I score a parking spot right in front of the shop, and don’t worry that my parallel park is a bit crooked. Brinley hates my van, and as soon as she sees it, she’ll be telling me to get my ass back outside to move it up the road.
Walking into the Copper Cup, I inhale the tempting scents of coffee and fresh pastries. The food matches the cozy yet trendy vibe. Between the tall bookshelves pressed tightly together—every inch of available shelf space used up—the cluster of bistro tables in the back and the high-tops and lounge furniture in the front, it’s chaotic while still somehow managing to be cute.
My paintings hang on the wall behind the bistro tables and chairs.
Brinley’s washing mugs behind the café counter, her long brown hair pulled into its usual messy bun. When she sees me, and more importantly, my van through the front window, she puts her hands on her hips.
“No,” she snaps. “You move the Murder Van away from this building right now. I donotneed customers thinking Ted Bundy shops here.”
“It’s just for a second,” I plead. “I’ve got a new painting, and I need your help carrying it inside.”
She sighs. “And you’ll move that eyesore down the block as soon as that’s done? It blocks the whole front of the store.”
I cross my heart. “Promise.”
“Fine.” She moves out from behind the cafe counter and points to the guy behind the bookshop register, wearing a shirt that saysI Like Banned Books And I Cannot Lie. “Trevor, watch the place, okay?”
The color drains from Trevor’s face. “You’re leaving me by myself?”
“Maura and I are grabbing something from her car. We’ll be back in a minute.” When he still looks panicked, she sighs. “You’ll be fine, Trevor.”
He nods, his shoulders straightening at her affirmation.
“Student worker from the high school,” she mutters to me as we head toward the door. “He’s read probably half the books in here, but he’s terrified of speaking to customers.”
“Which makes him perfect for a customer service job.”
“Right?” Brinley plucks her coat from an antique wooden coatstand by the door and shrugs it on. “Well, let’s take a look at this art.”
Outside, I unlock the back of the van and open it up. Crawling inside, I unwrap the painting from the protective moving blanket it’s wrapped in and swivel it to show Brinley.
“Oh, Maura, it’s gorgeous.” She sighs. “I love the turquoise. How did you get it to look so vibrant?”
I shrug. “Blue agate. When it’s crushed, it actually gives a brighter hue than actual turquoise—at least, it has so far for me.”
We each pick up a corner of the painting, and together, we carry it back inside. It’s a little awkward since I’m considerably taller than Brinley, but we’ve done this enough times that we move together relatively seamlessly.
My chosen technique of grinding up different stones and minerals to create natural paint color, unfortunately, means that my paintings are heavier than most. I used to stubbornly carry them by myself anyway, but enough lectures about overexertion from Dr. Markovic eventually forced me to ask for help.
By the time we’ve set the painting down and leaned it against the counter, we’re both a little out of breath.
“So, which one are you replacing?” Brinley asks, gesturing to the three paintings on the wall.
I point at a rose-colored one. “That one, I think.”
“Aww, too bad. I liked that one.”
“You want it?”
Brinley chuckles. “Please. Like I could afford it.”
“Shut your mouth. I’d never let you pay for it.”
She shakes her head. “I couldn’t just take it.”
“Why not? I’m offering.”
“It’s too much, Maura.”
