Page 10 of The Enemy Plot
They keep going like that for another twenty minutes, and it’s the happiest I’ve seen Lola since her mother passed. Alice looks different too. Happy, as always, but also inhabited by something—passionate. I take the time to check the sturdiness of the different shelves, and particularlythose ladders. You can never be too careful. Plus, they have a photograph of a cartoon character rolling on the ladder with a red cross over it taped on each ladder. They’re most definitely hazardous.
“Oh! There’s a bedding area for your cat in the bookshelf!” Lola exclaims, and I turn around to look. Indeed, the cat is curled up in a spot at the bottom of the shelf.
Alice chuckles. “Yes, my brother and his teammates helped assemble the furniture in the store, and they added a cat nook. You can’t see it, but he has a pillow that says, ‘It’s my reading spot.’
“You named him Mr. Darcy, right?” Lola asks. “I heard you calling after him.”
“That’s right. He was here when we bought the abandoned building, and we decided it was fitting to give him an all-time favorite character name.”
Lola nods. “Definitely. He kind of looks like him, with his cute tuxedo.”
“Exactly! Oh, speaking of Darcy, I also have a regency book you might like,” Alice says. “Follow me.”
While she whisks her away, I decide to perform another check of those bookshelves. I don’t know what sport her brother plays, and I don’t care. All I care about is that the fact that these shelves weren’t built by professionals, meaning they’re a potential safety threat.
Finally, they’re finishing up, and I end up paying for four new books for Lola.
“Thank you,” Lola says, flashing Alice an elated smile. “I can’t wait to read them.”
Alice tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m glad I could help. You know, we’re starting up some book clubs if you’re interested. We don’t have a YA date set up yet, but I’m running the romcom one next week. We only read and sell closed door romance here, so you could come.”
“What exactly is it?” I ask, annoyed that she’s inviting Lola to stuff without consulting me.
“It’s just a book club. We’re hosting one several times a week for different genres. We all read the same book, and then we talk about it with snacks.”
This is the first time she’s talked to me for this long without yelling at me. I’m not sure if I like it yet. “What time would it be? She still has two weeks to go before Spring Break.”
“It’s from seven to eight p.m. next Wednesday.”
“Please,” Lola says, turning to face me. Her pleading eyes pierce straight to my heart and take control of my brain. I guess this place, as uncomfortable as it feels for me, isn’t that horrible. And even if Alice’s cheerfulness might rub off on Lola, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. The last thing I want is for the kid to turn out like me.
“Fine.” I cross my arms. “You can go.”
“Thank you!” She jumps up and down, clapping her hands.
“Great,” Alice says, giving me a look I can’t quite decipher. “I’ll go grab the book.”
“What? Another book?”
Turning around, she lifts an eyebrow. “Well, itisa book club. How is she going to participate if she hasn’t read it?”
Here I thought she was just being nice, trying to include Lola, when really, this was just a sales tactic all along. She might wear bows and pink outfits, but Alice is one cunning librarian.
Lola has been upstairs reading all day while I finished some painting in the apartment and the back room of the bar. I opened a week ago, but there are still a few last-minute touches to be made. I re-checked that creaking step, made sure the fire safety was up to code for the tenth time, and cleaned the vents again.
The bar has been off to a slow start—like I knew it would be. Aside from a few of the eateries, most of the shops around here are only open during business hours, so there isn't as much foot traffic at night. I’m losingmoney for now, but hopefully, it’ll pick up. Finding a commercial space within my budget wasn’t exactly a breeze. Besides, time was of the essence. Lola and I were stuck in a tiny apartment, and the cost of rent was pumping through my budget like a high-pressure washer.
Right now, our only customers are an old man I’ve seen around before and the guy who owns the art gallery at the end of the street, with who I assume to be one of his friends.
As I’m about to turn on the large TV behind the counter, the door opens, and the massive frames of four burly guys push through.
“Hi,” I say, forcing a friendly wave. I’ve never really been a people person, but that has never stopped me from owning a bar.Grumpyis an acceptable personality trait for the job. At least it was in Sycamore Springs. Then again, I knew everyone there from my childhood, and mine was the only bar in town. This new situation might be slightly different. “Welcome.”
“Thanks, man,” says the one wearing a “NY RAPTORS” cap backwards before they all pile around a corner table. I’m pretty sure the Raptors are one of the New York pro hockey teams, but I’ve never really been into sports. It might be a football team.
“What can I get you?” I ask, coming over to their table. They give me their drink order, and I promptly bring their drinks to the table.
“Do you mind switching to ESPN?” the one with curly hair asks. For a second, I feel like I know him. “There’s a hockey game about to start.”