Invisible (9 page)

And then it happens.

“Auntie Ellyn, it's for you.”

Rosa is training Pia, who is now eighteen, as a hostess, so she's answering most of the calls today. She looks at me, her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Take a message, Pia.”

She gets the phone as far as her ear again before Rosa rips it out of her hand. Rosa then covers the mouthpiece and hisses, “You expecting a call today—you take it. Now!”

“You know I can fire you, right? You know I have that power. You do remember who I am, don't you?” But even as I'm hissing right back at her, I head for the phone. Otherwise, she'll make a scene. I shake my finger in her face, though, as I take the receiver from her hand.

I clear my throat. “Hello, this is Ellyn.”

“Hello, Ellyn, this is Sabina Jackson. We met last night.”

I sigh, my shoulders relax, and I drop onto the stool near the phone. Rosa, who is still standing next to me, shakes her head and walks away.

I'm not sure which of us is more disappointed.

I focus on the phone call. “Sabina, yes, hello.”

“I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime this week.”

I hesitate. “Do I look caffeine deficient?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. I'm sorry. Yes, I'd love to have coffee with you, but you don't need to buy. Why don't you just come here one afternoon before we open? We make a good cup of coffee.”

“I'm sure you do. Coming there would be lovely as long as you wouldn't rather get away from work.”

“No. I'm at home here and we won't have to fight the tourists for a table over at Thanksgiving's, which, besides Moody's Coffee Bar, where you have to stand and drink your coffee, is one of the few options.”

“Perfect. My schedule is wide open. What day works best for you?”

We set a date and time and I hang up the phone. I glare at Rosa across the kitchen. “You meddling—” The phone rings again and I grab it. “Ellyn's.”

“Ellyn? This is Miles Becker.”

My heart shoots out of the gate again, only this time it seems it's jumping hurdles.

“Oh . . . hi.”
Brilliant Ellyn, you're an astounding conversationalist.
I get up from where I'm sitting and stretch the phone cord as far around the corner, toward the office, as it will go. Someday I have to join the twenty-first century and invest in a cordless phone for the café.

“You said to call—” He pauses and chuckles. “Actually, Rosa said to call you today about getting together for coffee. But when I thought through the conversation, I thought I'd better give you an out, rather then let Rosa accept for you.”

He thought through the conversation? He's giving me an out? I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“What I'm saying is that now's your chance to tell me you don't drink coffee.”

“Oh, um . . .” Wait, I know what to say! “I drink coffee. I do. But your invitation confused me. Would you mind telling me why you'd like to get together for coffee?” There. Well said. I wait for his response.

And wait.

“I'm sorry. Your question threw me.”

Trying to come up with a good excuse to cover for the pyramid scheme?

He chuckles again. “I guess I'm out of practice. And, to be honest, I'm somewhat confused myself.”

“Out of practice? I don't understand.” Why is
he
confused?

He clears his throat. “Ellyn, it's been more than thirty years since I've asked a woman out. I'm rusty, I guess.”

He's asking me
out
?

“I'd like to get to know you better. I've enjoyed our conversations through the years . . . and I'd like to spend some time with you. It may lead to an enjoyable friendship.”

He just wants to be friends?

As he talked, I turned myself in circles, for some reason, and now the phone cord is wrapped around my knees. Which, might be good, as I think it's the only thing holding me upright.

“Ellyn? Are you still there?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm here. But, I'm . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm tangled—” I turn circles in the opposite direction and untwist the cord, and then step out of the last spiral. “I was tangled in the . . . cord.” I'm stalling. I'm the one who's confused now.

“I'm . . . I'm flattered.” I am? “But, what about Nerissa? I thought . . .” I don't give him a chance to answer, I keep rambling. “Anyway, I don't . . . date . . . I mean, not that you're asking—”

Rosa comes whirling around the corner mouthing something.

“What . . . Dr. Becker, excuse me for just a moment.” I put my hand over the receiver. “Rosa,
what
? I'm on the phone.”

“If you don't say yes to dat man, then I quit.”

“You can't quit, Rosa. Save the drama for someone else.”

“Oh, I can quit.” She unties the apron she's wearing and pulls it over her head. “You jus' watch!” Then she throws the apron at my feet.

I jump back, more from her anger than her apron.

She stands there, all 5' 2" of her, with her hands on her hips and her black curls bouncing. “What's it going to be, Chica? It's your choice.”

I sigh and shake my head, then put the phone back up to my ear. “I'm sorry, Dr. Becker—”

“Please, it's Miles.”

“Miles . . .”

Rosa glares at me.

“As I was saying, I don't really date. But a cup of coffee with a friend would be nice.” I stick my tongue out at Rosa.

I then have the same conversation with Dr. Beck—I mean,
Miles
—that I had with Sabina. I invite him to the café on Wednesday afternoon.

When I hang up, I'm so angry with Rosa that I want to put my hands around her little neck and . . .

“Whoa, you stop!” She turns and runs.

“Rosa!” I follow her back into the kitchen where I see her standing behind Paco. “How could you? You have no business—I need to set some boundaries with you. I can do that. I can set boundaries. I have a book on just that topic. Somewhere.”

Paco holds up one hand. “Bella, she has your best interest at heart. We all do. Dr. Becker is a good man.”

“You told Paco?” Then I turn and look at the rest of those gathered around the table. All eyes are on me. “You told them all? Rosa . . .” My anger starts to wane as Paco shakes his head.

“We love you, Bella. We want the best for you.”

“What makes you all so sure a man is what's best for me? I know what's best for me. I'm free to make those decisions myself. Anyway, he just wants to be friends.”

Right?

Rosa comes out from behind Paco—a look of contrition on her face. She comes toward me and then takes one of my hands in both of hers.

“I sorry, Ellyn. You right. You free to make choices yourself. I shouldn't meddle.” She looks at the floor as she speaks.

“Look at me. Rosa, look at me.” When she looks up, there's a sly smile on her face.

“Truly . . .” She drops my hand and crosses her heart. “I very sorry.”

“You're not sorry at all. Anyway, it's too late. Now I'm stuck. Not with one coffee date, but two. Sabina and Miles.”

Rosa nods. “Yes. Yes, you are.” She smiles at Paco and then goes and sits back at her place at the table. I see she's served dessert while I was on the phone. I reach for a plate with a large slice of flourless chocolate-rum torte with lemon creme anglaise and then pick up a fork. I take a bite and my heart rate begins to slow.

By the time I take the last bite, and swipe my finger across the plate to get the last drop of lemon creme, I've calmed down.

So, okay . . .

It won't kill me to have coffee with the man just once.

At least, I don't think it will.

And Sabina? She's interesting. Coffee with her might just be fun.

So yes. I have two dates . . . no, appointments . . . um,
meetings
with friends.

Whatever!

You are God and Lord of all you have created.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Eleven

Twila

Wednesdays I'm at Corners
of the Mouth all day. The wind blows so hard today that the wood doors at the front of the store open a crack every few minutes and fill the entry with cold sea air. I turn the gas pot-bellied stove on to heat the place. The store is like, so quiet this morning. I guess most people are saving their errands until the wind dies down, though here, it could be spring before that happens.

I lean against the counter where the registers are and read a new pamphlet on the cancer-fighting properties of broccoli sprouts. I know most of the information, but make a note to order some of the pamphlets to keep in the choir loft/herb room next to the seeds for sprouting.

I hear one of the front doors bang again and move to shut it tight, but then I see Ellyn standing in front of the refrigerator case in the foyer. “Hi.”

“Twila, hi, I was hoping you'd be here.”

She's pulling long pieces of red curly hair off her face and then pulls a band out of her pocket and puts it all back in a ponytail. That's how I wore mine today too. “Pretty crazy wind, right?”

“No kidding. It came up off the headlands last night and battered my house all night long. I thought I'd find shingles on the lawn this morning, but the old thing is sturdy, I guess. It did keep me awake most of the night though, so now not only is my hair blown in a hundred different directions, but I also have bags under my eyes.”

I look at her and shrug. “You look good to me. Which house do you live in?”

“It's the renovated water tower off of Little Lake. The one facing the headlands. It has natural cedar shingles and a widow's walk on top.”

“I know the one. Cool. I love the old water towers around here. They have so much history.”

“I like them too. When I moved here and saw that one, I knew I had to have it. It's unique—charming. I can say that because I just rent it. The owner refuses to sell it.”

“So what made you leave it on a day like today?” The front door bangs again. “Hey, come in here by the stove.”

We walk over to the stove, and Ellyn stands in front of it. “Oh, it feels so good. It makes me want to purr like a big orange cat.”

I laugh. “Yeah, it's nice.”

“Well, to answer your question, I have a couple of coffee dates today—people meeting me at the restaurant—and I'm out of cream. Since it's Wednesday and we're only open Thursday through Sunday, I don't get a delivery until tomorrow. So I thought I'd grab something here. Have any half-and-half?

“No, you'd have to go to Harvest for that, but we offer some great alternatives—good but healthy, you know?”

“Twila, honey, do I look like I know?”

I shrug again and smile. “I don't know, I mean, you're a chef, so . . .”

“That I am. Le Cordon Bleu trained—in Paris, no less—which means heavy cream is a staple in my repertoire and healthy alternatives aren't a consideration.” She grins. “So teach me something new.”

“Sure. Follow me.” I lead her to the refrigerator cases in the back of the store. “We have soy creamer, or you could use a nut milk, like almond milk.”

“Soy?” She puts her hand to her throat like she's gagging.

I laugh. “I'll show you something else. C'mon.” She follows me to the center aisle of the store where I reach for a can on a low shelf. “Organic coconut milk. It's rich and I hear it's good in coffee.”

She takes the can from me and looks at the label. “Twila, do you know how many calories are in this stuff?”

“Sure. But it's still good for you—it's a good fat for your body. When you're eating what your body needs, you don't have to worry too much about calories. I mean, well, I know it's hard not to think about the calories. I do. But . . .”

“Really? Honey, look at you. You look like Twiggy.”

“Who?”

She shakes her head. “Never mind. Are you sure about your information? Where'd you learn this stuff?”

“At UCSC. I have a masters in nutritional science.”

She stares at me for a minute. “So you're a child prodigy? A girl with an Einstein IQ who graduated from college when you were, what, twelve, maybe?”

“No.” I take the can of coconut milk from her and put it back on the shelf.

“Oh no, you don't, I want to try it.” She reaches down and takes it off the shelf again.

“Okay. It's what Miles uses in his coffee.”

She looks at me again and I watch as her neck and then her face blush the color of, like, a Pink Lady apple, or something.

“Oh . . . so, you know about that . . . coffee thing he wanted to do?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you.” I'd asked my mom if Miles was interested in Ellyn after we went to dinner the other night. But I just guessed he might be one of her coffee dates today.