Page 7 of Midnight Whispers
I’d rather curl up with a good book than talk about the recent trends. The “mean girl” clique at Emolyn Elementary immediately targeted me like mountain lions targeting a meek lamb. Flora, on the other hand, gave off scary black cat energy and took no one’s shit. She took me under her protective wing, and that day Flora Montgomery became my best friend. It’s been that way ever since.
After my dad’s funeral, I inherited his beloved coffee shop, Alcott’s. It was already beyond perfect the way it was, so I didn’t change anything. The way the dark oak counters and tabletops meet the black iron accents throughout the shop made it perfect and modern. A couple of years ago, he even built a stage for open mic night to add to the “cool factor,” he had said. But he was right, and it ended up being exactly what Emolyn Cove needed.
The moon is stillout as I get out of bed, the light-colored wooden floorboards creaking as I walk across my room to turnon my floor lamp. I dress in one of my usual outfits; a chunky burnt orange knitted sweater—a “grandma sweater” as Flora calls it—paired with a flowing light pink linen skirt that stops just above my knee, and my favorite pair of brown oxfords lace up flats. I throw my hair up into a quick high ponytail and lightly apply mascara before putting on my thin wired glasses.
I must be at the coffee shop in about an hour to open and I’m never late. Ever. I toss my cell phone, current book, and journal into my leather satchel before opening my door and entering my hall. Flora’s door is still closed, so I know she’s still sleeping. Not surprisingly, since she worked last night and is rarely up before noon on nights when she bartends.
It’s only after I walk outside and down the steps that I realize I’ve left my keys and wallet in the house. Turning, I swiftly walk right back up the stairs. Popping my head in the doorway, I grab my keys and wallet from the table before turning and heading back down to my bike.
Do I own a car?
Yes. But I prefer riding my bike.
Especially in the fall when the morning air is especially brisk. Flora yells at me about it almost every day. She’s convinced that I’m going to either get kidnapped or hit by a car. I toss my bag into the basket in the front of my bike and start down the dirt path. The sun is starting to rise as I get onto the main road, illuminating the sky with a beautiful combination of blues and yellows. It’s my favorite part of the day. Everything is so serene and it’s easiest to forget your worries when Mother Nature is creating such a beautiful painting.
The ride into town from my secluded little cottage isn’t a long one. After I get to the main road, I have to hug the edge while going down the curve that runs along the mountain side. Once I’m down the mountain, it’s a straight shot into town, where Alcott’s sits right in the center.
I want Alcott’s to be the heart of Emolyn Cove.Dad used to say. It didn’t take long after opening for Alcott’s to become exactly that. It quickly became somewhere people felt like they had a place, and everyone was welcomed.
Dad gutted and redid the entire interior of the building. It was important for him to bring some type of modern feel to our sleepy little beach town. He left the ceiling exposed but painted all the metal black and hung assorted hanging lights from the ceiling. The most important part of the building for him was leaving the original brick wall, which is now the backdrop for our weekend open mic nights.
I wave hello to the mailman, the sheriff, and the other shop owners who are opening before the sun rises as I ride into town. Alcott’s is one side street off the main road, so I turn onto the street and its only moments after that I arrive at the shop. After I park my bike in front of the building and unlock the door, I quickly run to disarm the alarm system. I begin my morning checklist to make sure the shop is good to go, turning on all the lights in the back of the store before I start to grind the coffee beans.
These quiet mornings where I can be alone with my thoughts are the ones I love the most and I soak in every moment of them. I’m grateful for the business Alcott’s has received, but sometimes I get so exhausted being around so many different energies, that mornings like this are welcomed.
The clock notifies me that it's time to open the shop, so I unlock the door and prop it open. I welcome the cool breeze into the building, along with a couple of my regular early morning customers. Once their orders are handled and they are settled, I look around the storage closet for my box of Halloween decorations. It’s the beginning of October and I’ve severely slacked on decorating for any holiday this year, but I’m shocked I didn’t put the decorations up earlier.
Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. I have loved everything spooky since I was a kid. It was a tradition with my dad to curl up on the couch and watch a different scary movie every day for the entire month of October, but since he passed, it’s been hard for me to feel excited about our favorite month.
There weren't many customers this morning and even less as the day went on. Once I find a spare moment, I empty the décor contents onto one of the tables in the corner of the coffee shop. The more I take out of the box, the more I miss my dad. I run my finger over the tattered lace before hanging it around some of the photos that hang on the wall. It was important to my dad that we showcase local photographers and that was one of the things I refused to give up when I took it over. The bell on the front door rings and I turn to greet the guest with a smile that I quickly lose when I see who is standing there.
“What do you want, Parker?” My stomach drops at the scent of tobacco and whiskey flowing out of his pores. I fight the memories that my mind has learned to associate with the smell of that combination, which quickly became his signature scent.
“I juss came for coffee,” he slurs his words.
“It’s barely the afternoon.” I point to the digital clock that says one forty-five. Though, I can’t say I’m surprised he’s already hammered. I fight against the memories that threaten to come to the front of my mind.
“Wass your p… point?”
I walk behind the counter and pour the coffee into a to-go mug, not giving him the option of drinking it there. Out of habit, I add a little bit of sugar and a dash of cream.
“S.. See Lillia. You know me soooo well.”
I ignore him and hand him his cup. “It’s on the house. Now, please leave.”
“Come home, Lil. I mish you.”
“I have a home, and it isn’t with you, Parker. Now, please go.” He grabs my wrist with incredible force. “You’re hurting me.”
“Why are you being s… so stupid?” he slurs.
“Parker, please go before I have to call Cyrus.”
Our town sheriff is no stranger to breaking up disputes between us when he’s drunk. He had been called to our apartment many times before by our neighbors, so there would be no surprise if he had to come to Alcott’s too.
“Call him, then,” he hiccups.
I go to reach for the phone when the bell door rings again. I lean off to the side and see Flora walking in and relief instantly washes over me.