Page 13 of Merrily Yours
“Ethel, you’ve known me since I was in diapers. You know that’s not how you say my name,” I admonish the ancient barista behind the counter.
She winks at me, the flirt, and then hands me a coffee that I know will be subpar at best. Because that’s what you get at The Coffee Shop in Sassafras, Massachusetts. Subpar coffee.
“Are the rumors true?” I prod.
Ethel’s hands busy themselves tidying up behind the counter. A sugar shaker tips over and I round the counter to help clean it up. She pats me lightly on the cheek and then says, “Rumors?” Like she has no idea what I’m talking about.
Narrowing my eyes, I pin her with a gaze. “Mhmm,” I draw out. My fingers drum on the countertop as I evaluate what move I’ll make next in our battle of… not wits, exactly. Battle of stubbornness, maybe?
I decide to play the unaffected card, shrugging my shoulders. I grab my coffee and feel as it warms my fingers through the flimsy paper cup. I turn to walk away but feel a papery hand grip mine. Our eyes meet and Ethel nods toward the supply closet.
“You know we can’t keep up these trysts, Ethel. Albert is bound to find out eventually,” I tease as she tugs me along behind her.
“Oh hush, you!” She closes the door and leans in conspiratorially. “The rumors…”
“What rumors, Ethel?” I ask, feigning innocence.
She looks around as though she’ll find someone else in the supply closet with us. “The rumors,” she continues. “They’re true.”
I gasp, mostly for dramatic effect, though this is actually pretty shocking. I can feel a headache forming from how hard the wheels are turning. If Ethel and Albert are really selling the shop this time…
“I just want to clarify, Ethel, my darling”—she blushes furiously at the endearment—“that you are referring to the sale of The Coffee Shop and not the rumor about Smelly Jim changing his cologne, right?”
Her eyes almost roll right out of her head. “For heaven’s sake, Benoit. Yes, I’m referring to the sale of the shop.”
We both stare at each other for a beat.
“Are you interested?” she asks at the same time I say, “I want it.”
She taps her chin gingerly with one wrinkled finger. “Interesting…”
“Is it really, Ethel? You know how much the shop means to us.”
Ethel considers me. “I don’t think I can sell to an out of towner,” she concludes.
I huff, running a hand through my hair. “Darling, you know I’m a Sassifrasian through and through.”
A subtle nod toward the Red Sox logo on my shirt is her only reply. I narrow my eyes in return. “You’re a Red Sox fan too, Ethel,” I remind her.
“Yes, but I don’t live in Boston unlike some people in this closet.”
It’s only us in the closet.
I make what might be a rash decision when I say, “I’m moving back.”
Her eyebrow quirks as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Is that so?”
“It is.” I’m reassuring myself as much as I am her. “I’ll be back by the summer. Let me make some arrangements—promise you won’t entertain other offers,” I plead.
“If you make it back by summer, I promise I won’t entertain other offers,” she replies, her hand shaking mine with a surprisingly firm grip.
Ethel, having apparently gotten what she wanted, then turns and walks out of the supply closet and straight intoher.
Dammit.
I make fun of Bex’s obsession with Anders’ hair, but what no one else knows is how her long, thick auburn hair haunts me.
Colette Russell. Or Cole, as her friends called her.
