Thirty-one

AS my shop’s welcome bell jangled relentlessly, the army of women surged through my coffeehouse door.

My solitary male customer wanted no part of it. Faster than you could say “suffragette,” Red Beard fled the female incursion, an expression of mortal terror on his furry face.

My only other customer, the twenty-something brunette in the pleated skirt and pastel tee, stood up. Instead of fleeing, she opened her luggage to reveal the guts of a technical device. Then she hurried to join the swarming pack.

That’s when I realized the brunette’s T-shirt displayed the same graphic emblazoned on all the others. No words, just hearts on fire—the same icon as the Cinder app!

“What is this?!”

“Hold still!” the brunette in the pleated skirt commanded, and aimed some kind of advanced digital camera at my face.

I tried to move away, but the group wouldn’t have it. Like tigresses in booties and ballet flats, the twelve young women surrounded me—not unlike predators separating the weakest prey from its protective pack.

“Back off!” I cried, loud enough to bring Dante running from the pantry.

“Need help, boss? What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

Dante rolled his shirtsleeves up his strong, tattooed forearms and leaned against the counter, wary eyes on the young women—who didn’t appear to mind. Wetting their glossy lips, the pretty tigresses looked over my resident fine arts painter as if he were a fresh piece of meat.

In the meantime, I looked them over. Most were well under the age of thirty. Despite a diversity of race, body type, and hair color (which ranged from curly black to light blond with pink neon streaks), they each had the same pixie haircuts, including the camera operator.

“What is going on here?” I demanded.

The answer came from a thirteenth tigress, the oldest one. Her perfect elfin features were caressed with a slick blond pixie as shiny as polished plastic. She stepped out of the throng and right past me. Flashing a brilliant smile, she gazed into the digital camera.

“Hi! I’m Sydney Webber-Rhodes, founder and CEO of Cinder!”

Her perky tone matched her cheer girl demeanor. “My Tinkerbells and I are here in New York City, at the legendary Village Blend coffeehouse, to get to The Heart of the Story—”

“You can’t film here!” I told her.

Sydney’s megawatt grin switched off like stadium lights. As her elfin face went dark, her cherry lips pouted, and she thrust her left pinkie finger into the air.

For a second, I thought she was flipping me off in a hip new way, until I spied a tiny microdot set in the middle of her glossy crimson fingernail. The instant she raised her digit, the camera stopped.

“Stand by, AJ,” she told the photographer, who nodded her brunette pixie with grave obedience. Then Sydney turned back to me.

“We’re not filming, Ms. Cosi. We’re time-delay streaming to all users of my Cinder app. But since you’ve put the delay in time-delay, it would help if you stepped over here. I just realized how much better the light is near the window . . .”

She curled a too-familiar hand around my wrist and leaned close, her hazel-bronze tiger eyes staring me down in an expression as sharp as my daughter’s favorite chef’s knife.

“And one more thing: I would appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt me.”

Clearly, this woman was used to bulldozing her way through life—not to mention being in total control. She didn’t even trust her own photographer to operate the camera!

Well, unfortunately for Sydney Webber-Rhodes, I learned how to block bulldozers a long time ago. And I was pretty big on control myself, especially when it came to the Village Blend.

Her tiger eyes widened in surprise as I jerked my wrist from her grasp. “I decide what is or isn’t streamed in my coffeehouse.”

Though not much older than my daughter, she tossed back her slick blond pixie with the testiness of an exasperated parent. “Given all these empty chairs, I doubt this place will be yours much longer.”

I met the woman’s assured stare with my own. “That was uncalled for. The Village Blend has survived two World Wars, a Great Depression, and a Great Recession or three. We’ll find a way to weather this storm, too.”

The salesgirl smile returned. “Why weather a storm when you can reap the whirlwind?”

The Tinkerbells nodded in expressive agreement. Apparently, they’d heard this snappy bit of faux Sun Tzu before.

“Why are you here, Sydney?”

“For one reason, Clare. To save your business and mine.”