I’ve been on pins and needles all morning, trying to focus on Helen Trifauni’s visit tomorrow, but I’m constantly glancing over my shoulder for anything out of the ordinary. I field calls from Be Our Guest, begging to know if the cottage is back up, and if I can honor some of the existing reservations I’ve already cancelled. I tell them no.
I call Sandy at the shop. She reassures me that everything is ready to go, but she sounds nervous.
“Do you need me to come in?” I ask.
“Not if you’re going to be in the same state as you were yesterday.”
“All right, but call me if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
She’s right. I’ll be distracted at the shop, but I can’t sit at home. So, Murphy and I head to The Sanctuary. I spend the better part of two hours throwing his red tennis ball into the trees for him to race after it. He’s so tuckered out by the end, I almost have to carry him back to the house. Thankfully, he makes it back on his own steam. Once inside, he lamely tries to get to his bed in the study, but only makes it halfway through the study door before he lies down and starts snoring.
I try to get some work done at my computer, but my gaze constantly drifts out the window to the forest.
It’s been years since I looked to see if there have been any updates about Laura. I used to do it constantly, but after so much time had passed with no changes to the investigation, I walled up that part of my life and moved on. Now, with everything that’s happening, I want to know if there’s anything new about her disappearance. A quick search proves that no, there’s no new information. It gives me a little comfort and I’m able to get some work done.
When hunger comes on around five o’clock, I wake up Murphy, and we head into town. I hit up the Iron & Ivy one more time, and watch the final preparations for the Halloween festivities.
I order the Bacon-Bleu burger, medium rare, with a side of fries, and a seasonal pumpkin ale to wash it down. I “accidentally” drop more fries onto the ground for Murphy than I should. I try to focus on the meeting but every time I do, I think of Laura and—
My phone buzzes. The caller ID flashes “SANDY”. I quickly take a swig of beer to wash down the bit of French fry in my mouth before answering.
“Hey, Sandy. What’s up?”
“You need to come in, right now,” Sandy says, straining to keep her voice calm.
“Why? What’s going on? What happened?”
“She’s here!”
The sound of the register chimes in the background.
“Here’s your change,” she says away from the phone with forced cheerfulness.
“Who’s there?”
“The lady from the company. The one who’s checking us out.”
I sit up in my chair. “She’s not supposed to be here until tomorrow.”
“Um, yeah!”
“Okay. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can but I have to take Murphy home, first.”
“Just get here.”
The line goes dead.
*
I leave half of my burger but down the rest of my beer. I don’t waste time asking for the bill. I just leave way more cash on the table than the bill could possibly be. I take Murphy to the truck and head out.
I glance towards the shop as we drive past. Through the store window, I can see that the line is long. No wonder Sandy is losing her mind.
Ten minutes later, I pull into my driveway.
I take Murphy inside. I tell him to “stay”, but when I turn to go back out, he tries to follow.
“Nope. You stay.”
He slowly sits on the floor in the hallway, clearly confused.
“Sorry, buddy. I’ll be back.”
After locking the door behind me, I run to the truck. As I jump in, I quietly curse, because that taillight still isn’t fixed, and this would be the worst time in the world to get pulled over.
*
My luck holds out and I’m able to floor it back to the shop without being spotted by a cop.
Walking through the door, the first thing I see is Sandy’s face. She’s trying to hold the place together. I walk up to the register, where Sandy is making change, while Tom and Sheila frantically try to keep up with the drink orders. This was poor scheduling on my part. It’s a Friday, two days before Halloween. Of course, we’re going to be packed. I should have been here the whole time.
“Where is she?” I ask, under my breath.
“Corner booth.”
I start to turn around.
“Don’t look!”
“Sandy, I have to look.”
“Well, just don’t be obvious.”
“Sandy, it’s fine. Everything is going to be fine.”
I raise my head to look over the line of customers.
There she is, sitting in the same booth where Mr Tiller sat a few days ago. She’s a small woman with sharp features, thick glasses, and a nest of gray hair atop her head. She’s holding a pen in her bony fingers, and there’s an open spiral notebook on the table in front of her. She’s looking right at us with a perfectly blank expression.
I smile at her.
She clicks the pen, tilts her head down, and begins furiously writing.
“Shit …” I whisper.
“I thought she wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”
“That’s what I was told.”
“So, what is she doing here? Is she going to be here until we close?”
“Sandy, you’ve got to calm down, okay? I’ll go find out. Did you talk to her, already?”
She squirms. “Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing …”
“Sandy?”
“She just came in and sat down. It was so weird that I asked her if she wanted to order anything. She said no, and I said I’m sorry, but we don’t allow loitering. I swear, Jacob, I thought she was just some crazy lady. I mean, look at her … Oh my God. I’ve screwed this whole thing up, haven’t I?”
I’ve never seen her so wound up.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m going to go over and talk to her, okay?”
“Tell her that I’m sorry. If I had known—”
“Sandy, it’s fine. Keep the place going. You’re amazing. Smile. I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay.”
“Big smiles on everyone, okay?” I add, nodding to Tom and Sheila.
Sandy tries to smile, but she’s so rattled, it looks like she’s baring her teeth.
I have to leave it at that. I move around the line and make my way to the corner booth.
As I approach, she stops writing. Her eyes follow me from behind those dark, tinted glasses. Every other part of her body remains still.
“Mrs Trifauni?”
“Yes?” Her voice is clipped and surprisingly low for someone so small. I have to assume it’s from years of smoking.
“I’m the owner, Jacob Reese. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, and extends her hand.
Her spindly fingers are ice cold. After we shake, she gives me her card, which I tuck into my pocket.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee or a latte?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
“May I join you?”
“Of course.”
I slide into the seat across from her.
“I hear that you’ve already met my associate, Sandy.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to forgive her.”
“What for?”
“For mistaking you for someone who was loitering.”
“Her response was perfectly natural. She should prevent loiterers.”
I twist backwards towards the counter. Sandy is trying to pretend like she isn’t watching us. I give her a big thumbs-up. She’s mortified.
I turn back to Mrs Trifauni. “I am a little confused, though.”
“Oh?”
“Mr Tiller said you were coming tomorrow.”
“Yes, but when I scout a potential franchise, I want to see them at their most ‘normal’, not when they are on heightened alert because I’m there. I got here around seven this morning and decided—”
“Wait. You’ve been here since this morning?”
“Yes,” she replies, as though nothing could be more normal. “I wanted to get a feel for the town, how your shop fits in, and how it might fit in with other towns.”
“And what do you think?”
I catch the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. “It’s charming.”
I have the distinct impression that this is as close as she gets to gushing. She’s completely under The Hollows’ spell.
“I also wanted to see your opening procedures and what the early business was like,” she continues. “So, I watched from across the street.”
I’m stunned. “I want to make sure I understand this, Mrs Trifauni. You’ve been scoping us out since seven this morning?”
“I need to know everything about this place,” she says, continuously clicking her pen like it’s an uncontrollable tick. “I want to see every customer’s experience from the moment they walk in the door to the moment they leave. It’s the only way to know if Groundworks is worthy of Alliance Capital’s money. What I want from you and your staff is to go about your work as if I am not here.”
“We can definitely do that, but before I get back to work, are there any other questions I can answer for you?”
She clicks the pen and uses it to point near the register. “Is that a dog bed over there?”
Shit. I was going to get Murphy’s bed out of here tomorrow morning before she arrived.
“Yes,” I answer, frantically trying to come up with an explanation.
“Do you normally have a dog in here? So much so that it has its own bed?”
It’s obvious she doesn’t like it, and I’m reminded of Mr Tiller’s warning.
“We have a lot of locals come in with their dogs and sometimes, if the line is really long, we let them crash while their owners wait.” It’s not my best lie, but I try to work in a positive business spin by mentioning that we regularly have long lines.
“Well, if we move forward, lapses in health standards like that will have to go.”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
Her eyes scan me from behind those glasses, and then drift down to the notebook. She rapidly clicks the pen, and begins scribbling some notes. Although the pages in the notebook are unruled, her writing forms perfect rows across the blank pages.
“Anything else I can answer for you?” I ask.
“No. I believe I have everything I need.”
“If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“I won’t.”
I smile. “I’m quite certain of that.”
My little joke works, and I can see that trace of a smile return.
I hop out of the booth and go to the register. I collect Murphy’s bed, take it through the back to the parking lot, and toss it into the truck. Once back inside, there’s a short break in the line, and I gather everyone for a quick pep talk.
“Okay, guys, listen up. She’s fine. She’s a little strange, but she wants to see the place in action. So, big smiles. You guys are getting triple overtime, tonight, and I’ll pay you in cash at the end of the shift. Cool?”
They all eagerly nod.
“Everyone just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s gonna be great.”
*
This is the longest six hours, ever.
The shop is slammed. Outside the window, The Hollows is in full Halloween splendor, and everyone who comes through the door is giddy with anticipation. I, on the other hand, feel like a bomb is about to go off. Occasionally, I glance over at the booth and she’s not moving. I swear, she might be dead. I want to go and hold a mirror under her nose to see if she’s still breathing. Instead, I keep going. Sometimes, I’ll hear the sharp click of her pen over the din of the customers, reassuring me that yes, she is still among the living.
My cheeks start to hurt from smiling, and I know I’m not the only one. The crew is feeling it, too. Sandy has recovered. Out of all of us, she’s holding it together the best. When it slows down, I tell her to take a fifteen-minute break.
“I’m gonna go run around the parking lot and scream for a few minutes,” she says, blowing by me.
“Knock yourself out.”
“Junior partner!” I hear her faintly yell as she opens the back door.
It’s drawing closer to closing. We’re like marathon runners with the finish line in sight. I’ve been enjoying this. The shop is alive with laughter and conversation. My crew is knocking it out of the park, and I haven’t thought about Laura or the events of the past few days for hours.
Eight-thirty hits and I tell Sandy to put out the “closed” sign. The place is still packed. A few more people straggle in and jump in line until finally, I send Tom outside to instruct anyone else who tries to come in that we are done for the night.
I check Mrs Trifauni. She’s no longer paying attention to the shop. She’s staring out the window at Main Street. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad sign, but at this point, if she’s not impressed, there’s nothing we can do about it.
The last order is served, and we start breaking everything down. The crew and I are beat. Sheila begins sweeping the floor. Tom wipes down the cappuccino machine. I’m covering all the food items in cellophane and storing them in the fridge. Sandy is taking care of the register.
An hour later, the last guests are leaving, with the exception of Mrs Trifauni. I thank the last couple as they leave, and lock the door behind them with a flourish.
We’re done.
“Mrs Trifauni?” I politely call from the door.
She looks in my direction.
“I’m going to walk my crew out. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
She nods.
I lead Sandy, Tom, and Sheila through the swinging doors to the food prep station in the back.
“Wait for me in the parking lot,” I tell them.
They leave, and I head into the office. I go to the safe, pull out a thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, and go through the back door.
The night air is bracing. Stars dot the sky and the moon has an icy-blue glow.
I join Tom, Shelia, and Sandy under the lone light. I take five hundred dollars from the stack of money I’m carrying, and divide it between Tom and Sheila. “You guys were amazing today. Go have some fun.”
“Thanks, boss,” Shelia says.
“Thank you,” Tom adds.
They walk away down the alley as if they’re afraid I may realize I’ve made a mistake.
I turn to Sandy.
“Well,” she says, “there goes a good chunk of the day’s profi—”
“And you,” I say, stomping on her last line. I hand her the remaining five one hundred-dollar bills. “Thank you.”
“Jacob, you don’t have to do this. That’s almost a fifth of the day’s profits.”
“If my guess is right, we just made a lot more than that.”
She looks at the cash like it might bite her.
“Sandy, take the money.”
She gingerly grasps it and puts it in her pocket. “Thank you,” she says.
“Thank you.”
We have a moment that feels a little more than employer and employee.
“I should get back in there,” I finally say, and turn to the door.
“Knock ’em dead!”
“Don’t say that. She’s old.”
Sandy’s laugh carries through the cold air as I open the door and go back inside. I find Mrs Trifauni in the booth, right where I left her, staring out at Main Street.
“Care if I join you again?”
She turns and smiles—an honest-to-God smile. “Have a seat.”
I believed before, but now I know—we did it. All the tension rushes out of me as I sit down for the first time in hours. I also realize how tired I am. My feet are killing me.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
“I think it goes without saying that I’m extremely impressed. You’ve got quite a little product here.”
“Thank you. I’ve also got a very good team.”
She nods appreciatively, and flips open her notebook. “I do have some ideas that I want to discuss with you,” she says with a few clicks of her pen.
“Fire away,” I reply, remembering Mr Tiller’s warning about her desire to flex her “creative muscles”.
She clicks her pen one last time and consults her notes. “What I have in mind is a chain of Groundworks boutique coffee shops. Now, one of the best assets for Groundworks is, of course, The Hollows, and that one can’t travel. What Alliance Capital would do is find towns like The Hollows and set up shops. It would be a part of the brand. Towns could wear the fact that they have a Groundworks Coffee like a badge of honor.”
“Great.”
She flips a page. “Getting down to brass tacks, I love what you’ve done with the décor. Was that your call?”
“Yep.”
“It’s fantastic, but I worry that it may be cost-prohibitive to replicate in other locations. This location would be the flagship, and would stay as is, but other locations would be more basic.”
“Sure.”
She flips another page. “Also, your team is good, but you need more. Other locations will have a bigger staff. We’ll flesh out a more detailed structure later.”
“Okay.”
Click.
I stop. It sounded like she just clicked her pen, but I didn’t see her click it. I must be really tired, because it sounded like there was an echo through the shop. She makes no indication that she heard anything. I glance around but shake it off.
“Another aspect we’ll have to address is the menu. I like the options that you have, but there are too many. We’ll have a team of experts who will work with what you have and come up with some new recipes that will streamline the menu and cut down on inventory.”
“Okay …” I answer, my voice wavering.
She looks up. “Don’t worry. This is all standard stuff. Groundworks will still have a unique menu. We’re only going to make it more efficient.” She goes back to her notebook.
I’m not worried about the menu. It’s the furthest fucking thing from my mind.
What caused my voice to waver is the big fat cockroach that’s climbing up the wall behind her. It lazily wanders closer and closer to the back of her head.
She’s still talking, something about advertising, but I can’t hear her.
The cockroach begins moving in more spastic dashes, getting closer to her hair. From behind her seat, another cockroach emerges.
She’s looking down in her notebook, giving notes, but it’s like she’s on mute.
I’ve got to get her out of here. I have to keep her from looking back. I have to bring this to a close before she sees them.
“Look,” I say, trying to keep my voice on an even keel. “It’s been a long day. Would you like to head over to the local bar, and continue the conversation over a glass of wine or something?”
“That’s all right. I’m almost done,” she says, not looking up. “I want to talk about management structure for each location …”
A third roach appears in the corner, near the window. I’m trying not to breathe. It dashes onto the glass, getting closer and closer to her peripheral vision. It scuttles down towards the table.
No. No. No. No. No.
It halts just above the table’s surface. It’s perfectly still except for its antennae, which swing back and forth from its glistening head.
I’m so fixated on the cockroach that it takes a second to register that she’s stopped talking. I look away from the roach and across the table. She’s staring straight at me. No, not right at me. She’s staring just past me, over my shoulder.
Something breezes across the back of my neck.
I turn.
The back of my seat is covered in big, thick cockroaches.
I spring from the booth.
Roaches scurry and scuttle across the floor.
They’re everywhere.