“Morning,” I say, sliding into the chair opposite her and dropping my tote bag with a soft thud. “I saw the town crews out on Main Street. How did your place hold up?”
Flick looks up, her hazel eyes crinkling. “Just a few lost shingles and a very soggy garden. Hannah said the shop is fine, thank God. She was worried about the yarn skeins getting damp, but they stayed dry. What about you?”
“Nothing in my apartment, but I heard a few tenants had some minor issues,” I reply. “The school didn’t fare well either. The west wing has significant water damage. It’s going to be a mess to get it dried out before the kids arrive.”
Alexis hears their conversation and walks over, carrying a French press and a clean mug for me.
“We were lucky,” Alexis says, leaning against the table for a moment. “The bakery only lost power for a few hours. We actually hunkered down here. Sterling slept through the worst of the wind right in Noah’s office—we set up her pack-and-play in there.”
“Is she in there now?” I ask, glancing toward the back office.
“Yep,” Alexis beams. “Our sitter is coming to pick her up in an hour so we can finish the lunch rush, but for now, she’s dreaming away behind the flour sacks.”
As Alexis heads back to help the new employee training on the cash register, I turn my attention to Flick. I take a long, restorative sip of the coffee. It’s bold and perfect.
“So,” Flick says, leaning in. “You look like something is on your mind. Is this about the school?”
I nod, the steam from my mug warming my face. “I’m still reeling from the talk I had with Anne at the bar the other night. I can’t believe she’s actually retired. I saw Janice Vickers, the school secretary, yesterday when I went in to drop off some paperwork, and she basically confirmed everything Anne warned me about.”
“So, Janice is concerned too?” Flick asks.
“Absolutely,” I tell her. “She said Trevor Delaney—the new principal Anne mentioned—has already sent out three memos about ‘optimizing administrative efficiency.’ Janice looked like she wanted to hide under her desk. It really lines up with what Anne was telling me; he’s all about metrics and very little about the actual people. I really miss Anne already, and the school year hasn't even officially started yet.”
Flick grimaces. “A principal who doesn’t value the arts or the ‘vibe' of the school? That’s going to be a challenge for someone like you, Maya.”
“Tell me about it,” I sigh, looking out the window at the lingering puddles on the sidewalk. “Between the hurricane cleanup and a principal who sounds like a corporate robot, I think I’m going to need a lot more sourdough and coffee this fall.”
The air in my kitchen is thick with the sweet, musky scent of wet ferret and a faint hint of lavender shampoo. Frida, usually a sleek, curious blur, is currently a wriggling, indignant mess of pink and brown. How she managed to get into my tie-dye supplies, I’ll never know. One minute, I’m setting up the indigo vat for a new batch of scarves, the next, a tiny, fuchsia-tipped nose is nudging my leg, followed by a full-body shake that sends a spray of neon pink water across my pristine white cabinets. Hence, the stainless steel sink, the warm water, and the battle of wills currently underway.
“Frida, for the love of all that is holy,hold still,” I plead, my voice a strained whisper. She’s bracing her front paws against the side of the sink, her little body a taut spring, her tail, now avibrant magenta, twitching furiously. Her normally shiny brown fur is a patchwork of shocking pink, especially around her paws and the tip of her nose. She looks like a punk rock tube sock. I try to gently scrub her back, but she lets out a low, chittering sound, a ferret’s equivalent of a growl, that sounds far too large for her tiny frame.
Suddenly, with a surge of unexpected strength, she pushes off. My hands, slick with shampoo, lose their grip. She scrabbles wildly, a blur of pink fur, and before I can react, she’s out of the sink, skittering across the counter. My kitchen window, which I’d foolishly left open to air out the tie-dye fumes, is her target. In a flash, she’s through the slightly ajar screen, a pink streak disappearing into the late afternoon sun.
“Frida! No!” I shriek, scrambling over the counter, nearly tripping over my own feet. I’m soaked, my hair plastered to my forehead, and I probably have pink streaks on my face. This is not how I envisioned my relaxing Sunday afternoon.
I burst out of my apartment door, fumbling with my keys, and practically leap down the two flights of stairs. The front of my building is a small, manicured patch of grass with a low wrought-iron railing. I scan frantically, my heart pounding against my ribs. No pink ferret. She can’t have gone far, she’s an indoor ferret, she’s terrified of the outdoors. Right?
“Frida! Here, baby. Here, girl!” I call out, trying to sound calm, but my voice cracks. I peer under a particularly bushy azalea, then behind a trash can. Nothing. Panic starts to bubble up, hot and sharp. What if she’s gone? What if she’s run into the street? Ferrets are quick, and they can squeeze into anything.
I round the corner of the building, my eyes glued to the ground, searching for any sign of a pink furball. I’m so focused that I don’t see him until it’s too late. I collide with something solid, a muffled grunt escaping from whoever I’ve just run in to.
“Oh! I am so, so sorry!” I blurt out, stumbling back, my hands flying up to steady myself.
And then I see him. Zachary. He’s standing there, looking utterly baffled, weighed down by what looks like three duffel bags slung over his shoulders and clutched in his hands. His sandy-brown hair is a little rumpled, and his brown eyes wide with surprise.
But what really catches my attention, even more than the duffel bags, is his T-shirt. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. A cartoon diagram of a cell, complete with nucleus and mitochondria, is holding up peace fingers, and underneath it, in bubbly letters, are the words: “CELLFIE.”
My brain, despite the current crisis, briefly short-circuits.Cellfie? Seriously?
Zachary’s shock at seeing me is palpable. His mouth is slightly agape, and he blinks a few times, as if trying to process my disheveled, damp appearance. “Maya? What… what are you doing?”
Before I can even begin to explain the saga of the pink ferret, a flash of fuchsia appears from behind his head. Frida, my intrepid escape artist, has somehow managed to scale him, and now she’s perched triumphantly on top of one of his duffel bags, her pink tail swishing back and forth like a defiant flag. She looks down at me, her eyes narrowed, as if to say,“You’ll never take me alive, copper!”
Zachary’s eyes follow my gaze, and he looks up. His expression shifts from confusion to utter disbelief as he spots the bright pink ferret on his bag. “What in the… is that a… a pink ferret?” he stammers, his voice a mixture of awe and bewilderment.
“Frida! Get down from there, you little menace!” I lunge forward, carefully reaching for her. She lets out a soft, almost playful squeak, but I manage to scoop her up, tucking hersquirming, pink body against my chest. She’s still damp and smells faintly of lavender and that distinct ferret musk.
I hold her tightly, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “I am so, so sorry. She… she got into my tie-dye supplies. I was bathing her. And she escaped out the kitchen window.” I gesture vaguely back towards my building, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment.
