Chapter 2- Winding Up
Helen arrived at the Cabin Coffee Company to a full house of caffeine seekers.
Every table was full of anxious bodies awaiting or sipping a liquid fix for winding up their brains.
When she entered, her eyes scanned the room for the person watching the door as if they were expecting someone.
Two people looked up, one, a woman with dancing eyes.
She was expecting a man, possibly a boyfriend, who entered directly behind Helen.
The woman rose to greet him with affection.
The second person was a man. Tall, broad shouldered, grey hair mixed with blonde and blue eyes that had seen too much. His eyes scanned the room, checking the doors and her. His eyes rested on her.
Helen walked over to his table, the latest novel she was reading tucked under her arm. She offered him a smile.
“The tables are all full, and this appears to be the only available seat,” she said. “Are you waiting for someone, or can I be a placeholder until a table becomes available?”
He said nothing but waved his hand. Helen placed her book on the table and looked towards the counter. “I'm ordering. Do you need a refresh or a bottle of water while I'm going?”
“Water would be good,” he said, reaching for his wallet.
“I got you, for letting me share the table,” she said, offering a soft smile at the corners of her lips.
At the counter, she ordered a coffee, a croissant, and a bottle of water for the man who had come looking for her.
She didn't know who he was or what he wanted, but Azrael's instructions were to do what she did, Helen partly had no idea what the hell that meant or what demon had summoned this man to her world.
She returned to the table and passed him the water.
“Shenita,” she said to the man.
“Mike,” he replied.
“You don't look like a Mike; can I call you Michael?” she asked, taking a seat.
“And you don't look like a Shenita,” he said.
“Looks are deceiving,” she said as the doorbell jangled, and he looked up, spotting a white male coming through the door.
“Are we expecting someone, Micheal?”
“Not sure,” he said, crinkling his forehead. “I came looking...I dunno. Now I feel stupid. I need to leave.”
“Wait,” she said. “Something in your spirit prompted you to come here to meet this person. Are they expecting you, or is this a surprise meeting? A potential lover, a friend...”
“None of that,” he said. “I'm nearly seventy. Got no interest in that kind of stuff anymore. Looking forward spending some time with the grandkids, relaxing.”
“Okay, then what are you hoping for in meeting this person?” She asked.
He frowned at her as the barista called out, “Latte for Shenita. Latte for Shenita.”
Helen held up her hand as the cup of warm attitude adjuster arrived at the table with a pretty little heart in the center formed with milk foam. It brought a smile to her face as more people arrived, and the coffee spot became more crowded. Michael noticed as well.
“Micheal,” she said, sipping the coffee, “there are matters on your mind that you need to get off. I can sit and read the chapter I planned to finish, or I can be the substitute for the friend you wanted to meet.”
“Substitute?” he asked, looking at the door as the bell chimed.
“Yeah, it sure beats looking up at the door every time someone walks in,” Helen said. “I can pretend to be who you planned to meet. You say what's on your mind and get clear of the intrusive thoughts, and you go about your day feeling lighter.”
He scowled at her, looking suspiciously at the cup of coffee and the lady. “And what will you get out of this?”
“The conversation has to be a lot more interesting than this next chapter of a serial killer who, evidently doesn't understand human anatomy, and neither does the author,” she said, smiling.
“How hard is it to Google where a radius and an ulna is and know which bone is rotating and which one is stationary?”
This brought a smile to Michael's face. “Funny, and I wanted to talk to that person about my daughter, who is a doctor.”
Helen arched her brows. A sudden rush of adrenalin hit her at the possibility that this man was Michael Kurtzwilde.
However, the voice she heard in the house from the other room when he’d made the visit didn’t sound like this one.
This voice sounded like a man who was tired of walking to school in the snow, uphill both ways, carrying a loaded backpack and a tired toddler.
The realization that he was looking for her to discuss Passion Fruit was another issue. She remained calm.
“I bet you're proud of her,” she said softly. “Is everything okay with your daughter?”
He sighed deeply. “Yes. No. I dunno. I went to see her last week,” he started. “Normally our visits are brief. I provide a kiss, a hug, yell at her to get her act together, get a man, then leave some bills on the table on my way out. You know, in case she needs to treat herself. “
“But this visit was different?”
“Hell yeah,” he said, and as if he had a person walk over his unmarked grave, he shuddered. “The little shit box of a house she lives in had curtains up and a colorful rug on the floor, and she had biscuits, homemade jam, and fresh, delicious coffee for me when I arrived.”
“That's nice,” she replied, offering a smile. “It sounds like you had a pleasant visit with her.”
“It was a great visit,” he said, scowling.
“We actually had a conversation. She asked me about my childhood, where I grew up—my parents. She spoke fondly of her mother and the things her mother would cook that she hated, which is why she lived like she did. I felt like I was actually getting to know her.”
His hand went to his chest. Helen inquired if he was doing okay, and he nodded.
She was still unclear on what this had to do with her although she'd taught both Passion Fruit and Bryan how to make Ruth's biscuits, and Bryan had added the rugs, curtains, and color to the home, not her, but it made a difference.
Passion Fruit's father had noticed the slight changes in the house as well as his daughter.
“Okay, interacting as the person you wanted to meet here, I'm going to respond as her. Is that okay?” He nodded in acceptance of her offer. “And what does any of that have to do with me, or how can I help you with the changes in your relationship with your daughter?”
“Not just her,” Michael said. “I have twelve kids in all.”
“Whew, your wife must be a strong woman,” Helen said.
He shook his head no, and arched his brows, to let her know that all twelve were not by the same woman.
Helen tilted her head in acknowledgement that she understood.
She sipped her coffee, waiting to see how X was a variant to Y and what any of it had to do with this fucker spoiling the ambiance of her favorite coffee joint.
“I have three worthless, entitled, spoiled children with my wife,” he said.
“I have five amazing others, like my daughter I just mentioned who is a medical doctor. One of my kids, out in Wyoming has a sheep farm with horses, and she was an Olympic show jumper, even earned a silver medal from the Olympics.”
He said it with pride as he spoke of the others.
“The one in Kansas went to West Point and was a military helicopter pilot. He has a small business where he provides lessons, you know to fly helicopters. He took me up in one of his when I came for a visit. He’s a strong good man.
My son down in Georgia—he's my oldest and a certified bad ass that lives off the land. The one up around the Boston area is an arborist.”
“A what?”
“An arborist, like a tree doctor,” he said. “He's really good and is sought after by the forestry service and everything. One time, he got called to the White House to work on the trees in the Rose Garden before what's her face cut them all down.”
“Okay that is only eight kids,” she said, “the other four?”
“Younger,” Michael said. “One is in culinary school. The other is a journeyman plumber and the younger two are still in high school.”
“Noted,” Helen said, leaning forward, “and what would you like for me to help you with, concerning your children?”
“I want them to all meet,” he said, looking Helen in the eye. “Whatever this Fruit did for my daughter, I want her to wave her fairy wand and bring my five accomplished adult kids together so we can all sit and the table and they can meet each other.”
Helen crinkled her brow. She wasn't sure what this man believed her to be capable of doing, or why he even felt she would be able to make this happen, but she was invested and continued the conversation. She took another sip of the coffee as she peered at him over the rim of the cup.
“If I were able to wave this magic wand to bring, I assume the five adults that you're proud of together, what would be the incentive for me to do this?” Helen asked.
“I'd retire,” he said.
“Retire from what Michael, and why would I care?” she asked.
“The person I wanted to meet would understand the request and the significance of what my retirement would mean,” he said softly.
“I really would like, before my eyes close, to sit at the table with those five children to tell them I'm proud of them. I know them well and have remained active in all of their lives, but I want them to meet. I want her to wave her wand and bring them all together for me. I would be in her gratitude until the end of my days.”
Helen observed the man who had grown old and tired. His days of peddling flesh were ending, and the politicos he’d blackmailed or greased palms were also retiring, if not dead, and the new breed of politicians had no shame. The joy of having such power was over, and he wanted to call it quits.
Her watch beeped. Helen closed the book she hadn't bothered to read and polished off the remnants of the coffee in the cup. The croissant she wrapped in a napkin to take with her, then, she stood.