Vicky rose from her chair, tugged on the hem of her cardigan, and answered without a trace of humor. “They will have their knuckles rapped.”
I DON’T KNOW how Vicky did it, but two days after she had a single phone conversation with my boss, Bentley Burlington-Duke, the reception area at the top of the stairs was rearranged to accommodate a new desk, a file cabinet, and a leather swivel chair with adjustable back and seat cushions. Seconds after the furniture deliverymen left on Wednesday morning, a man from Dunston’s largest office supply store arrived and installed a complicated telephone system with a headset attachment, a PC with an enormous screen, and a fax machine at Vicky’s new station.
Delighted by the prospect of turning over the query letter screening to Vicky, I headed down to Espresso Yourself to tell my friend Makayla about the new reception area in Novel Idea.
“She may be small of stature, but she’s capable of wiping out an entire drug cartel with a stern look,” I told Makayla before taking a sip of my caramel latte.
Makayla laughed, a sound that reminded me of wind chimes, and her jade green eyes glimmered. “I’d better not screw up her order, then.” She slid the latest Tana French novel across the counter to me. “You can read this before I put it out in my lending library. I finished it three days ago and scenes are still echoing in my mind. Lord, but that woman can write!”
“That’s high praise coming from you,” I said, glancing at the pair of bookshelves in the corner of the coffee shop where Makayla and her customers traded gently used novels.
The beautiful barista had a shaved head, and her silken, chocolate-colored skin made her appear ageless. She could have been gracing the catwalks of Paris or Milan, but she loved her little coffee shop and glowed with contentment from the moment she brewed the first pot until she locked the doors at the end of the day. A bibliophile and art lover, Makayla supported local artists by inviting them to display their wares in her shop. I had my eye on a watercolor of an old woman perched on the edge of the town’s Fountain of the Nine Muses, her bare feet submerged in the water and her wrinkled face glowing with childish delight, and I planned to buy it as soon as I made another deal.
Makayla caught me staring at the painting. “I know how much you want to bring that home, girl. You can get it on layaway. The artist is a friend of mine.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. Seeing it every day inspires me to work harder. I’ve got to convince Calliope to cut the out-of-body experience from the end of her latest novel or it won’t sell. The entire chapter is just wrong, but she doesn’t want to hear that. She wants me to tell her the book is perfect and send it out to the publishing houses.”
Makayla handed a cappuccino to an attractive man in a seersucker suit, thanked him, and then turned back to me. “Sounds like she’s itching to delve into the supernatural, but isn’t this book historical romance?”
“Yes, it’s Elizabethan. And it’s wonderful until the main character suddenly dies and begins to narrate the last chapter in first person as she’s looking down at her own corpse. Calliope insists she’ll return to her body in the beginning of the next book and that her heroine can only realize that she’s in love with her sworn enemy by temporarily dying, but I disagree. There’s got to be another way for her character to have an epiphany without an out-of-body experience.”
Makayla was about to offer her opinion when the customer she’d just served returned to the counter. “Do you have any nutmeg?”
She nodded. “Sure, hon. There’s a shaker on that little stand where the milk jug and sugar packets are.”
“I couldn’t find it,” he answered. “Just cinnamon.”
“I’m sorry,” she told him with genuine regret. “I think I’m fresh out. Can I get you anything else?”
He grinned mischievously. “How about your phone number?”
Makayla pretended to swat him with a dish towel. “Shame on you, George McAllister! Go buy a dozen roses for your sweet wife.”
The man saluted her. “Already did. The love of my life made me a rib roast for supper, so the least I could do was bring her flowers.”
Makayla and I exchanged smiles.
“So has Sean shown up at your door with a bouquet lately?” she asked once George had left.
“He hasn’t stepped foot in my new house yet,” I complained. “It’s not his fault. More night shifts. And I’m so wiped by the end of the day that I’d be terrible company. One glass of wine and I’m snoring on the sofa.”
Coming out from behind the counter, Makayla began wiping off the tiny circular tables nestled in the narrow eatery. “Are you ready for the festival?”