Chapter Nine
NOW
“I think I got it this time!”
“You said that about the last one,” Beth calls from where she’s taking inventory of the mystery/thriller/suspense section. “It looked like a toddler’s handprint at best.”
“Hey, I’m new at this!” I scrutinize the leaf pattern I’ve drawn in the foam of my fourth cappuccino of the morning, and it definitely looks better than the other three. “A little support would be nice.”
“A few more hours spent watching those YouTube videos would be nice,” she mutters, but the store’s empty except for us, and I hear every word.
I’ve been trying to up my barista game by watching videos on drawing foam art, hoping to impress Beth with hearts and leaves and butterflies.
Unfortunately, I’m about as good at doing art with foam as I am at doing it with paint, charcoal, decoupage, pencils, or anything else—which is to say, not at all.
The only thing I have to show for my training is a pair of slightly jittery hands from quickly downing my first two mistakes. (Beth graciously took the third, despite it being many shades lighter than her soul.) Latte art looks easy on YouTube, but so do makeup tutorials, and I suck at those too.
For as good a time as I had this summer, I can’t help being resentful that I was forced to give up my bookseller position for something I suck at.
I know books. I love books. I could’ve helped a bunch of dads find graphic novels for their daughters, could’ve pointed out the best romance novels for other sappy readers in search of humor and kissing, could’ve learned so much more about all the other books on the shelves—the awesomely titled “cozy mysteries,” as Beth taught me they’re called, or the zillions of young adult fantasies with crowns or swords on the covers.
Working here isn’t just about money—I want to learn how to do this, to be Beth, to one day surround myself with books and coffee and people who love both while working on my own romance novels in my downtime.
I don’t know exactly what I want to do with my life, but I do know I feel the closest to figuring it out when I’m here.
The best I can do now is prove that I can go above and beyond in whatever job I’m given, or at least I’ll try to.
So in the eight minutes I have left until the store opens, I take Beth’s muttered advice and get another instructional video going while I finish morning prep.
I’m so wrapped up watching a pair of hands draw a swan that the first customer has to cough to get my attention.
I offer my apologies and ask for her order, hoping it’ll be a latte or a cappuccino or even a hot chocolate to give me another chance to practice, but like most of the customers clinging to the end of summer, she orders an iced coffee, and the only thing I can show off is that I can make one without screwing up.
She also orders a mixed-berry scone, the café’s most popular baked good (and the secret recipe of none other than Beth’s nephew, Winston, whom I’ve never met but lives in Beth’s basement and apparently has a golden touch with flour, sugar, eggs, and butter).
I wrap it in the store’s trademark lavender tissue paper, hand it over along with the iced coffee, and make change …
only to say goodbye and see Jasmine Killary standing at the front of the line.
“Good morning and welcome to the Book and Bean,” I greet her as if I’m not at all rattled by her presence, by her bedhead and lip gloss and the Bathory Belles concert T-shirt she wore the day we went to the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge and came back covered in bug bites.
We spent the night soothing ourselves in the hot tub. “What can I get you?”
She glances at the chalk menu over my head. “What do you recommend?”
“Something with foam. I’ve been working on my art.”
“Ooh, interesting.” She taps her chin, showing off a plum-colored fingernail speckled with gold glitter. “Can you draw a puppy?”
“Probably as well as I can draw a leaf or a heart.”
Her lips curve into a smile. “I’ll have a puppy cappuccino, please, with a shot of vanilla.”
I’m grateful for the opportunity to turn away from her and focus on the machinery. I need to concentrate on not burning myself on the steam wand and on swirling the milk just right, not on sniffing her honeysuckle shampoo.
Espresso fills the small café with a bitter scent that obliterates the honey teasing my nose, and I inhale deeply.
I’m two steps from giving Jasmine her coffee and watching her leave when she says, “Hey, is that a flyer for a Clementine Walker event? How much did you have to beg to make that happen?”
Ah, so we’re back to acknowledging we know each other, then. Okay. “A happy coincidence,” I say, carefully pouring in the milk.
“Well, I’m curious to meet the legend herself. Shame it’s not for another month. I’ll have to put it into my calendar.”
Is she screwing with me? She’s gonna come to the Clementine Walker event? I can’t tell if she’s trying to ruin it for me or if this is a genuine attempt to be friends. But I don’t have time to gauge it because the dad who loved my graphic novel recommendations appears right behind her.
Judging from the bounce in his step, I’m guessing the last round went well.
And Jasmine is going to hear all about it unless I can get her out of here.
“That’ll be $5.26,” I tell Jasmine, pushing her drink forward.
She squints at the top. “That’s supposed to be a puppy? Really?”
Dammit, I forgot to be fancy with the top. Then again, it doesn’t look much different than if I’d actually tried, judging by my earlier attempts. “What, you don’t see it? There’s the nose right there.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. She hands over her credit card—of course she has her own—which reads Jasmine H Killary in crisp letters. The H stands for Helene. I hate that I know that.
“You draw puppies in the coffee now?” Graphic Novel Dad pipes up from behind Jasmine. “I’ll have one of those too, please. And some more book recommendations if you’ve got ’em! I’m picking up the new Candy Buttons book today, but she goes through these so fast, I have to find something new.”
So much for getting Jasmine out of here.
There’s an unreadable look on her face as she says, “They have Candy Buttons? I may have to go pick up the new one myself.”
“They have a great graphic novel section here since this one started,” he says with a nod in my direction. I suddenly find myself very busy with literally anything but meeting Jasmine’s gaze. “She helped me find some great books for my daughter, and I’m sure she’d be happy to help you too.”
“I’ll check out what there is first,” she says, taking back her card. “Thanks for this.”
I make a choked sound in response as I watch her head off to see that I’ve had Beth stock the store with every single one of her favorites, every book she passed to me that I fell in love with, every book I knew would find fans if we carried it.
I make the dad’s drink and chat with him about some other choices for his daughter—Mooncakes and This One Summer and I am Alfonso Jones, recommendations I found on book blogs and promptly devoured—while I brace myself for Jasmine’s return.
He leaves before she gets back, and her drink goes cold.
I help myself to a few sips of it and make her a new one with shaking fingers, art and all.
It’s my worst design of the day, no question, but when she comes back to the counter with a smile on her lips, I have a feeling she won’t mind.
“That’s a nice selection you have there.
” She glances at the coffee and laughs. “And a nice … spider?”
“I’m new at this,” I mutter.
“Well, thank you for the new coffee. And for the books. You even have some I haven’t tried yet; I’m gonna go ahead and buy a few.”
“Great.”
“Great indeed.” She picks up her cup and tips it lightly in my direction with a “Bye, Tinkerbell” that sends a tremor through my knees.
Or maybe it’s the caffeine.
After spending the whole morning standing over the steam of the cappuccino machine, an afternoon at Kiki’s pool is exactly what I need.
My hair is a mess of frizz and even in all black, you can see the zillion places I spilled coffee and foam on myself today.
I call my messy self out before the others can beat me to it and change into one of the bathing suits I keep at Kiki’s, because where else do I really need them now?
“Thank God it’s still warm enough to sit by the pool,” says Gia, ever dramatic as she stretches out on a floating raft, trailing her fingers in the water.
“Barely,” I say miserably, stretching my legs out from my seat on the second-highest step.
“I can feel my tan fading already.” It’s impossible to shake the concern that every little change I went through this summer has contributed to Chase’s attraction, and even though it would make him a colossal ass if it were true, and even though he already said it isn’t about how I look, I can’t help feeling like if I shed too much of the summer, he’ll realize I’m the same girl he wasn’t interested in last year or the year before that.
“You can always join me at the salon,” Gia singsongs. She is the queen of spray tans and is always trying to convince us to come along, but I just can’t get on board. I would end up leaving splotches of orange on white surfaces all over town.
“Not gonna happen, G,” says Shannon, slathering on another layer of sunscreen at the mere mention of tans. “Painting your skin is weird.”
Kiki, who’s Japanese American and naturally darker than the rest of us, just snorts and does a somersault in the pool.
“You’re all gonna change your minds when it comes time to buy homecoming dresses,” Gia warns.
“Speak for yourself,” says Shannon. “I am wearing red lipstick and it’s gonna look perfect with my paleness, thank you very much.”