I just couldn’t commit to breaking the promise I’d made to myself in the parking lot: Don’t spend more than fifty dollars. I’d spent the majority of that on a new fountain pen from Pam’s vendor booth. Pam was the owner of Seaside Boutique, but she also carried high-quality stationary products. Her cousin owned one of the best stationary stores in Chicago. He was her supplier for the majority of her stock.
“Hey, girl.”
I blinked, finding Margo coming toward me. Her long black hair was piled on the top of her head in a messy bun that looked like a work of art, a few thick strands framing her face. Her white tank top was surprisingly still white after having worked the morning and lunch shift behind the espresso bar. Her long violet skirt shifted with her hips, creating a picture of grace and beauty. My eyes lingered on the fabric.
Was it itchy?
Was the skirt super heavy?
Did the hem of it dancing around her ankles bother her like it would me?
When I purchased a long skirt for spring or summer wear, I would have the hem taken up an inch or two to avoid that sensation. Otherwise, I would never wear skirts, and that wouldn’t do because I loved the way wearing a skirt like that made me feel. Free. Untamed. Beautiful.
“You need another one?”
My eyes flicked up to her sage green ones and then to my nearly empty cherry vanilla cappuccino. I wasn’t done with my journal session, and there was still another half hour before three. I gave her a tentative smile. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”
Behind me, the bell of the door chimed, signaling new customers. I twisted my new fountain pen in my hand, stealing a look over my shoulder. There was a group of locals walking in for an afternoon coffee. I’d been coming here almost every Saturday for my end-of-week reflections, and a lot of familiar faces returned at the same time. It was a beautiful routine for my brain. No surprises, just Miss Joann and her little group of book club friends coming to grab coffee. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing too exciting. Just what I needed. One of the older women waved at me, her smile almost as bright as her floral blazer and big teal earrings.
“Hey there, Chef!”
I set down my pen carefully and returned the wave. “Hello, Dorthea,” I greeted, turning on the stool to face her. “How are you?”
She let out a huff, her gray curls bouncing on her forehead. “I’d be better if I had a slice of Margie’s key lime pie, you know?”
“Come by tomorrow at lunch and I’ll make sure you have one before the fishermen clear her out.”
“Dorthea!” Joann hollered from the other end of the espresso bar. “Has Dr. Tellmer cleared you for caffeine yet?”
Another huff. “No, that man wants me to die miserable. He told me I couldn’t have caffeine after nine in the morning.”
“Honey, I ain’t getting up at nine to come down here for Margo’s coffee—no offense, sweetheart.” Joann winced at Margo. “I have to do my hair and feed my cats before I can leave the house.”
“Understandable,” Margo drawled, shooting me a warm look before turning to face the espresso machine. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, painted a rich maroon that matched the signage outside. It was another reason this place felt so comfortable. Aside from the decent selection of books the store had, it provided a space for coffeehouse birds like me. Before moving here, I’d been so on edge about not having a local coffee spot to journal in. It was a wonderful surprise to find such a warm space nestled inside an even warmer and inviting bookstore.
A new cappuccino appeared in front of me. I stared at the art for a moment before lifting my head to gawk at the artist. “That’s…that’s a bird,” I stammered, pointing to the foam.
Margo shrugged a single shoulder. “It was supposed to be a dragon, but I didn’t froth the milk long enough,” she explained casually as she walked away to take the orders.
I stared down at the art, knowing she would never be able to replicate it. Something tugged at me, and a second later, there I was, holding my phone directly over the coffee to snap a quick photo. When I got home this evening, I would print it out for my scrapbook. The group of women moved down to the pickup corner, all of them chatting about the soap opera they watched. In the back of my mind, a twinge of guilt pricked at me, and I glanced around the store, looking for a new seat. Each of them could have a seat at the bar if I moved. I spotted a free armchair over by the window by the world history section and started packing up.
“You’re leaving already?” Margo asked, coming closer to wash something out.
I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “I was going to move so they could all sit at the bar if they wanted it,” I told her, already trying to map out how I was going to finish my reflections without a space to write. I could cross one leg over the other and rest my journal on them, but the ink from my fountain pen tended to run out unevenly if I had it tilted a certain way.
Margo tilted her head, her brow furrowed. “Did they ask you to move?”
This gave me pause. “Well, no, but I just thought—”
“Angel, babe, you don’t have to move anywhere,” she stated gently. “That stool is yours on Saturday afternoons.”
I leaned back slightly, my spine slowly straightening. “Mine?”
She swiped her hand towel off her shoulder and wiped down the excess water around the sink. “Yes, I make sure no one sits there.”
My ankles uncrossed and recrossed, my teeth taking the back side of my bottom lip between them, an uncomfortable feeling settling over me. She was watching me closely, her pretty face giving nothing away. From somewhere in the store, her manager, Sarah, called out for Rossy, the owner. In the time I’d lived here, I’d discovered that Sarah ran the store and Rossy simply did…not. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him behind the register. On the off chance he did grace the espresso bar with his presence on Saturday afternoons, his gray hair would be disheveled, his bow tie loose, and the occasional ink stain would be present on his shirt.
“Angel?”
