Chapter 2

Thirty minutes later, Alene was back behind the counter, watching Phyllie Evans open the café door for her husband, Julian, who pushed a stroller in which their two open-mouthed, red-faced little boys slept. They lived in the neighborhood and came in often. Now, they waved at Alene, roused their sons, and lifted them out of the stroller. Then they left it standing in everyone’s way, as usual.

The two boys rushed to the dessert case and pressed their faces against the glass. The four-year-old, who had a sweet face and frizzy brown hair like both his parents, called out, “Where’s Ruthie?” in a gravelly voice. The younger one managed something that sounded like “Roofie.” The two-year-old had sparse hair, and his crooked mouth and flat nose made him look like a boxer who’d seen better days.

“I’m sorry, guys,” said Alene. “Ruthie’s not here on Saturdays.”

From the first moment Alene met Ruthie Rosin, in the Northwestern dorm room where they’d been assigned as roommates, Alene saw that people of all ages fell in love with her. Especially children, including Alene’s three. Her twelve-year-old, Sierra, often called Ruthie for advice, and her ten-year-old, Quinn, had told Alene that Ruthie was more patient at teaching all the art projects Quinn and Ruthie’s daughter liked to do together. Eight-year-old Noah loved playing with Ruthie’s eight-year-old son, and constantly asked if he could sleep over there, because it was more fun than home.

Alene wasn’t hurt that all three kids loved being at the Rosins. A big part of the allure was Ruthie’s husband, Benjie. He was a big, handsome bear of a guy who built, invented, and had endless patience. He was the kind of loving dad they longed for instead of the kind they had, who dragged them to his workplace on a Saturday and left them to their own devices.

Alene loved being with the Rosins too, especially when Ruthie’s mother was around. In one of those small-world stories that Alene loved encountering, it turned out that Ruthie’s mother had grown up with Phyllie’s mother-in-law. And Phyllie’s mother-in-law, Julian’s mother, turned out to be Sylvie Huff, the wife of Alene’s self-absorbed, bodybuilding, fitness center-owning, supplement-selling neighbor, Stanley Huff.

Phyllie said, “Don’t worry guys, we’ll come back and see Ruthie tomorrow.” She ushered them back to their table.

Edith stood at attention behind the bar as Phyllie ordered a mocha latte for herself, and a green smoothie for the boys. “My husband has reflux and has been belching all morning,” Phyllie said. “What would you recommend for that?” Both Edith and Phyllie spoke in loud, inescapable voices. Jocelyn leaned down to tell Zuleyka, another barista, what Phyllie had just said and they both giggled. Zuleyka, who was Panamanian, spoke English well enough to serve behind the counter, but didn’t understand every word the first time.

Julian came closer to the counter. “My mother was rushed to the hospital last night, while I was at a jiujitsu tournament,” he said, swallowing a burp. His voice wasn’t as loud as his wife’s, but it was nasal and could cut through other restaurant chatter. “It’s not unusual to feel stressed when your mother’s blood pressure shoots through the roof.” Phyllie and Julian both worked at the middle school Alene’s twelve-year-old daughter attended; Julian as a science teacher and Phyllie as a librarian who often recommended books to Alene.

“I drink a glass of water with apple cider vinegar every morning,” said Edith, “and that helps me enormously. I’m sorry to hear about your mother, because I know what it feels like to be sick, I mean, I …”

“Hi Julian,” Olly interrupted, bouncing up from behind the counter where he’d just replenished a tray. He whispered loudly to Alene, “Maybe it’s the vinegar that gives her the prune-face.” Zuleyka and Jocelyn giggled again, stopping only when Alene tilted her head at them, her eyes opened wide in an expression of “What’s wrong with you?”

“Would you like a pot of chamomile tea, Julian?” Alene, who also drank water with vinegar every morning, scowled at Olly and smiled at Julian. “The lemon muffins and the apple rounds are still warm.”

Edith said, “Or you can all have smoothies made with flax, hemp and chia, goji, maca powder, romaine lettuce, and fruit. I think drinking smoothies makes me feel much better despite the serious head injury I suffered recently.” Edith needed to mention the attack at least once a day.

Julian, distracted from his worries, asked, “What is maca powder, exactly?”

“Ah,” said Edith, who never missed a chance to give a boring description of ingredients. “Maca powder comes from the root of an herbaceous biennial plant, meaning they do not have a woody stem above the ground, and they take two years to finish their biological life. Sweet William and hollyhocks are biennials, for example. Anyway, Lepidium meyenii is part of the crucifer family of plants, like mustards and cabbages. It comes from the Andes Mountains in Peru.”

Phyllie and Julian stood motionless, and even their sons seemed hypnotized by Edith’s droning. Zuleyka and Jocelyn were serving other customers, but they kept looking over at Julian and his family. Alene said, “So how about that pot of tea, Julian, and something for the boys?” The order was taking forever.

Phyllie ordered breakfast for the family and turned to Alene, her expression and brown hair nearly identical to her husband’s. “He’ll be with his mother all day. Here we are on another Saturday morning and again she has some unexplained malady requiring the attention of her one child who has a family to inconvenience.” She turned her back to Julian and sat down at the big table next to the counter, muttering, “She probably has hiccups.”

Alene said, “I’m sorry to hear about your mom, Julian.” She and Ruthie had taken voice lessons with Julian’s mother when they were first pregnant. Back at Northwestern, they hadn’t been accepted into the chorus they’d wanted to join, and worried that their future babies would cry if they tried to sing lullabies. Sylvie, when she wasn’t bragging about herself, had taught them how to breathe correctly. The lessons must have worked because none of the kids had ever covered their ears, and Alene thought she’d gotten pretty good at singing to them. “How’s she doing?”

“It’s more than hiccups,” said Julian as he paid for breakfast. Julian had brown, sloping eyes, also kind of like Phyllie’s. They looked similar, but Julian had a straight nose, his features weren’t quite large enough to fit his face, and he always wore a defeated expression. Alene’s daughter, Sierra, had hated him as a teacher. She said he let the class disrupters get away with everything and never sent them to the principal’s office.

“If there wasn’t something seriously wrong with my mother,” said Julian, now carrying his and Phyllie’s hot drinks to the table, “they wouldn’t keep her overnight at the hospital.”

Alene’s mother had spent a lot of time at the hospital during her final months, after the cancer had metastasized and the doctors said there was nothing more they could do. Alene remembered how difficult it had been to be surrounded by beeping machines in airless rooms. “I hope she gets to go home today,” she said from behind the counter. They were sitting at the table closest to the counter.

Ethan, the older child, was now sitting up straight, and asked in his croaky voice, “What’s wrong with Grandma Sylvie? Can I make her a picture?”

“Picture,” growled Richie, the two-year-old, with a twist of his upper lip, as though he were issuing an order to one of his henchmen.

“Awesome idea, boys,” Julian bent down to kiss the tops of their heads.

“Your mother always gets sick just in time for the weekend,” said Phyllie. Alene cringed when people spoke about their mothers in a negative way.

Julian said, “Stanley’s son and his wife came over and said something that upset her, which isn’t that hard a thing to do. My mom thinks those two are judgmental, but then she ranted about Rhea’s broad shoulders and Harrison’s hair plugs for ten minutes.”

Alene interrupted, “Hold on, I never paid much attention, but Stanley had two kids, right?”

“Two sons,” said Julian. “Harrison is the older one. He’s thirty-two, two years younger than me. He does something in real-estate. And the younger one is about twenty-four. My mother married their dad when Heather and I were ten and twelve, but we never lived with them or anything, so we were never close. I hate when my mother complains about them, especially when she focuses on silly things, like hair plugs and shoulders.”

Jocelyn finished helping a customer and said, “Rhea has broad shoulders because she was a swimmer. She’s an interior decorator, perfectly nice, but she does whatever Harrison wants, and Harrison is a bully. He’s never thought about how his words and actions effect other people. He’s that kind of real-estate broker who will say whatever he needs to say to close a deal. He probably said something appalling and hurtful, something that could have really upset Sylvie. Hair plugs, eh?”

How did Jocelyn know Harrison Huff and his wife? Alene put a hand on Jocelyn’s arm and said, “Next customer, Jocelyn.” She also nudged Zuleyka to get moving. She didn’t want to offend the people standing in line behind Julian.

Edith, a few sentences behind the conversation, said, “Your mother might have had a stroke, and if you don’t treat a stroke immediately …” She stopped talking when Alene looked at her with what Edith fortunately understood to be a “what’s-wrong-with-you” face. How many times in one day was Alene going to take issue with Edith? In the training on responding to difficult customers, one of the main points was to stick to the menu.

When they were ready, Alene brought the plates to Phyllie and Julian’s table. Phyllie said, “Thanks, Alene. We’ve got twenty minutes together because Julian’s mother is sick again, as I mentioned, in some mysterious way that’s going to require lots of attention. He’s going to leave as soon as he finishes eating.”

She wished some of Ruthie’s sweetness would rub off on her and she could respond in an empathetic way. She said, “Hope you all enjoy your breakfast then.” Alene didn’t really know Phyllie that well, except that she’d recommended some wonderful books over the years.

“My mother-in-law is beyond difficult,” Phyllie continued. “She invents a new drama every weekend to get Julian to come over.” Alene’s eldest daughter had complained that he talked through his nose, told too many stories, and graded too hard, but Sierra had only liked two of her teachers that entire year.

Phyllie pulled wipes from her purse and cleaned the boys’ faces. “I just wish Julian would cut the cord,” she added. Alene often saw Julian at her condo building; a big, hunched-shouldered guy pushing his stroller in and out of the elevator, on his way to or from visiting Sylvie. Sometimes he also came on weeknights. Alene hoped at least one of her own children would be as attentive.

While the little boys ran in circles around Julian, Phyllie told Alene about the time six years before when Stanley put his hand up her skirt. It had felt like an assault. “That’s the kind of family I married into,” Phyllie said. “I wish I’d kicked Stanley in the balls instead of just running out of the room.”

Alene wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, wondering how Sylvie could have stayed married to Stanley after that. Too bad you marry the family along with the man. Alene’s marriage had failed, but she was still close to her ex-mother-in-law. “What happened after you reported him?”

Phyllie shook her head. “I probably should have,” she said, “but I didn’t think anything would come of it.” It must have been before the #MeToo movement. Alene apologized a third time, thanked Phyllie and Julian for coming in, and hurried to help behind the counter thinking that she should have another talk with her girls about what to do if a man ever tried to touch them inappropriately.

The pretty woman with the golden-brown hair with whom Stanley had been flirting the other day had managed to nab the largest table again. She had a Better Be Fit bag next to her purse and smiled at so that Alene could see the gap in her front teeth. Alene was about to ask her to move, or at least to put the bag away, but a man with a thick neck brought two cups of coffee and sat down at her table. Jocelyn delivered their food, and Alene was glad she hadn’t said anything.

Now, Ruthie’s mother, Lillian, entered the café with her new boyfriend, Lawrence, a gentleman about Alene’s dad’s age, early seventies with a receding hairline, who stooped over a bit and had very thin lips. Alene, consciously pulling back her shoulders, crossed the café with her arms open and greeted them both, “How nice to see you!” Alene adored Ruthie’s mother. She was calm, didn’t get easily frazzled, and always looked put-together. She’d also survived and flourished in the twenty years following the death of Ruthie’s father, but her hair was completely white. “But you know Ruthie doesn’t work on Saturdays, Lillian.”

“I know,” said Lillian, “but we wanted to bring some healthy pastries to Sylvie Huff. She’s in the hospital.”

Alene said, “I heard about it from her son.”

Lawrence said, “And I’ve been looking forward to visiting the famous Whipped and Sipped Café.” Alene liked his warm greeting.

“So, we want half-a-dozen of whatever you think are the best things Ruthie baked yesterday,” Lillian said.

“It’s all best,” said Alene, watching how Lawrence kept his hand behind Lillian’s back as though protecting her from falling over. Maybe it was a generational thing. She noticed Lillian’s pale-pink fingernails, and as expected, impeccably applied make-up. Lillian once said that she hadn’t left her house without make-up since the day at age fourteen when she’d worn lipstick to school, and a boy had smiled at her. Alene loved that story about Lillian, who’d taught both Ruthie and Alene that their efforts at self-improvement should be both internal and external. Ruthie was better at remembering the advice than Alene. “I’ve already drunk enough coffee today, but I’d love a cup of green tea, please,” said Lillian.

“For me as well, please,” said Lawrence, glancing around the café. He gestured with his thumb, “This is a great neighborhood.” He listed the shops and restaurants he knew and liked, and then said, “And one of my former clients owns the place next door.”

“Lawrence did some legal work for Stanley Huff,” said Lillian, gazing fondly at him, “a long time ago. Ruthie might have mentioned the connection.”

“We’ve been tangled up in a lawsuit against him for over five years,” said Lawrence.

“That must be frustrating,” said Alene. She wasn’t surprised, considering Stanley’s generally rude behavior, but for all she knew, Lawrence was the one who’d wronged Stanley and not the other way around. “Ruthie never mentioned it.” That was because Ruthie avoided gossiping.

Alene listened to Lillian as she watched Kacey’s new boyfriend dismount and lock up his bicycle. He was a street artist who collected garbage and transformed it into sculptures. He parked and locked his bike, stopping to admire the sculpture he’d made that was now attached to the café’s outside wall. The Rainbow Sculpture was Kofi Lloyd’s signature piece, well-known as a fixture in Boystown. Alene texted herself a reminder to investigate organizing a neighborhood art walk.

Kacey had told her she’d never fallen so hard for anyone before. Kofi was tall and thin with adorable dimples. While building his career as a sculptor, he worked as a bartender next door at Tipped. He’d already brought helped to bring out Kacey’s artistic side. In the six weeks they’d been dating, he’d gotten her to try her hand at sketching and photography and had spent a lot of time teaching her how to use his high-tech, expensive camera. He’d even gotten Kacey to sign up for a community art class starting in September.

Maybe he’d be willing to create a map of Lakeview’s public art. It could be both on paper and online. Alene and Ruthie could help him approach the local Chamber of Commerce. Most neighborhood businesses would want more customers, and like Whipped and Sipped, would probably be willing to pay for an advertisement. Someone must have told Kacey, who ran out of the kitchen and into Kofi’s arms.

Lillian smiled with her perfect, white teeth as she spoke. She’d once told Alene that she’d felt like an ugly duckling when her mother couldn’t afford to have her teeth straightened. She’d worked at the corner drugstore after school and saved every penny to pay for her own braces. It was supposed to be an inspirational story, but Ruthie’s twelve-year-old daughter had been horrified and demanded assurance from Ruthie and Benjie that they’d pay for her braces.

Customers came in and lined up at the counter. Alene went back to help, passing Julian’s younger child, who sucked his drink with the satisfied expression of someone smoking a cigarette. Behind the counter, Alene loaded a box with pastries and presented it to Lillian. Lawrence reached in his back pocket for his wallet and Alene stopped him. “I’d never charge the mother of my best friend and pastry chef,” she said.

As they thanked her and left the café, Alene admired how Lillian camouflaged her hooded eyes with smoky shadow and mascara. She’d once shown Ruthie and Alene, but neither of them had ever managed to pull off the look. Lillian had learned her make-up skills from Sylvie, who’d been, according to Lillian, a spirited redhead with a gorgeous voice. It was hard to imagine, because nearly every time Alene saw her, Sylvie’s hair was brassy, and she looked uncomfortably bloated.

Another customer entered the café carrying a Better Be Fit bag. Stanley had probably talked the guy into buying some unnecessary crap. Phyllie started trying to get the boys back in the stroller. “Do what you want, Julian,” she said loud enough for the entire place to hear, “but we’re going home for naps. It’ll be nice if we can have some family time today.”

Julian mumbled something about how his mother was also family. Jack came back out of the kitchen then with his bucket and mop. Through the open kitchen door, Alene heard Kacey scream.