothing to be shy about, Chad. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

  Kate slipped quietly out of the room. I followed her, grabbing my shopping basket and a few totes on the way.

  She stared out the window with a melancholy expression. Even her Betty Boop tattoo looked a little droopy and sad.

  I came up behind her. “Are you okay?”

  She wiped away a tear. “I’m fine,” she said with forced cheerfulness.

  Terrible at this sort of thing, I wasn’t sure how to help. “Do you need to talk . . . or something?”

  Kate let out a shaky laugh and patted my hand. “Or something. I’m all right. I just need to write a little.”

  Whenever Kate had a problem, she wrote poetry. She was a wonderful poet, but since the demand for poets in today’s competitive job market was a steady zero, she worked in our shop, took care of a nice little old lady in the evenings, and wrote whenever she could. Since the traffic in our shop was often extremely slow, she usually had a vast abundance of writing time.