smile up at her, digging into my bag. “I’ll have the chicken salad on whole wheat with a side garden salad and an iced tea, please.”
“Coming right up,” she says as she reaches into the refrigerator for the chicken salad. She makes all her sandwiches fresh which is why they’re all so yummy. “But you did always have a great imagination. I remember,” she tells me as she grabs a loaf of bread, “when you used to make up your own stories for story time,” she goes on as she spreads the chicken salad with a skilled hand. “The children loved them.”
I smile at the memory. “They did.”
“Speaking of children, how are your girls? They must be happy to be on vacation.”
“Yes. They’re thrilled. My neighbor is looking after them today. We’re doing well.” Yes, everything is peachy, I want to tell her. Everything is great with the little exception of my paramour’s secret baby, nestled in my womb, craving a pickle. “Could you give me an extra pickle?”
“Sure. For you,” she says with a wink, “anything.”
Hanna doesn’t know about the drama that is my life. No one knows. Sometimes I wonder how I will tell everyone when I start showing. Will I tell them I’m carrying Gabe’s child? I could do that with some but not with others. The people closest to us know Gabe had a vasectomy not long ago. It was public knowledge. Our torrid lifestyle will have to become public, whether we want it to or not. I get a headache just thinking about it. Part of me does want to run away out west to California or Arizona, somewhere no one knows us.
The place is dead — which is one of the reasons I enjoy coming here. It’s so quiet, and especially on weekdays. I think Hanna barely gets by, but I can’t imagine her giving it up. For her, it’s a labor of love. I think she loves this shop as much she loves her own children. Just a few customers have popped in for a take-out lunch. I enjoy a peaceful lunch and read a chapter of Wuthering Heights. I need to fill my mind with fictional drama from an era gone by, anything to keep me from obsessing over my own drama. I bite down on the straw in my iced tea as I devour chapter six. I’ve read it many times before but it never gets old. I hear the telephone ring but I don’t pay much attention.
Hanna scurries to the counter, worked up into a frenzy. “I’m sorry, Mirella. I think I have to close up shop,” she tells me, already turning off coffee machines.
I jerk up from my seat. “What? What’s going on?”
“My daughter’s boy, he was mountain biking and got injured.” She rushes past me and puts away some food in the refrigerator. “He’s at the emergency room.”
I’m not quite sure what to say. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure he’ll be okay.”
“I really don’t want to close—”
“Listen,” I say, a hand on her shoulder. “I can take care of things here. I’ve done it a thousand times.”
She stills and stares at me for a second. “You have. Are you sure?”
“I would love to,” I tell her and the idea of it brings sudden excitement. “It’s not exactly bustling today. I’ve got it.”
She pulls me into a tight hug. “Thank you.” She spends the next five minutes going over everything I need to know, and then scurries out the door.
“Please, keep me updated,” I call out as she makes her way out.
I suck in a long breath. I have done it a thousand times before, but that was ages ago. I just hope I remember everything. But, on the plus side, the noon rush is all over with — all three customers have come and gone. I put on Hanna’s quirky apron and turn the coffee maker back on and check the filter. I wipe the counter, hoping no one shows up, because I’m not sure if I remember how to work the cash register.
The doorbell clangs and my heart leaps in my chest.
Damn it.
I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. I can do this.
I open my eyes to greet my first customer.
My stomach drops…does a complete gold medal-worthy nose-dive.
“Hello, Mirella,” he says simply, as if it’s just another ordinary sunny summer day. As if him standing there in front of me is not odd at all. The last person I expected to see walking in