The apartment was unlike anything Rachel had ever seen in stucco-and-tile-crazed Orange County. Though the front room was small, its high ceilings prevented it from feeling cramped. Molding surrounded all the windows and doorframes, and a beautiful brick fireplace with a tiled hearth was centered in the far wall. To the left a bar separated the front room from the galley kitchen, and a short hallway ended in a white tiled bathroom with bedroom doors facing each other on either side. A giant bay window provided a view of the oak-lined street as well as copious amounts of natural light. “This place is amazing!”
Daphne smiled. “I know. I love it. The University of Chicago is just a couple blocks away, so there are tons of students in the area. Really fun neighborhood. Lots of parties.” She continued to talk as she hefted one of the muddy-bottomed suitcases toward the left-hand bedroom. “This is your room. Not super spacious, but quieter because it’s in the back. No furniture, sorry—but there are a couple cool consignment and resale places in the area, so you should be able to pick stuff up for cheap.”
The room was indeed simple, though being in the corner it had two windows and was well lit even with the cloudy weather. They set the bags in front of the closet, then agreed to change out of their wet clothes and start making dinner.
While they ate at the bar Daphne drew a map of the surrounding area and made a list of places for Rachel to check for furniture. She was in the middle of explaining the bus system when the phone rang. “Pardonnez moi.” She glanced at the caller ID, then hopped off the barstool and retreated with the cordless phone into her bedroom. The look on her face as she disappeared and the tone of her voice as it wafted under the door made it clear a boy was on the other end.
Rachel pinned her with an expectant stare when she emerged, and her reward was the whole story spilled without any prompting. “His name is Paul, he’s adorable, and I met him at work.”
“Oooh, office romance.”
“Well, dressing-room romance; personal shoppers don’t spend a lot of time in offices.” She grinned and swirled her glass of soda. “Has a psycho ex-wife, poor thing, and is in the middle of the divorce. One of those ‘we married too young’ kinds of things, you know?” She grabbed Rachel’s wrist. “I’m so glad you escaped the same fate! Married at twenty-six—you would have been doomed!” She shook her head and took up her fork. “Anyway, he’s a doll and so much more mature than Marc, and he knows how to treat a woman.” She popped another forkful of pasta in her mouth. “Speaking of which, I need to explain the alert system for when we have guys over.”
Rachel looked at Daphne askance. “The what?”
She waved her fork impatiently. “You know, a way of warning when one of us is up here with a guy, so when you come home you don’t, you know, walk in on anything.” She wagged her eyebrows.
Rachel playfully rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’m with you now. What’s the system?”
She motioned with her fork to the bay window. “See the Coke can on the floor under the window? That’s the Make-Out Can. Stick that on the sill if you’re in the front room ‘with’ a guy, if you know what I mean. And when you’re coming home, always make sure to look for it. If you see it, walk heavy on the stairs, as slowly as you can, to give us time to vamoose to the bedroom. My last roommate came up with this. It worked great.” She flashed a wicked grin. “The walls aren’t exactly sound-proofed, either, so you might want to turn up your stereo or something.”
Make-Out Cans and smoking pot. Well, you wanted a new life.
“Oh, and if your guy is gonna spend the night, slip a note under my door or something so I know not to walk around in my dainties.” She winked. “Of course I’ll do the same. You’re okay with that, right? With guys spending the night?”
“Oh, um, sure.” Like she’d say no. “How often do you have guys overnight?”
She shrugged and took a sip of her Coke. “Not super-often. Kinda depends. Marc and I were like rabbits the first couple months, so we practically lived at each other’s place. But Paul is a totally different story; it’s a much more adult relationship. Marc was an undergrad at the uni and totally into the party scene. So it was that kind of wild and crazy, sex-on-the-kitchen-floor kind of relationship.” Rachel made a face of surprise and Daphne burst out laughing. “We only did that once. No, twice! But it was very uncomfortable; I don’t recommend it.”
“Don’t think I would have thought of it.”
Daphne laughed. “Of course not. But don’t worry—we’ll get you set up with all the necessary gear if and when you’re ready to take that step.”
“Gear?” Rachel raised her eyebrows. “There’s gear involved in sex? Look, I may not have experience but I know how it works. I don’t remember there being a need for gear.”
Daphne gazed at her with pity. “Oh, you sweet, innocent thing, you. So much to learn.”
o
Rachel stared out the bay window at the clouds that illuminated with lightning. Thunder grumbled in the distance, but the sound was just unfamiliar enough to keep her from sleep—along with the fact that her body was still on California time. Daphne had turned in early to catch up on the sleep she’d missed the night before when Paul had stayed over, so Rachel wandered the tiny apartment alone, looking for something to do.
She reread her list of tasks for the morning but could think of nothing else to add. Not that she needed more to do—shopping for furniture, opening a bank account, and job hunting at the local coffee haunts were more than enough to keep her busy. List abandoned, she perused the small bookshelf next to the hearth. The collection there—which included Harlequins and self-help books that centered around sex and relationships—was the polar opposite of the collection her shelves had held at home. She looked at the stack of magazines on the coffee table only to discover it was nothing but back issues of Cosmo.
Curiosity got the better of her. She took the top issue off the stack and settled onto the couch to read. She flipped through it, unimpressed with the relatively shallow content. Though she did notice that a few of the outfits Daphne had chosen for her in Las Vegas were apparently very “in” right now, according to the fashion section. She never would have pegged Cosmo as Daphne’s job research, but she supposed it made sense. Remembering Daphne’s comment about sex gear, she lingered in the sexual Q & A section for a few minutes before tossing the magazine back onto the pile. Regardless of how her views about God had altered, her views of sex were still the same, and she didn’t anticipate them changing any time soon.
She opened her laptop and saw the icon for her seminary application on the desktop. Anger like she hadn’t felt in a week bubbled to the surface. All the time she’d wasted trying to craft that stupid essay, trying to explain how she’d been a Christian her whole life … when she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt God’s presence or heard his voice. Was it a sham? All of it—her faith, God’s goodness? She felt like she was seeing her faith more clearly, and it seemed almost obvious how ridiculous it all was.
Her pride stung. She was an intelligent woman—how had she been so delusional, so suckered for so long?
Stewing, she sank further into the couch. The boudoir red curtains that hung in the bay window were more decorative than functional, and the pulses of silent lightning gave her something to stare at as she let the night settle in around her. She was struck again by her aloneness, despite Daphne being ten feet away on the other side of the wall. Her thoughts rattled around in her head and gave her no peace for reflection, let alone the possibility for prayer, which seemed laughable anyway. Exhaustion eventually overcame the anger, and she fell asleep fighting thoughts of the contentment she so missed.
o
Yesterday’s storm had blown out in the night, leaving a sparkling summer morning sky and humidity so thick you could practically drink the air. Despite a rough night of sleep on the battered couch, Rachel was full of energy and feeling positive about the move for the first time in days. Having a productive morning helped as well—she’d found all th
e furniture she needed but the bed at the first thrift store she’d visited, and an extra twenty paid to one of the staff got it delivered. She’d found the bed she wanted at a mattress store that provided free shipping, and they put her on the schedule for the next day. It meant one more night on the uncomfortable couch, but it was a small price to pay.
After lunch at the apartment, Rachel set out again in search of the most important part of her new life: a job. She consulted the list of local coffee shops Daphne had given her, and after the third shop she started to lose confidence. With the university so close by, most were not lacking for staff. She’d hoped to find something nearby so as to avoid the cost and inconvenience of public transportation, but unless one of the last few places on her list was hiring, she’d have to branch out.
She stopped by the fourth shop on the list and ruled it out almost immediately. It was a chain—not one she’d heard of in California, but a chain nonetheless—she could tell from the generic-hip decor and the plethora of commercially-printed materials. It had a “help wanted” sign in the window, and if she couldn’t find anything else, she’d come back, but she wasn’t about to settle for a big company when she still had more options to investigate.
The fifth shop was independent but not hiring. She left it with a heavy heart. Only one left on the list and she’d call it a day. She was exhausted from all the walking and eager to get back to organizing her bedroom. She parked herself on a chair outside the café and consulted the map Daphne had given her. She brightened when she saw how close the final shop was to the apartment. Please let there be a job for me there, God!
She was back on her feet and moving down the sidewalk before she realized what she’d done. It was the first prayer she’d uttered in weeks, blurted purely from habit. And she knew now that’s all it had been, really—habit. He’d never spoken back that she could tell. And if he really was there, he’d already proven he couldn’t be trusted with big things like keeping her family and relationships together, so what was the likelihood of him caring about her commute?
If he’s even really there.
The idea slowed her steps. She’d allowed herself the occasional thought that God might not exist, but being mad at him and walking away from faith had been a big enough step to deal with. Taking the leap to full-on atheism had been a bit too much to take on. But other than an occasional ache for the comfort of her old life, there hadn’t seemed to be much fallout yet from her inching away from God. If God were really there, wouldn’t he have made it clear to her when she’d started to leave him?
She thought about all the evidence she’d heard over the years, all the philosophical arguments, the books she’d read about Christianity. They were always presented and written by Christians. But what about all the scientists and philosophers and college professors who claimed Christianity wasn’t true? If the evidence were that clear, then wouldn’t they acknowledge that?
Her eyes caught the profile of a woman ahead of her. A colorful scarf was draped over her head and shoulders in Muslim style. She considered what little she knew about Islam. It had all sounded ridiculous to her, but then again, it had been told to her by Christians, and of course they would accentuate the absurd. But there were millions of people who believed Allah to be the one true God—could millions of people really be completely wrong? Wouldn’t word get out that it was a sham if it was that easy to disprove?
Though she could say the same about Christianity.
Rachel rubbed her forehead. She felt a headache coming on. She needed coffee. Or maybe something stronger.
She forced the thought away, focusing instead on the thought of an iced mocha as she quickened her pace. She was parched by the time she reached All Together Now Café, but not so desperate for a drink that she didn’t notice what a great little shop it was. Truly an independent, its funky vibe made her smile as she drank a cup of water while waiting for her coffee. A Beatles theme was integrated into every aspect of the decor and menu, from a psychedelic mural and framed album covers on the wall to the “Come Together Cappuccino,” “John’s Java Special,” and the “Across the Universe” list of international blends.
Rachel took her drink to a seat in the corner and let her eyes roam the room. Mostly students made up the current clientele—lots of U of C garb and laptops surrounded by thick textbooks and notebooks with bent spirals. The shop was small, but clean and well lit, and the staff seemed to keep busy even when there were no manager types around. The music—she knew it was the Beatles playing, though she wasn’t too familiar with their music—wasn’t loud, and the menu was simple but not sparse: sandwiches, soups of the day, and a few bakery items were listed on the chalkboard menus along with the coffees and noncoffee drinks. She smiled. She could see herself here.
After finishing her mocha, she sent a prayerlike wish to whoever might be listening and stood to approach the register. The barista chose that moment to disappear into the back, leaving the counter unmanned. She was about to sit down when a new barista entered from the back, tying on his apron and singing along with the music. He looked at her and smiled—then smiled wider. Rachel’s heart almost stopped in her chest.
It was her Kiss from Las Vegas.
Chapter 10
He shook his finger at Rachel, eyes glinting. “Weren’t you supposed to stay in Vegas?”
She laughed, completely shocked. “I could say the same to you.”
He came out from behind the counter, hand extended. “I suppose I ought to properly introduce myself. Jack Hanson.”
“Rachel Westing.”
He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “So, um … is it just me or is this a little awkward?”
“Maybe just a little.” She tried to control the nervous grin that threatened to split her mouth. She was completely embarrassed. She looked nothing like she had that night. Certainly he was asking himself what on earth he’d been thinking. “So … were you in Vegas for long?”
“Just the weekend. My brother’s bachelor party. He got married at the end of May. How about you?”
“Just the weekend too. A getaway with a girlfriend.”
The bell on the door chimed the arrival of a group of students. “Uh oh.” Jack made a dash for the counter, then gave Rachel an apologetic smile. “Duty calls.”
“Of course. No problem.” She took her seat and sipped her mocha, trying to regroup. Her job-hunt mojo had gone out the window the minute she’d recognized his face. Focus, focus! You need to ask him for a manager.…
He finished with the group and came back around to her table. “So how is it that I’ve never seen you before?”
“I just moved here yesterday.”
“You’re kidding! Well there’s kismet for you. Where from?”
“California. I actually came in because I’m looking for a job. I know there’s no sign out front, but I figured—”
“Oh, you’ll want to talk to Ruby Jean then.” He leaned in, smiling. “We just lost a couple people, so you’re in luck.” He disappeared into the back for a moment, then returned with a tall red-headed woman that reminded Rachel of Rosie O’Donnell. “Hey there. How can I help you?”
Rachel forced herself not to be distracted by Jack and turned on the professional aura. “I know you don’t have a sign in the window, but I really like your shop, and I’m looking for a job. I don’t suppose you’re hiring?”
The woman paused for just a beat, then nodded. “I am, actually. You caught me in the middle of writing up the classified. Got a minute to talk? Come on back.”
Kismet is right. Rachel followed her to the back office, which was also Beatles themed, sitting opposite her in the only other available desk chair. “I’m Ruby Jean Cronin, by the way. Or Ruby, or R. J., or whatever comes to mind when you need me. I own and manage. What’s your name?”
“I’m Rachel Westing.” She offered her warmest smile.
“I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“Well, I just moved fro
m California, arrived yesterday.”
“Oh—welcome to Chicago then. Coming to the university, I assume?”
“No, actually. I have a friend who lives a few blocks down, and I moved in with her. Just … needed a change.”
Ruby Jean chuckled. “I’ll bet this is a change from California. Maybe not now, but in six months—whooee!” She grinned, and Rachel felt the positive vibe growing. “So do you have coffee-shop experience?”
“I do, yes.” Rachel handed Ruby Jean a resumé. “I worked at an independent café called Espress-Oh!, first as a barista, and then as a manager. Five years total.”
Ruby Jean took the resume and cocked a brow. “Really?”
Rachel nodded. “And I noticed you operate a portafilter machine—that’s what we used as well. I know those aren’t as common anymore, but I prefer them to the automatic machines. I’m glad to see you have one.”
Ruby Jean smiled. “Why do I get the sense you really know your coffee?”
Rachel matched Ruby Jean’s smile with her own. “I’ll be honest. I’m a bit of an addict. You don’t just get an employee if you hire me. You get an expert.”
Ruby Jean leaned back in her chair as her expression took on the look of a challenge. “I prefer African and Central American coffees over those from South America. Know much about them?”
Rachel took a deep breath, savoring the feeling of familiarity that came with a discussion about one of her favorite obsessions. “Let’s see. Well, Guatemalan coffee comes from one of three growing regions and is usually medium- to full-bodied. It usually has a spicy or chocolatey flavor, and the taste is usually described as rich or complex. Costa Rican coffee is considered to have perfect balance between body and acidity. Ethiopian coffees come from one of three growing regions and are usually named for them—”
Ruby Jean let out a laugh and held up her hands. “Okay, okay, you win. I’m impressed, I really am. I’m used to these college kids who just need a job for beer money; I never thought I’d find someone who actually knew their stuff without me trying to drill it into them. What turned you on to coffee like that?”
Reinventing Rachel Page 9