Thirty-six

Hours later, when I finally flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, I felt like I was sealing the hatch of a war-ravaged vessel. This day had been one of the longest of my life, right up there with going into labor—and almost as painful.

The moment I locked the shop’s front door, visions of sitting in a candlelit bath and sipping a glass of mulled cider while a shirtless Mike massaged my tense shoulders floated through my head like puffs of perfumed foam. That happy image calmed me considerably, along with the realization that, in the end, my shop had a good day…

Though Esther had been late coming back, she’d been fully successful on her duck rescue mission and worked hard to help Tuck manage the upstairs lounge.

I gave even more kudos to Tuck. Not only had he handled the writers’ lounge like a pro, but he also introduced me to Howie. The orange-roofed powerhouse proved so invaluable that I asked him to stay until closing.

I had no choice, because Matt never responded to my voicemail.

My ex was ghosting me, and I could guess why. Something was brewing with Cody Wood. Something that Matt didn’t want to discuss. Not yet anyway.

Fortunately, we managed without him.

As for Mr. Scrib, I had no updates on his condition or the NYPD’s progress on arresting his attacker, but I planned on grilling Mike tonight. And I was glad we saved the poor man’s pet, at least according to Esther—

“Wacker is one happy duck,” she’d assured me after returning to the shop. “I left him plenty of feed, turned my bathtub into a play pond, and dialed the radio to a classical music station. I figured if Wacker knows Milton, he probably likes Bach.”

Bird psychology was beyond me, but I did know a thing or two about roommates, and I feared what Nancy’s reaction would be upon learning that her living space had been invaded by a guest who flapped and quacked.

To keep the coffeehouse drama to a minimum, I’d asked Esther to refrain from informing Nancy at work. My blond, braided barista would discover the truth soon enough, at the very least when she used her bathroom.

And speaking of bathrooms…

That image of a candlelit bath with a sweet glass of cider and Mike massaging my shoulders drifted back to my head like a buoyant bubble. Considering all the insanity I’d gone through today—from the Terrycloth Terror with his King Killjoy scepter to the wacky quacker and bewildering torrent of uber-caffeinated creatives—I was relieved the sun had set without a new crisis.

Leaning back against the door, I closed my eyes…and then, like all floaty dreams, my perfect bubble was burst by the harsh prick of reality. In this case, the pin jab of my vibrating phone.

I was ready to ignore the blasted buzzing, until I saw who was calling.

“Madame?” I checked my watch, frowning at the late hour. “Is everything all right?”

“No, Clare. I need your help.”

“Now?”

“Yes!”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Not me. You said you wanted to meet a member of the original Writer’s Block group. Now is your chance, but you must come quickly!”

“Where?”

“The Grande Maison on Fifth. The Wordsmyth Awards Dinner is about to end, and it may be a disaster for one of the guests of honor. I’ll explain the rest when you get here.”

I considered my wrinkled sweater, disheveled ponytail, and imminent threat of body odor.

“Be warned,” I told her, “I’m not dressed for uptown. I doubt I’ll get past the valet—”

“There’s an employee entrance left of the main door and down a flight of stairs. If I’m not there, someone else will be, and they’ll tell you where to go.”

“What if the door is locked? Do I have to use a special knock?”

“Text me when you arrive, and please hurry!”

With that, Madame ended the call.

Although her request was beyond obscure, and I was yearning to reinflate the dreamy bubble of my candlelit bathroom, I couldn’t leave her hanging. It was Madame, after all—and she did dangle the chance to meet a member of the original Writer’s Block crew.

Would it be the famous author she’d mentioned, A. F. Babcock? Or someone else? I had to admit, curiosity revved my tired engine. Grabbing my coat, keys, phone, and wallet, I felt my energy rise as I ran for the door.

No rest for the weary. As usual!