Thirty-three

After pushing through the coffeehouse door, I froze.

I wasn’t cold. I was in shock.

Tucker had warned me the place was packed with a capital P, but he’d failed to mention the C word: CHAOS. Our charming Village Blend looked and sounded like my old high school cafeteria on the day the lunch monitors failed to show.

Our café tables had been dragged into group gatherings, creating a lab-rat maze that customers had to navigate just to reach the restrooms. Those without seats were forced to mill about with coffee in one hand and pastry in the other, resulting in collisions, spillage, shouting, and arguments. No food fights yet, but it was only a matter of time.

The coffee bar was jammed with the line for service doubling back on itself and reaching nearly out the door. Behind the counter, poor Dante was frantically pulling espressos while Nancy filled food orders and rang up sales faster than Ticketmaster for a Taylor Swift tour. No extra hands were on duty to clean up the floor spills or bus tables, which were horribly strewn with debris.

If ever there was a “be careful what you wish for” moment, this was it.

Sure, I was grateful for the business. But, like any sane shop owner, I was horrified by the mayhem. I was also instantly skeptical.

Would these rowdy drop-in drinkers stick with us? Or were they one-day wonders?

Beyond the cackling laughter and angry arguments, somewhere in this crazy crowd a wannabe Broadway star felt the need to croon a number from the show Wicked.

Tuck appeared at my side, shaking his head. “Why that woman is attempting one of the most difficult pieces in modern musical theater is beyond me. ‘Defying Gravity’ calls for a tempo change, which she just blew, not to mention one of the high Fs.”

“Forget Wicked woman. It’s time to restore order.”

“Huh?”

“You’re a part-time theater director. There is your potential cast. How would you handle this anarchy on audition day?”

“Got it!”

With a clearly defined role to play, Tucker squared his narrow shoulders and squeezed his lanky form into the center of the room. Stepping onto a chair, he rose above the highly caffeinated crowd and commanded—

“Okay, people! Listen up!”

They didn’t.

The mob chattered on, the wannabe Broadway star continued her caterwauling, and customers kept on milling and spilling.

Tuck clapped his hands and tried again, louder this time. “People, work with me! We are ready to start our program!”

The room didn’t appear to care. If anything, the crowd noise grew to an almost deafening level, until a knife-sharp voice cut loose with—

“EVERYONE, SHUT UP!”

Unbelievably, they did.

“CAN’T YOU SEE THIS MAN IS TRYING TO SPEAK!”

The girl-power roar erupted from a statuesque young woman wrapped in colorfully patterned kente cloth. A full head taller than the people around her, she stood up near the hearth and faced the crowd.

When complete silence descended, the young woman waved a relaxed arm at Tuck, and said—

“Go on, string bean, tell them what’s what.”

“Thanks!” Tucker said, eyes wide. After taking a moment to clear his throat, he began again. “First question. Who is here for the Writer’s Block Lounge?”

The woman in African print tossed her long ebony braids and told him: “That’s why we’re all here.” She pointed to a crowded table in the corner. “I kept asking the Voice over there to lower her decibels, but it’s clear the drunks I serve as a bartender are easier to manage than folks jacked on coffee.”

“Ain’t it the truth,” Tuck muttered before he addressed the crowd again. “Writers! Where are you? Come on! I want a show of hands!”

More than a dozen men and women raised their arms. I spotted Dante’s friend Tony Tanaka among them in his cobalt blue hoodie. Our show tune crooner was another.

Tuck pointed at her.

“You! Name, please?”

“Dina. I’m Dina Nardini.”

“Well, Ms. Nardini, if you’re here to write music, welcome to the group. But if you plan on singing, from now on please do it with a tin cup in Times Square!”

As Tucker continued to address the crowd, I ducked behind the counter and grabbed a stack of saucer doilies. Esther had suggested Post-it notes, but I had no time to run up to my office to fetch them.

These little rounds of paper would have to work double duty as both place settings and guest checks.

After moving aside enough tables to clear a path (and slamming my poor, pathetic bandaged arm in the process), I positioned myself at the base of our spiral staircase. Unhooking the velvet rope that stretched across the wrought iron rails, I officially opened our upstairs Writer’s Block Lounge.

“Okay, you scribblers!” Tucker cried as he herded them. “Stage left and up those steps.”

As Tony Tanaka led the stampede, I stood ready to greet each guest. Forcing a smile through throbbing limb pain, I slipped him two doilies, each marked with the number one in bold ink. I continued to hand out a pair of numbered doilies to each patron, while Tucker issued instructions—

“Place one of those cute little paper circles in plain sight and write your beverage and pastry orders on the other. I’ll be up to collect your orders once you’re all settled, and you’ll be served as soon as possible.”

Then Tuck continued to circle the room, rounding up more writers and placing each of them on our “conga line to caffeine-fueled creativity!”