I took off my thin cardigan and bent to shove it into one of the under-the-counter cubbies. Of course, Kristen’s ridiculous glittered elephant of a purse was parked in the top one. Lou’s much more modest bag and beige jacket sat in the second. Sighing, I claimed the bottom, pushing my cardigan clear to the back so Kristen couldn’t “accidentally” step on it while attending the register.
Still crouched, I squeezed my eyes shut and curled my fingers into the worn knit of my cardigan as the voices began to crowd in. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be home, where it was quiet. I wanted to be reading the book I’d borrowed from the library yesterday: Home Harvesting. The description on the back had promised to teach me how to can the yield from my lone beet plant that grew in an emptied milk jug on my stoop. Or, I could be unraveling the sweater I’d gotten from the Grace Fellowship’s rummage sale on Pike Street over the weekend. I couldn’t afford to buy new yarn, but the red wool of the sweater was in good shape and plenty thick for my 5.5 millimeter crochet hook—the only one I had. The reclaimed yarn was going to be a scarf for Lou’s birthday next month.
But not today.
Letting go of my cardigan, I stood and smoothed the blue skirt and white apron of my uniform and tightened the apron’s ties behind my back, thinking I’d have to find a way to buy some tights soon. It was October, and the walk to work was getting cooler each day. From what I’d heard, Ohio weather was known for its fickleness, and I’d likely be making my way through snowdrifts before long.
As I reached for an order pad and pen, Lou was saying goodbye to Frank, assuring him his pumpkin was bound to win first prize. I accidentally caught his eye, and his thoughts barged into my head uninvited. He’d be damned if he lost to Gil Trout again this year. Frank had been buying fresh cow’s milk from his Amish neighbor’s farm for his pumpkin patch’s state-of-the-art hydration system for four weeks now. It was his secret ingredient. Old Gil wasn’t going to know what hit him.
I glanced away.
After he’d gone, Lou turned to me with a good-natured eye roll. “It’ll break his heart if he don’t win this year.”
I gave her a quick, polite smile, avoiding her gaze, and shoved the pad and pen into the apron’s pocket before turning toward the coffee pots.
“Hold your horses,” she said with an exasperated chuckle.
I looked over my shoulder, my hand clenched around the caffeinated pot’s handle.
She walked over, grabbed a clean mug, and held it out for me to fill. “It’s not like it’s standing room only in here. You can take a minute.”
“I’m late.” I filled her cup. The steam and aroma of the fresh coffee wafted up, and I breathed it in with satisfaction. I didn’t drink the stuff, but I couldn’t deny the delicious, bitter smell of it.
Lou waved her hand as she took a sip and leaned back against the counter. “It’s been a slow morning.”
That didn’t surprise me. Monk’s only got a handful of customers on any given morning. Still, I didn’t like being late. I didn’t like drawing attention to myself. I returned the pot to its warmer.
“Don’t worry about Kristen,” Lou said, gazing out across the worn but immaculately clean counter. It was lit by midday sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the outdated red vinyl booths and silver-trimmed Formica tables faded and drab in the bright light. A few customers sat interspersed, reading the newspaper or finishing a late breakfast. “If that girl didn’t have something to complain about, she’d explode.”
I hid a smile as I bent down to grab a stack of napkins from below the counter, my long braid slipping over my shoulder. I stood with the stack and reached for a bin of clean silverware to wrap. “It’s fine.”
“You just have the prettiest hair.” She reached out to push my braid back over my shoulder, fondness drifting from her like a dust mote. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a deep red.”
“Thanks.” Blushing, I focused on the methodical movements of wrapping one spoon, fork, and butter knife neatly into each napkin.
Kristen came up behind us while counting out her morning’s tips with more vehemence than necessary. “I knew a redhead in high school. She was the biggest slut. Banged every guy in school just about.” She folded the crinkled bills and slid them into her bra for safekeeping. “Even heard she done one of the teachers. Mr. Carroll, I think.”
I didn’t say anything. I was used to her. I’d been working here now for a couple months, and she’d disliked me from day one. The feeling was mutual.
“Kristen,” Lou said. “For heaven’s sake.”
“What?” She popped her gum bubble, and I knew without looking she was watching me for a reaction. “It’s true.”
I refused to acknowledge her. I could sense her smug satisfaction. It billowed about her like a cloud.
The entrance bell jingled behind us. I started to put down the bundle I was working on, but Kristen straightened and adjusted her cleavage. “I got it.”
I went back to my work, listening to her shoes squeaking on the linoleum as she left in a hurry.
“That girl.” Lou shook her head and watched after Kristen with a scowl. She finished the last of her coffee and patted me on the shoulder. “I’m heading out. I get to watch my grandbaby this afternoon.”
I looked at her then, her gray eyes kind behind her glasses. She was thinking Kristen was as worthless as a two-peckered billy goat. And that the trouble making harlot should try to be more like me.
I choked, covering it by clearing my throat when she grew concerned. I brought the back of my hand to my mouth. “Itchy throat this morning,” I said by way of apology. “Bye, Lou.”
“Bye, doll. Drink some chamomile with honey for that,” she said, grabbing her jacket and bag from under the counter. “Oh, and go ahead and refill the salts and peppers today if you don’t mind. You know Kristen never puts the lids back on tight enough.”
“Sure.” I kept working as she left, her vanilla perfume lingering in her wake. She was right. Last week an elderly woman had dumped an entire jar’s worth of salt onto her Salisbury steak. The whole thing had to be trashed. And of course it’d been one of my tables. The woman hadn’t left a tip.
I jumped as Kristen reappeared, slapping her order pad on the counter beside me and waiting for me to look at her. I took a deep breath before doing it. She was glaring at me with flushed cheeks, her arms crossed over her chest, pushing her already pushed-up breasts higher. A torrent of jealous thoughts erupted in my head, and they weren’t my own. My fingers tightened on the silverware bundle until my knuckles turned white, and I mentally counted how many tablets were left in the bottle of aspirin I always kept in my sweater pocket.
“You’ve been requested.” The words were delivered with an unblinking, thin-lipped expression.
With a nod, I looked away and let go of the bundle, reaching for a menu from the stack. I took my pad and pen from my apron. “What table?”
“The back booth,” she said, sniffing. “On my side.”
I walked past her without another word, smothering a sigh. I hoped it wasn’t sleazy Earl again. The man’s thoughts were as vulgar as his leering glances. He also smelled like stale sweat and horse manure. But as I rounded the bar and saw who it was, I stopped, grabbing the edge of an empty table, making it wobble. He looked up and met my wide, startled eyes.
It was him. Not sleazy Earl, but him.
He watched me from his booth, elbows resting on the faded Formica tabletop, fingers still. The sun shone through the plate glass window beside him, and he sat just out of the light’s reach, his pale face cast in shadows. My throat went dry.
Someone at a nearby table rustled their newspaper, breaking the spell. I forced myself to swallow and hoped my face wasn’t as red as it felt. A hundred questions exploded in my mind, and I was acutely aware of every stain on my uniform and scuff on my shoes as I walked toward the booth again, gripping my order pad.
About a week after I’d started working here, he’d b
egun showing up every morning for coffee, and every morning he’d requested me. I’d developed an unspoken but tangible connection to him in my mind. My heart had beat in anticipation of the bell’s jingle, my smile lingering on my lips long after he’d gone. My reaction to him had been troubling. I never developed attachments. I had no relationships. Yet something about him had made me nervous. In a good way. I’d forgotten about my anonymity for a little while.
But one day a couple weeks ago, he’d stopped coming, and the daydreams had slowly dwindled until all I’d been left with was a sense of embarrassment. Once the novelty had worn off, the idea of the imaginary bond I’d created had seemed absurd. In some ways, I hated that he’d come back.
In other ways, I didn’t.
I stepped up to his booth, meeting his eyes for only a second before handing him the menu. He had no thoughts. Just an underlying sense of frustration. It was one of the things that’d drawn me to him in the first place. His mind was as quiet to me as the hushed aisles of a library and there was a delicious peace there I craved. I didn’t know what would happen if I really tried to listen. Nor did I intend to find out. It was nice being able to respect someone’s privacy. Even if they didn’t know it.
“Chicken fried steak is our lunch special today.” I readied my pen over my pad. My fingers trembled. “Comes with green beans and a roll.”
I could feel his eyes on me as he opened the menu. He would look at it, but I knew he would order the same thing he always ordered—coffee. Black.
“You’re still lovely,” he said in a vaguely disappointed way before giving the menu a cursory glance.
I looked up, my mouth parting. Aside from his order, he’d never actually spoken to me. He’d watched me with an unnerving closeness. Lingered over the menu. Nursed his coffee and talked to no one. Sometimes he brought a newspaper. But usually he just sat there, staring at me as I tended other tables, catching my gaze when I dared look his way. I didn’t even know his name. All I could do now was stare.
He thrust the menu back toward me and turned his gaze out the window. He was on edge today, his mood dark. “Black coffee.”
“Cream and sugar?” The urge to kick myself was strong.
Turning back to me, he seemed to notice my warm cheeks and said again, “Black.”
Unable to stop, I went on, “We have new flavored coffees. French vanilla, caramel, pumpkin spice—”
“Just black.” He leaned back, the vinyl creaking, and placed one arm over the spine of the booth, raising dark brows up at me.
Clamping my mouth shut, I clicked my pen and shoved it and my unused pad into my apron pocket. “Right. Okay. I’ll be right back with that.”
He just continued watching me. Gripping the menu to my chest, I turned and bumped into a flannel-clad farmer on his way to the men’s room. The old man grunted, and I murmured an apology, hurrying past him. Once behind the counter, I dropped the menu and let out a breath.
This was why I should’ve taken the time to date. I didn’t know how to talk to men. How to act around them. I thought of Kristen, however, with her glossy lips and come-hither-eyes, and I felt better. Talent wasn’t necessarily a virtue.
Within a few minutes, I was as composed as I would ever be and back at the table with a carafe and a heavy white mug. I set it before him and began pouring the steaming coffee while avoiding his gaze. When it had nearly reached the brim, he placed his hand over mine. I froze, my heart galloping, and glanced up at him.
“That’s good.” He stared at my mouth.
“What?”
Gesturing toward the mug, he smiled tightly. “You’re spilling it.”
I looked down and cursed, drawing up the carafe and reaching for the hem of my apron. Heat flooded my face as I dabbed at the coffee streaming across the Formica.
“I’m so sorry.” With a knee-jerk mental command, I willed it not to spill in his lap. It obeyed, stopping just before reaching the edge of the table and defying gravity as it coalesced into a neat pool. I swept it away before he noticed, groaning as the thin material of my apron did more harm than good and spread the mess across the surface.
“It’s okay.” He reached for the chrome napkin dispenser at the back of the table and pulled a few out, cleaning the spill for me. I sighed and let him, grabbing the coffee-soaked ball when he was done and shoving it into my now damp and stained apron pocket. I only hoped Kristen wasn’t watching the entire spectacle.
I straightened, accepting that I’d made a complete fool out of myself, and cleared my throat. “Will there be anything else?”
“What’s your name?” he asked at the same time, his words mingling with mine. He ignored his coffee.
I clutched the carafe. He’d never done this before. Gesturing toward my name tag with my chin, I said, “Par.”
“Your full name.”
I blinked. “How do you know that’s not it?”
“Just seems like there’d be more.”
I relaxed some. “It’s Parsley.”
“Parsley.” He toyed with the rim of his mug. “Why do you shorten it?”
I was glad he hadn’t asked me why I’d been named that in the first place. People always asked why. There had to be a reason why someone would name their child after a leafy green garnish, but it was a question even I didn’t know the answer to.
“It’s easier.” I took the opportunity to look at him. Dark hair. Pale skin. Crisp white shirt rolled up to his forearms. And as always, I was mesmerized by how deep the green of his eyes was. “It’s a weird name.”
“It’s a good name.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “I suppose so.”
He gazed outside.
Looking away from him, I swallowed. “So can I get you anything else?”
Turning back, he shook his head and reached into his pocket for his wallet. I watched in dismay as he pulled out a crisp twenty, tossed it on the table, and stood.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
He stopped beside me, and I held my breath, more than aware that a few customers had stopped eating to watch our peculiar exchange. For the moment, however, I didn’t care. I’d never stood this close to him before. I could smell his aftershave and feel the heat of him as it mingled with my own. It occurred to me if I listened hard enough, I could probably hear his breathing and even his heartbeat. With overwhelming curiosity, I waited for him to speak.
But he only walked away.
The bell jingled merrily as he exited, and I stood there, oddly bereft, as he disappeared around the corner of the building. I didn’t know what’d just happened, but whatever it was had left an uncertain kind of hope floating in me. It was a hope I didn’t welcome. I didn’t want to be enamored by such a strange man. By any man. My attention had far more important places to be.
Clearing my throat, I forced myself to turn back and collect his absurdly large tip. As I pretended to look busy straightening the tableware, I breathed an inward sigh of relief when, after a few seconds, I once again heard the clinking of silverware and resumed conversations. The last thing I needed was to become fodder for town gossip. The more invisible I was, the longer I could stay.
Carrying not only the carafe, but also the full cup of coffee, I made my way back to the counter, keeping my gaze straight ahead. Once behind its relative safety, I drained the cup in the tiny prep sink and placed it in the bus tub before returning the carafe to its warmer. Grabbing the menu I’d dropped earlier, I placed it with the others and then remained there a moment with my back to the public.
At the sound of the register drawer clanging open, I glanced over to where Kristen was making change. Though she kept her eyes on her task, her lips curved. She knew I was watching her. She wanted me to know she’d seen.
I sighed. It was going to be a long day.
3
Missing Fingers & Satin Sheets
Patrick yawned and snapped his fingers once for Joshua.
The young man appeared at the side of the king-worthy
bed at once, his golden-blond hair combed and slicked with not a single strand out of place. The sight of it pleased Patrick. He liked his sons comely.
“Where to, Sire?” The boy glanced down at the nude form of the woman sprawled on the black satin sheet. She was more girl than woman really. Seventeen maybe. Perhaps eighteen. Her blood had been a little tart, lacking the sweetness of fully ripened fruit. She’d fought him hard though, he remembered with a smile, and therefore the tartness of her youth was tempered with the spice and heat only the fiery, rebellious ones could provide. It made for a heady combination.
“To the drainers.” He inspected his fingernails in the flickering candlelight, frowning at the dried blood beneath the white, neatly filed crescents. He’d need to summon Dimitri to clean them.
When his progeny hesitated, Patrick raised a slow brow. “Her heart still beats, Joshua. Though only for a few more precious moments. If she congeals because of your delay, you’ll not like my punishment.”
“But she’s . . . plain.” He glanced once more at her wilted body. “Plain ones go to the feeding room.”
Patrick stilled. “Are you questioning me, my dear, sweet son?”
Joshua cast his eyes down, the sharp tang of his fear’s scent filling the space between them. “No, Sire. Of course not.”
The silence stretched and Patrick allowed the weight of his gaze to be received, simply to prolong the boy’s discomfort. Joshua was still quite young in his transformation and was testing boundaries. It was to be expected. Desired even. Patrick’s skin tingled in anticipation, and he felt himself begin to salivate. There was nothing he enjoyed more than teaching his children just where those boundaries lay.
“To the drainers with her then.” Patrick watched him with dilated pupils.
“Yes, Sire.” Joshua bent down to pick the girl up and carried her from the room without further question, her arms and legs dangling, her pale-brown hair swinging.
Alone in the cavernous room, Patrick sighed with mild disappointment and leaned back against the pillows, boredom creeping its way into his mind as it always did. He thought about the girl. The way she’d screamed. The way she’d fought. He rubbed his thumb over the gouges on his arm that were nearly healed already and closed his eyes at the sweet memory. It was true those like her, those run-of-the-mill humans, were almost always taken to the feeding room after he’d drank from them. There, whatever life’s blood remained would be squabbled over by his ranks. Only the special ones, the crème de la crème so to speak, went to the drainers, where they would be properly bled, bottled, and aged for his personal collection.
First Fruits Page 2