Chapter Two
Chapter Two
“Earth to Allie!”
Allie jumped, startled by Ren’s words, which came with a snap of fingers close to her nose.
“Oh shit, what was I saying?”
Ren rolled their eyes. “I was asking about the new code for the alarm, but you were just staring out the window.”
“Right, right.” Allie shook her head. “Sorry. The code is 7865. The new system has four numbers instead of three. But it works pretty much the same as the old one. I can come downstairs when it’s time to close up if you want help.”
“Naw, I got it.”
A group of women came in and approached the counter, chattering about oat milk versus coconut milk for lattes. Allie gave them a bright smile and took their orders while Ren moved over to the coffee machine.
Over the years, Allie had learned how to manage customers. With her thick brown hair and clear blue eyes, she had an approachable attractiveness that seemed to make people eager to chat. Sometimes too eager, but she was well practiced at retreating to the kitchen when she needed a moment to herself. She dressed her short, curvy frame in brightly colored jumpsuits and dresses and wore very little makeup. Having an unfussy wardrobe and beauty routine was necessary for the early mornings and long days of food service work.
Allie may have drawn people in with her hardworking charm, but Ren was always the cool one. With their shaved head, lanky stature, and arms full of black-and-gray tattoos, Ren was someone who made customers think that the café must be intriguing in ways they could only hope to discover.
“What’s with you, anyway?” Ren asked, once the customers had their lattes—oat milk had been declared the winner—and were seated in a far corner of the café.
Whenever Allie was upset about something and trying to hide it, Ren knew immediately. It bordered on creepy.
Allie sighed. “You ever have an encounter with a stranger and they act like they know you but they don’t, really, and it’s kind of annoying?”
Ren nodded. “All the time. I mean, you were here when that guy wouldn’t stop insisting that I was the”—Ren formed air quotes with their fingers—“?‘Asian chick who won Top Chef .’?”
“Oh yeah.” Allie cringed. “Mindy told him not to come back.”
Ren started wiping down the counter. “Did you have a bad customer today?”
“No. Just a weird delivery experience. It’s fine, though. I mean, it wasn’t like I was misgendered by a racist or anything.”
Ren laughed. “That would be a tall order, given that you’re white and girly.”
Allie joined in Ren’s laughter. She felt more steady, being back behind the counter, the familiar smell of coffee and baked goods surrounding her.
She’d been at the café for ten years now. Each day blending pleasantly into the next.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, could one of you restock the pastry case? We have customers who might actually want to eat something.”
Allie turned around and locked eyes with her Aunt Mindy, who had appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the front counter.
As though to counteract Allie’s colorful clothing and Ren’s edgy look, Mindy dressed daily in worn black jeans and tentlike gray linen tunics, usually with a black beanie on her head. Her face was creased into an almost constant scowl. She called it “resting hag face” and said it was the consequence of running a café in Brooklyn for decades. Her hair was completely white, and she only ever wore it in two braids. She’d had some very proud moments when people mistook her for aging punk icon Patti Smith.
Allie picked up a tray. “We were just about to restock. Take it easy.”
Mindy frowned. “Take it easy yourself, smartass. I’ll help you load up.” She turned on her heel and marched back to the kitchen.
The café itself was an embodiment of Mindy’s no-nonsense style. Sturdy wooden furnishings, smooth gray concrete floors, pendant lights with matte black shades providing the perfect amount of glow above each table. People were drawn in. Passersby could look through the window at the clean, humble space and think That’s the perfect place to read in peace with a latte. The only color in the neutral space came from the deep-green tiles along the front of the service counter. Allie ran her hand along the cool surface when she walked by, following her aunt into the kitchen.
As she was filling a tray with tarts, cake slices and turnovers, Allie heard the bell on the front door sound. Mindy peeked out at the front and then leaned back into the kitchen, nodding in Allie’s direction.
“Your boyfriend’s here.”
Allie smiled. “Oh, is he?”
“Yep. God knows, he never wants Ren or me to serve him. You’d better get out there.”
“Well.” Allie stood up, the tray now laden with fresh pastries held in front of her. “I won’t keep him waiting, then.” She stopped in front of Mindy on her way out of the kitchen. “How’s my hair?”
Mindy smoothed Allie’s short bangs and fluffed her long, dark waves. “It’s great, since you’re not wearing a hairnet like you’re supposed to.”
Allie rolled her eyes. “I literally just came back here because you were harassing me about the urgent need for pastries.”
“Tell that to the health inspector.”
Allie ignored this and made a beeline for George MacDonald, the man who loved her more than any other.
“Hello, George.”
His eyes lit up as she greeted him. “Good afternoon, Allie. I thought I heard you back there. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Never!” She smiled at him as she carefully filled the pastry case. “How was your birthday party? Sorry I had to miss it.”
His eyes crinkled when he laughed. “Well, you know, they’re never too wild these days. Just me and some of the other residents. The cake Mindy made was lovely.”
George had just turned eighty-five. He lived in a seniors’ apartment two blocks from the café. He didn’t go far from home any longer, but he did come in for tea every afternoon. Allie was the only one, he said, who could make a perfect cup of Earl Grey.
She pulled his favorite mug off the shelf above the espresso machines and added the tea leaves to a strainer. While it steeped, she warmed some milk for him and set everything together on a tray. George was already sitting in his usual spot to the left of the main counter. She brought the tea over, and he gestured for her to sit in the empty chair across from him.
“So.” He took a long sip from his cup and gave her a smile and a thumbs-up. “How many more songs do you have to go?”
“Three. I want to stop at thirteen. It was my dad’s lucky number.”
George nodded thoughtfully. “So what song is next?”
“Oh, it’s a good one.” She leaned forward, tugging the sleeves of her yellow flowered dress up over her elbows to keep them safe from any dregs of tea or milk that might splash onto the table. George’s hands weren’t always steady. “It’s ‘We Belong’ by Pat Benatar. I think we’ve talked about her.”
George squinted, looking past her. “Is she the one who did a song about the love battlefield?”
“Yes! That’s right.”
“I liked your version of that one. I had one of the nurses play me the original to compare. The acoustic guitar as the main rhythm was a good choice.”
“Thanks, George.” She beamed at him. “This other song, the one I’m working on now, it’s even more dramatic. So fun to sing.”
“Well, make sure I get to hear it when you’re done.”
“I’ll probably work on it some more tonight.” She glanced up at the clock above the counter. “I’m off in a few minutes.”
George patted her hand. “Don’t let me keep you. I’ll be in tomorrow and you can tell me more about it. I think I like this Pat Benatar person. She’s got something.”
Before his retirement, George worked as a music archivist. While his own taste mostly stayed in the classical realm, he was curious about all types of music, and he was the person in Allie’s life who was the most enthusiastic about the ’80s pop song covers she’d been recording in her spare time.
Mindy appeared behind the counter and called out a greeting to George. He waved at her from his seat. They had known each other since before Allie arrived at the café ten years earlier, though George’s daily visits hadn’t started until Allie was a fixture. George and Mindy had a mutual respect that Allie found reassuring. It was like having parents who you knew liked each other too much to get a divorce, even though they had very little in common.
“Allie was just telling me about her new recording. Don’t you think she should start a band, Mindy? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Mindy and Allie made eye contact and were silent for what felt like a very long moment. Finally, Allie spoke. “I’ve told you, George. No band for me. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
She patted the old man’s shoulder as she left the table, passing Mindy on her way to the kitchen. She could hear her aunt’s nonslip Swedish clogs clomping behind her.
“Why do you do that?” Mindy asked, closing a recipe book and placing it back with the others on a high shelf.
“Do what?” Allie was suddenly very interested in her own feet. Her left sneaker had a stain on the toe from where she’d accidentally dropped a lump of coffee grounds headed for the compost. What would get that stain out? Vinegar? Bleach?
“You know what. Lie about your past.”
Allie huffed and looked up at her aunt. “I’m not lying . I just don’t feel like talking about it. It’s depressing.”
Mindy shook her head. “Of all the things that have happened in your life, it’s the band that you find depressing?”
“Well, not only the band…” Allie was saved from further conversation by the ringing of the café phone. Mindy went to the front to answer it. Allie filled a glass with water and drank it slowly.
So what if she didn’t want to talk to George about her band? Why was everyone suddenly so interested in her band? A memory of Ryan’s delighted voice chirping “Allie Jetski!” made her stomach seize up. She shook it off and turned to put her glass in the dishwasher.
Everybody needed to mind their own business.
“I’m heading upstairs!” She didn’t wait for Mindy or Ren to answer before she started up the back staircase to her apartment. After the day she’d had, she was desperate to be alone.
Allie’s 300-square-foot studio apartment above the café was always comforting. Her bed in one corner, her bookshelf in another. Her clothes hung—in the order of her weekly outfit schedule—on a bar that Mindy had attached to the ceiling when she’d lived in the same apartment, many years before Allie had moved in.
She always wore the yellow dress and red sneakers on Monday. Her denim overalls and orange clogs were ready for Tuesday. The Bangles T-shirt that she usually wore under the overalls was starting to get a little thin, so she was considering replacing it in the rotation with a Bananarama one Mindy had thrifted.
Along the wall close to the second window was her very rudimentary home recording studio setup. Allie felt her shoulders relax as she slid her favorite microphone into the stand and plugged its cord into her tiny soundboard. She clicked her mouse and brought her laptop to life. Her recording app was already open. Right where she’d left off.
Music wasn’t what had failed her. It was all the other stuff that stressed her out.
Clueless male journalists asking her and her bandmates whether they all got their periods at the same time. Fans who insisted they had a place for the band to sleep that turned out to be a patch of dirty floor next to a never-emptied litter box. That one promoter who didn’t have any cash and offered to pay them with pairs of jeans.
Jessi slamming the door of their practice space when she left for the last time.
Allie shook the memory out of her head and looked back at her screen.
The version of “We Belong” she’d been thinking about had a driving guitar part. Grabbing her treasured Martin acoustic, she tuned each string. Satisfied, she stood. Usually, she sat to play, but the forceful strumming that she wanted for this song would require the full movement of her body. It was a good thing. Playing hard and loud would give her a way to work out any lingering frustrations about her unnerving day.
Plugging a patch cord into the body of the guitar, she gave it a few loud strums to check the levels. Her mood already improving, she put on her headphones and clicked Record.