“For the love of everything, please stop. I’m trying to have a tea.” I take a hasty sip of the caffeine-free peppermint drink I made.
“Fine. The bakery on Seventy-Sixth is looking for a taste tester. I mean, I’d probably need some kind of culinary experience. I made snow cones in my teens.”
My mind is halfway listening, twisting with how to deal with the store closing. I never imagined he’d sell it so fast, and I assumed whoever bought it would keep it open.
She heaves out a long exhale. “Whatever. I’m more worried about you! I mean, I have money from Freddy. I work here because I love getting out of the apartment.”
Freddy was her late husband.
“If you need me to help you job search, I will.” She nudges her head at her laptop, sitting open on the counter. “I’ve been looking. There’s a place in Alaska that needs women. The entire town is hiring, pretty much any job you want. Give me a day, and I’ll find you one. We could go together, since I hate Terry now.”
She’d never leave Manhattan. But she enjoys talking, so I let her go on.
She pops her compact and gasps at her face. “Good God, one of my lashes have come unglued. My life is officially over.”
She carefully sticks it back on, then reapplies her lipstick. She waves at one of the baristas, a young man, who then rushes over. “Be my favorite and bring me a scone and a chamomile tea with a touch of honey, please. I need something calming.”
She needs something calming at least twice a week. Once a customer couldn’t find his money to pay for a book. After rummaging for a while, he reached inside the front of his jeans to his crotch. She took it with a stony expression, but as soon as he’d walked out the door, she did a hyena/banshee scream, then ran to the bathroom to throw up. Now she wears surgical gloves if she works the register.
Once she had a fifteen-minute stare-down with a kid who’d broken all the crayons （over two hundred） in the kid area and was throwing them in the store. He told her crayons were ugly, and so was she. She kept inching closer to him—who knows what would have happened—so I ran to the PA system and announced that someone needed help in the ER section, code for erotica. She snapped out of it and dashed to help a customer with one of her favorite genres.
Another time, a man came in dressed in a black-and-red cape and asked for a vampire cookbook. She hung crosses and tossed garlic around the next day.
“Where are you going?” she asks as I head down the hallway to the back of the building, where the offices are located.
“To talk to Terry.” And get to the bottom of this.
“Tell him we’re over, but if he calls me repeatedly and tells me I’m pretty on my voice mail, I might pick up,” she calls.
I flip her off behind my back and hear her laugh.
I knock at his door, and his raspy voice tells me to come in.
While Babs is coiffed and sophisticated, Terry sports a full head of gray hair that’s a mess. Tall and slim with a rugged face, he’s wearing rumpled jeans and a vacation shirt. This one is a faded peach color, with a “Bimini Beach” logo on it.
With a heavy sigh, he studies my face. “You’re pissed.”
“Some kind of notice would have been appropriate. I am the manager.” I lift my hands in frustration, my words clipped as I plop down in the leather chair across from his desk. The surface is scattered with messy papers and a half-eaten muffin from the bakery. I add, “I thought it would take a few years before you found a buyer.” And I was hoping my financial situation would be better when the time came.
A long exhale comes from him. “You had dreams of buying it someday, but we both know the situation your gran left you in. I should have called you, and I’m sorry. It was very sudden.”
My throat tightens. “I have artists who have their work here, authors scheduled, and we talked about expanding to comics and vinyl records . . .”
My voice trails off at the resignation on his face. My breath catches. Shit.
“It’s hard to compete with online stores. Bookstores close every day, Emmy.”
But we’re different. We make money.
I straighten my shoulders. “Jaws is the theme for summer, and I’ve got a papier-mâché shark and fake shark teeth ready to go. We’re more than just a bookstore. The Times called us a ‘truly religious experience.’ They love the displays, the staircase, plus Babs is perfect to start a book club. I’ve been meaning to bring it up in a meeting—”
“Emmy. Please,” he says as he interrupts me, then sighs, his voice softening. “The offer . . . it’s more than I planned to retire on.”