“Go, go.” Sally waved me off. “I’m old, not demented. I’ve been making both change and conversation since you were no more than a whippersnapper.”
I wasn’t sure what a whippersnapper was, but I was sure I didn’t want to mess with Sally. Leaving her alone, I raced up to the front of the shop. There were ten people in line. Both trash bags were at capacity, ready to overflow with old coffee grounds and disposable cups. Gwen was standing behind the counter, looking frazzled. Beyond frazzled, in fact, she looked like she was about to have a nervous breakdown. Her hair was escaping her elegant chignon, long red tendrils falling down to frame her face. A large espresso stain spread across half her apron. Her hands were shaking as she scribbled an order on the side of the cup.
“Gwen.”
“Just a second,” she muttered, scribbling faster. “I’ve got to get this order down. Then, the trash. The milk fridge is almost empty, too.” Her eyes flickered up to the woman at the front of the line. “Hellfire. That was — what, again? A caramel macchiato?”
“What are you, deaf? I want a dirty chai. Extra hot, extra shot,” the waiting woman clipped. She sounded pissed. She looked pissed, too, her face pinched in an unattractive way. “And, as I’ve told you twice already, use oat milk.”
I stepped up beside Gwen, met the bitchy customer’s narrowed eyes, and held up a finger in the air. “Just a second.”
“Are you freaking kiddi?—”
I turned away from the woman before her protest was even out of her mouth and faced my new boss. She’d stopped scribbling, but she was definitely still shaking, top to toe. I gently tugged the sharpie from her grip, set it down, and used my hands on her shoulders to steer her backwards until her butt hit the opposite counter.
“Imogen, the line?—”
“Will still be there in five minutes,” I finished for her, retrieving a water bottle from the mini-fridge beneath the espresso machine. “Five minutes you are going to take for yourself before you self-destruct.”
“I can’t?—”
“You can. Now, sit. Sip. Breathe. I’ve got this.”
“But—”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Gwen, I’ve got it.”
With that, I whipped an apron from where it was hanging beneath the menu-board, wrapped it around my waist, and turned to face the crush of customers. The bitchy woman looked even more bitchy than she had twenty seconds before (a remarkable feat), but I didn’t really care. I pushed down the urge to tell her to take her snotty self down the block to Starbucks if she was in such a hurry. With a fake smile, I picked up her empty cup and parked myself in front of the espresso bar.
“Double dirty chai, almond milk. Coming right up.” I reached for the stainless milk-frothing canister as my eyes moved past the woman to the man behind her. “All right, who’s next?”
* * *
“You saved my ass today, for the record.”
I looked over at Gwen. We were both collapsed on the green sofa at the front of The Gallows, catching our breath. It was six o’clock and we were officially closed for business. Thank the lord for that. The crush never let up until we forced the final customers out the door two minutes ago.
The shop looked like a tornado had ripped through it — essential oils out of order, crystals a mess, books askew on the bestseller table — but we were both too tired to move. Cleanup would have to wait for a few minutes.
“I owe you,” Gwen added, voice drained. “How do you feel about tequila?”
“Favorably.”
“Blended, shaken, or shot?”
“I’m not that picky when it comes to my tequila intake.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Good. We’ll get a girls' night on the books.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Flo cut in before I could. “I hope that includes me. Or do old friends not get credit for ass-saving, these days?”
Gwen rolled her eyes as Florence dropped down into one of the plush armchairs across from us, planting her feet on the edge of the coffee table.
“You always get ass-saving credit, Flo. Even if you’re a pain in said ass about it.”
There was no heat in her words. The two women were clearly good friends. I’d known this yesterday, the first time I’d watched them interact about color-coordinated flak jackets, and my understanding of their bond only deepened when Flo blew through the doors at 3PM to lend a hand with the mid-afternoon crowd. She’d already worked a full day as an elementary school teacher — she taught second grade, which I thought was likely to qualify her for sainthood — but jumped right in without hesitation.
Florence moved around The Gallows with the familiarity of someone who’d spent many of her afternoons there — clearing tables, washing dirty mugs, lugging trash to the dumpsters, and seamlessly taking over Sally’s spot at the mystical curiosities counter when the octogenarian finally called it quits.