Seven

“Okay, everyone!” I said in a voice I hadn’t used since my adult daughter had playdates. “I think we need a time-out. Let’s all calm down and have a cookie.”

To my relief, everyone did.

Fortunately, the copious snacking off my cookie tray, and sipping of the freshly roasted Peruvian, relaxed the room’s tense vibe.

After munching a few crunchy bites of our Almond Biscotti, Tucker finally resuscitated the strangled discussion—

“When I said musician, I didn’t mean for us to go all retro Greenwich Village, à la Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie. I was thinking more of a pianist.”

“Good,” Esther said, “because Woody Guthrie is dead!”

“A pianist with a grand piano and a classy tux?” Nancy asked, ignoring Esther. “Or were you thinking more of a Liberace type with a rhinestone Vegas vibe?”

Tucker shrugged. “Just a Billy Joel–type ‘Piano Man’ sort of player, you know, to liven up the atmosphere. They could take requests. We could even do sing-along nights.”

“Like karaoke?” Dante asked, grabbing a Chocolate-Stuffed Peanut Butter Cookie and refilling his coffee cup. “That might be fun.”

“Unless the customers who insist on singing can’t carry a tune.” Esther reached for her third Mocha Blossom Kiss. “A bunch of banshees howling off-key? That’ll empty the place for sure.”

Nancy spoke up. “If it’s quiet entertainment you want, why not hire that mime on Christopher Street? Mimes are quiet and classy.”

“What’s a mime going to do?” Esther asked. “Moonwalk between the café tables? Pretend to tightrope walk on the coffee bar? That’s not going to help business—”

“I think we’re missing the biggest issue,” Dante interrupted. “There’s a lot less foot traffic on the sidewalks nowadays, and if the streets are empty, then there isn’t anyone to lure inside.”

“The Leonardo of Lattes is right,” Esther said. “People go to a destination. They may or may not stop somewhere else like a deli or coffee shop along the way, but the destination is key. Their destination used to be the office, their place of work—”

“That’s it!” Tuck practically jumped out of his chair. “We need to become the destination—”

I could feel a rush of excitement. My staff was finally starting to cook. It only took a single statement from Nancy to deflate us.

“We’re a coffeehouse, not the Statue of Liberty. How do we become a destination?”

Everyone fell silent.

Finally, Nancy yelped, “I’ve got it!”

“Oh, no,” Esther groaned.

“Just listen!” Nancy said. “We should be posting social media videos!”

“Of what?” Esther asked.

“Of Dante!”

“Me?” Dante nearly choked on his French-pressed Peruvian. “Videos of me? Doing what exactly?”

“Making lattes. Maybe even with your shirt off. Your latte art wins awards. And you’re certified hot! That should attract some IG fans, don’t you think?”

“Only the ones who prefer tattoo-armed hottie guys with exceptional latte art skills,” Esther pointed out. “What about the ones looking for eye candy of the female kind?”

Nancy blinked. “What do you mean?”

“If you’re willing to pimp Dante, then how about we put you in a skimpy outfit with fake eyelashes, six-inch stilettos and have you suck on a coffee stirrer. That should bring in the other half of the Internet.”

Nancy looked horrified. “I’m not doing that!”

“Exactly,” Esther huffed.

“We do get a social media boost for our holiday specials,” I pointed out. “But it’s a narrow window. We need something more reliable than a spike from a social media gimmick. We need steady, daily business, and Dante is right about the foot traffic problem.”

“It feels insurmountable,” Tucker said with a sigh. “What we need is a miracle marketing idea.”

“Or a magic wand,” Nancy said.

“Magic is right,” Dante said and flipped his thumb in the direction of two of the many framed works of art I’d hung on the lounge walls this morning. “Too bad we can’t get those two to help.”

Nancy frowned at the portraits. “I don’t get it, Dante. Who are those old dudes? Magicians?”

“Old dudes?” Esther’s hands went to her hips. “They’re only two of the most influential writers of the twentieth century.”

Nancy folded her arms. “Then I should have heard of them. What did they write?”

“Well, that dude wrote The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit.”

“Oh, wow.” Nancy blinked. “I loved those movies!”

“They were adapted from his novels,” Esther said.

“I know that!” Nancy said. “I just didn’t know what he looked like.”

“And the other dude was a quirky Oxford don who wrote his manuscripts longhand and had his brother Warnie type them up for him, using two fingers, no less.”

Dante nodded. “The Chronicles of Narnia. I read them as a kid.”

“So did I!” Nancy said, drawing closer to the portraits. “But I don’t understand why they’re on our wall. Or that bunch of guys—” She pointed to another picture.

“Those are the Inklings,” Esther said. “They were a group of writers who met regularly in the back room of an Oxford pub. And those two dudes in the portraits, J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, were the most famous members.”

“What about that one?” She pointed to a work of pen-and-ink, done in caricature. “Who are all those people sitting around that big table?”

“Oh, honey,” Tucker chimed in. “Even I recognize the Algonquin Round Table, and they weren’t just authors. They were journalists, theater critics, composers, playwrights, and actors—that’s Robert Benchley, George S. Kaufman, Noël Coward, Harpo Marx, Tallulah Bankhead—”

“And don’t leave out the most important member,” Esther cut in. “Dorothy Parker, queen of the caustic comeback, and one of my literary heroes.”

“What a shocker,” Tucker said dryly.

Esther smirked. “ ‘I’m one of the glamorous ladies / At whose beckoning history shook. / But you are a man, and see only my pan, / So I stay home with a book.’ ”

“And I’ll bet you wake up every morning like Dorothy, too. After you brush your teeth, you sharpen your tongue.”

“Nice try. But that bon mot came from Oscar Levant, not Dorothy Parker—though it’s often attributed to her.”

“Hmm,” Tucker said. “I guess I stand corrected.”

“Even though you’re sitting?”

“Fine. I sit corrected.”

“Which is appropriate,” Esther said. “Because when it comes to dodging my wit, you’re a sitting duck.”

“Keep it up, Acid Annie, and you’ll have to duck, because I’ll start throwing things.”

Here we go again, I thought and was about to suggest we return the discussion to resuscitating our retail when Nancy interrupted.

“What about that one? I don’t recognize it. Do any of you?”

She pointed to another item on our wall, a rectangular metal sign covered in azure blue enamel and embossed in white letters that formed three simple words:

Writer’s Block Lounge