by T. L. Martin
“All right. That’ll be two dollars and seventy-five cents,” Pixie stated.
Desmond handed her cash while Anastasie took the tea from Quinn, and, for the first time, their eyes locked—both unyielding, equally hard as steel.
Pixie picked anxiously at her fingernails. She crept past me and to the utility closet, grabbing a broom despite having just seen me sweep. Following her lead, I removed the washcloth from my apron and began wiping down the countertop.
“Such a sweet little shop Priscilla has created here, Quinn.” Anastasie’s voice had all of the silkiness of a cat’s purr. “I really need to visit more often. Please, tell her we stopped by. Will you?”
Quinn’s eyes were guarded, her red lips set in a grim line. “I sure will.”
Desmond had inched forward to pay for the drink, leaving only a few feet of counter space between us now. He was taller than I’d realized, his lean build towering over my 5’3” frame. He was watching me again. I promptly changed course, making my way to the opposite counter.
The door jingled, and Matt breezily ambled in. The relief that filled the air was almost tangible, letting my body relax. Either completely oblivious of the tension surrounding him or choosing to ignore it, Matt brushed right past Desmond and Anastasie, giving a friendly nod in my direction.
“Hey, newbie,” he called, opening up the staff closet and retrieving his hat and apron.
“Hey,” I answered quietly.
Desmond Stone shifted his attention to Matt. His expression, though ambiguous, was daunting.
“Always a pleasure,” Anastasie said, her eyes briefly flickering over Matt before locking back onto Quinn’s. “Until next time.”
Without another glance from either of them, Desmond and Anastasie gracefully departed from the store.
Pixie released a dramatic whoosh sound once they were out of sight and returned to the register. I was itching to ask what that was all about but decided to keep my mouth shut for the time being; I was new, after all.
“Matty,” Pixie said, her vibrant nature back in full swing, “I’m so happy to see you right now. Seriously. Your timing was, like, perfect.”
“Looks like it.” He shot her a smooth smile and began counting down the money in the register. “Anastasie Badeaux and Desmond Stone. Never thought I’d see either of them step foot in here.”
Pixie pushed his shoulder with the flat of her hand in agreement. “Right? I had to do a double-take.”
Matt gazed over at me, but my attention was focused on a rattled Quinn, who appeared to still be frozen in place. After a brief pause, she brushed past me and marched into the office, with the door failing to latch fully behind her. Following after her, I gently nudged it open and stepped inside.
She drew in a long, deep breath, her hands shaking.
“Are you okay?” I spoke softly, not wanting to disturb her further.
“I’m fine.” Smoothing out her green apron, Quinn offered a weak smile. “I’ll be fine.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and pulled in another breath, as if trying to regain her composure, then sat heavily behind the desk.
“You know them?” I asked hesitantly.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
When I didn’t respond, she looked back at me. Her wary eyes searched my face, and I stayed patient, leaving the door open for her to either elaborate or stop the conversation.
A few seconds later, she let out a small sigh. “What I do know,” she continued, “is that Anastasie is on the Town Council, and she never makes an appearance without reason. Always an ulterior motive with her.” Quinn rolled her eyes in a full circle and shook her head. “She would never have set foot in the shop if Priscilla were here.”
“And Desmond?” I attempted to keep my voice aloof.
“Desmond Stone,” Quinn replied slowly, her fingers trailing the edges of the silver band on her hand. “I haven’t seen him in a long time. Not the type to hang around a tea shop, that’s for sure. He’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous, how?”
She shrugged, shaking her head as though shaking a memory away. “It doesn’t matter now. I need to make a quick call and wrap some things up in here. You doing okay so far?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
She rose from her seat, her shoulders gradually relaxing as she walked me to the door. “Good. Sorry things got a little...tense. Didn’t freak you out too much, I hope?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “It’d take a lot more than that to scare me.”
I had just exited the room when I heard her murmur something from behind me. I thought it sounded like counting on it, but Pixie was summoning me with a wave of her hand, so I left it alone. She was preparing a hot drink when I reached her behind the counter. She glanced over at me, reading the expression on my face.
“I told you that was going to be interesting,” she said, adding a tea bag to the pot.
“Didn’t disappoint.”
“Seriously, though. Desmond Stone?” She bit her lip and rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling. “Good lord.”
I smiled vaguely, recalling the strange way his eyes seemed to follow me, the intensity behind them.
“What’d you do to him, anyway?” she continued, eying me suspiciously. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way he looked at you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. He almost burned a hole straight through you. I thought you didn’t know him.”
Okay so I wasn’t just imagining it.
“I don’t. I have no idea what that was about,” I replied, more puzzled now that I was aware she noticed it as well and it wasn’t only a figment of my imagination. “Quinn said he’s...dangerous?”
Pixie shrugged, pouring the steaming drink into a mug. “Yeah. There are rumors. He keeps mostly to himself, though. Very private guy. I doubt we’ll see him again.”
CHAPTER THREE: THE LIGHTHOUSE
The rest of the week flew by, both at home and at the shop. Stacy’s time home had been short lived, as usual, so I was looking forward to getting to see her again tonight and tomorrow.
So far, I had learned everything there was about cleaning the shop, and Quinn was finally teaching me how to prepare the most popular teas. The regulars were starting to greet me by name, and I was beginning to remember their orders by listening to Pixie when she rang them up.
I’d learned that white candles were for cleansing and silver for clarity, and that you weren’t supposed to use your breath to extinguish their flames. I had made that mistake once, and one of the customers lectured me sharply for a full twenty minutes as a result—something to do with it messing up their mojo. Instead, they had small metal cups, which I used on the one occasion I stayed late enough to help Quinn close shop.
Priscilla’s presence had been scarce, but she checked on me whenever she came by.
I stood behind the front counter, glad that my first shift on register duty was nearing an end. The shop had been slow that morning, making the time crawl by. I eyed the clock. Ten minutes.
The door jingled loudly, then slammed shut behind a woman who had suddenly appeared inside. She must have brought the breeze in with her, because I immediately shivered. She glanced back behind her, narrowing her eyes angrily as she peered back out through the shop’s tinted windows. I didn’t know what she was looking at; all I saw was a deserted street highlighted by a stream of sunlight.
The woman shifted her attention to me but said nothing. She was clearly annoyed as she watched me expectantly.
“Er...can I help you?” I asked uncertainly.
The woman let out a low rumble in her throat, not unlike a soft growl, and I breathed a sigh a relief when I saw Pixie returning from the restroom. She took her place beside me and greeted the intimidating customer in the same cheerful manner she always had.
“Along the wall to your left,” Pixie said with a kind smile, and I watched the peculiar customer quickly dart to the suggested shelf. She promptly selected a pair
of black leather gloves and a hoodie before approaching me at the register.
“How much?” she asked, as her black eyes looked down at me from behind dark strands of hair.
“Thirty-two dollars even, please,” Pixie answered.
The woman handed me two twenty-dollar bills, then waited impatiently as I collected her change. She tucked the cash into her back pocket and surprised me by slipping on the jacket and gloves immediately. I glanced outside at the ever-increasing sunlight, then back at the woman as she pulled the hoodie as far over her face as possible before silently retreating from the shop.
I waited until she was out of sight before turning to Pixie.
“How’d you know what she was looking for?” I asked. “And why did she need them? The sun’s out, and it doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere.”
Pixie grinned and shrugged a shoulder. “You’ll catch on.”
I was about to ask what she meant by that when she nodded her head toward the clock. “Look. You’re free.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Stacy would be home soon, if not already. I removed my apron and hat and headed for the closet when Pixie came by and nudged my hip with her own.
“Hey,” she said, plucking a piece of gum from her purse and popping it into her mouth. “Quinn and I are going for a walk by Face Rock later tonight. She wanted me to invite you.”
I hesitated, thinking back to Aunt Stacy. But no one had ever asked me to hang out with them before. It was a strange feeling, and I didn’t know why, but it made me feel a little awkward. She was looking at me, still waiting for an answer, and I realized I should probably say something before I totally scared her away.
“Um, what time?” I asked.
“Around nine?”
“That works.” I would still be able to spend time with Stacy beforehand.
“Great.” Pixie beamed. “Where do you live?”
“Just outside of Coquille Point, on the corner of Portland.”
“We’ll meet at your place then,” she replied.
“‘Sure.”
“See you later.” She smiled and returned to the register where Wallace, one of the regulars, stood patiently waiting.
The door rang behind me when I stepped out beneath the rare, clear blue skies, grateful that the rain from earlier had fully subsided.
Ray and Stacy would be expecting me, one for his walk and the other for dinner. I hadn’t yet mentioned the intruder to either of them and was still trying to figure out what to do about it—if there was anything to be done. Involving the police wasn’t an option. Not only would that make my aunt worry endlessly about me, but I doubted that a rock on a chain would be high on their list of priorities anyway.
My front door was slightly ajar when I arrived home, and soothing piano strokes from the sorrowful and winsome song “Almost Lover” by A Fine Frenzy echoed through the walls.
Not a good sign.
Quietly stepping inside, I locked the door behind me and scanned the place for my aunt. The sound of music led me into the bathroom, where my aunt was wistfully sprawled out in a bubble bath, her head back and eyes closed with thin cucumber slices resting over them. Croaking impressively inharmonious lyrics, she paused only for the occasional dramatic sob.
I tapped gently on the door to announce my presence.
“Charlie?” she squeaked, peeling the cucumber slices from her reddened eyes.
I turned the volume on her iPad down and sat at the edge of the tub, assessing the woman. She was in her thirties and came home with a broken heart every few months like it was scheduled on her calendar. If it wasn’t Brad, it was some new jerk she’d met in her travels to get back at him.
“Hey, Stace,” I said softly. “You okay?”
Her eyes were still glossy from the tears. She pulled a highlighted lock of sandy blonde hair back from her face and snorted. “Same thing, different day.”
“Brad?” I asked.
Last I knew, she and Brad weren’t on speaking terms. But he was her on-again, off-again thing and had been for the past four years. They would get together, have some theatrical fight and break up, then hook up with someone else to make the other jealous, and eventually get back together again.
She nodded. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve barely gotten to speak a word to you since you started your new job. Let’s talk about you.”
She wiped her eyes and sat up slightly, keeping her body beneath the bubbles.
“So,” she prompted, her full lips already forming a devious smile, “any cute boys there?”
“Stace.” I rolled my eyes at her. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was more excited at the prospect of me being able to meet boys than anything else.
“What?” she asked. “It’s an innocent question.”
“Not coming from you, it isn’t,” I argued.
“You’re avoiding the question,” she countered. “Cute boys?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as my mind inexplicably wandered to Desmond’s piercing eyes.
Stacy’s jaw dropped. “Oh my gosh. Who is he?” she shrieked.
“Wha...no,” I stammered. Truthfully, I was relieved to never have to see the guy again. And, although he couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me, nothing about him seemed to fit even remotely with the words boy or cute. Arrogant, intimidating, and stuffy, maybe. Cute boy... I had to stifle a laugh at the thought.
“Fine.” Stacy pouted, with a signature eye roll of her own. “Don’t tell me. For now.”
A mournful melody I didn’t recognize met our ears. The helpless crooning was enough to send me crawling under a rock.
“This is getting depressing,” I said, grabbing the iPad and flipping through her enormous musical selection—not that I recognized any of the songs listed. Scrolling, scrolling…ah, here we go. Finally landing on a title that sounded optimistic, I pushed the sideways triangle and sat back, waiting for the cheerful melody to play.
I frowned at the device as slow piano strokes drifted through its speakers but decided to give the unfamiliar song a chance. It had to pick up, right?
A man’s lonesome voice suddenly wailed in the bathroom, and, once again, my aunt rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, sometimes you just have to suck it up, Keith...” she mumbled.
Who’s Keith? Frustrated with the sorrowful sound I had just chosen, I grabbed the iPad back off the counter and fumbled for the pause button.
“Jesus, Charlie,” she said with a wink. “Just rub it in, why don’t you?”
“No—I...ugh.” I gave up on explaining and focused instead on the screen before me, reading the song title it was still stuck on. “I Don’t Wanna Cry Tonight” by Keith Urban was lit up brightly before my eyes. Whoops. “Oh...so sorry, Stace. I swear I saw one that looked happy somewhere…” My voice faded as I scrolled up in search of the one I thought I’d clicked. “Got it.”
This one had to do it. I didn’t know of the artist Lily Allen, but how could I go wrong with a song clearly titled “Smile”?
The bubbly tone instantly put me at ease, and I sat a little straighter, grinning proudly at my aunt. “See?”
She grinned back, but there was something mischievous behind it...a knowing look in her eye. I raised a brow suspiciously and tried to focus on the lyrics...okay, so the singer’s thrown in a curse word here or there. Maybe she sounds a little resentful about her ex, too. But that’s okay. Isn’t it? After all, the music still sounds...happy.
Stacy relaxed back against the tub, now snapping her fingers in tune with the beat, her grief-stricken look transitioning to one of humor and spunk.
Satisfied, I rose to my feet. As I opened the door to leave, a familiar, faint chill in my spine began to tingle. Muscles tensing, I peered cautiously over my shoulder at my aunt. “Hey. Make sure you lock the front door behind you next time.”
“Yes, Mother,” she responded with a chuckle. She leisurely restored the cucumber slices to her eyes, and the sound of he
r slurred humming gradually faded as I closed the bathroom door behind me.
I did a brief inspection of the house but found nothing concerning. All windows were secure, and the front door was still locked. I inhaled a deep breath of air, but it didn’t help.
The feeling was suffocating.
Thankfully, it was time for Ray’s afternoon stroll, because anxiety was creeping up on me, and I ached to get out.
My walk with Ray that afternoon was exactly what I needed. It was peaceful. Serene. He had donned his Adidas and Nike running attire again, which brought another smile to my face. We spoke about the tides, the dispiriting state of aging, and the obnoxiously loud seagulls interrupting his daily naps. The beach was pleasantly littered with children building sandcastles and tourists taking photographs.
I reminded Ray to take his vitamins when we approached his front door and immediately braced myself for more of my aunt’s heartbroken tears as I unlocked my own. But I was surprised to find Stacy in a skin-tight red dress, slipping her manicured feet into a pair of four inch heels while applying a rosy gloss to her lips.
“Going somewhere?” I asked, grabbing a pot from the kitchen cabinet and filling it with water.
Stacy glanced at me with a sly smile. “Yep. I have a date.”
“You what?” I sputtered, almost dropping the full pot of water. She sure didn’t waste any time.
She shrugged, lifting the thin strap of a sparkling clutch over her shoulder. “You remember Joe Friday, right?”
“You mean the same Joe Friday who used to ask you out practically every day when you worked at Tony's Crabshack? Really sweet but borderline obsessive, and the crazy-about-you waiter—that Joe Friday?”
“That’s the one.” She beamed. “Only he’s one of the managers now,” she added emphatically.
Hesitating, I turned the stove up to high and weighed the situation. Going out would be more helpful to her than moping around inside all evening. Alone, thanks to me. And I supposed we all had our own preferred methods of therapy, hers just so happened to be men.