Page 11 of Confessions of a Middle Aged Dragon Queen
“Yep,” she chirped. “I’m not even a little ashamed to tell you that I buy two on Saturday and save one for the next day. When the weather is cold, it pretty good heated up, and when it’s hot out, I just order the second without ice. It’s just not the same, ya’ know what I mean?”
“I so do, and you are so my kinda girl," I readily cheered. "Remember, it's all about the beans, the cream– if you take yours that way, and the temperature of the water– even when you’re making cold brew. The water and the beans are the key."
"Awesome," she beamed, and I could feel her happiness over the airwaves. "Thank you so much, Miss Dellencourt…”
“Martha.”
“Oh yeah, Martha,” she giggled. “You have just made my whole year. First of all, I get to talk to you. I’m so very sorry about the circumstances–it's terrible, and I will do anything I can to help you get the shop back up and running. We've got everything from contractors to brick masons in the Pride. Your shop will be back up and running in no time. You can count on it. We all live on your coffee and pastries. And someday, I get to learn to make it. Yep, the best day in a long time. Are you still okay? Need me to call anyone for you? Need the EMTs? An ambulance?"
"No, darlin', I'm good. Thanks for asking, and just so you know, you've made my day, too. Never would've thought calling 911 could lead me to a new friend."
"It is my honor. You're one of my favorite people in the whole world. Hang on just a sec." More staticky squelches, and she was right back. "The Fire Brigade is right around the corner. Can you believe we've only been talking for less than three minutes? How cool is that?"
"Pretty cool, and that includes dealing with my psychotic, pregnant sister."
“Oh, she was fine. No lie. I would’ve done worse if it’s had been someone I loved on the other end of a 911 call.”
“OH, good. I would hate for you to think everyone in the Dellencourt Clan is nuts.”
Trying to inject the enthusiasm I felt at talking to the sweet woman, I couldn't help but dread what I knew was coming next. I'd avoided telling her how the fire started, but it wasn't going to be so easy when the firefighters arrived.
Someone would ask how the blaze started, and I would have to tell them the whole sordid tale. Talk about a kick in the keister from Fate– and yes, she had her combat boots firmly on her size ten feet. Blowing out an exasperated breath, I sighed, "Yep, I can hear the sirens."
“Oh, great,” she chirped. “Now, how did you say that fire started?”
Shit! Came sooner than I thought.
“Well, it’s like this… I was… What’s your name, Darlin’? I can’t believe we’ve been talkin' all this time, you’ve dealt with the crazy branch of my family tree, and I forgot to ask your name."
“It’s Theresa. Theresa Thomas,” she excitedly giggled. “I should’ve said that. Oh, and I should’ve told you that I drive the candy apple red VW bug with black spots, eyelashes on the headlights, and a sunflower on the gearshift. At least, this way you can be sure I’m some crazy stalker I had to sound like a groupie when I was talking about your boys and your coffee.”
Her nervous laughter lifted my spirits. Didn’t matter that I was about to recount the most embarrassing moment of my whole life– she was the one who was uneasy. Damn, she was good.
(I know. I know. I said that before, but it’s important.)
"Sounds cute," I responded, having no clue who she was as I wracked my brain trying to recall ever seeing a car that sounded nothing short of adorable. I didn't want to be rude or appear bitchy or uppity. And, I have to admit that I was praying double time for the fire trucks to arrive before I had to explain how the fire started and risk losing the new friend I'd just made. Like I said, I was pretty sure she would be calling on the renowned Dr. Maxine Monroe, Psychiatrist for the Shifterly Insane, once she got the full 411.
Utterly oblivious to my inner turmoil, Theresa…
(Thank the Goddess I finally had her name. See? It’s like I told you. My brain just does not run on all cylinders without a constant flow of coffee.)
…kept right on chatting. “I always order the same thing – large coffee, extra hot, with loads of cream, no sugar, two pumps of sugar-free vanilla and three of sugar-free cinnamon caramel syrup.”
“Oh, yeah,” I blurted out, relieved that I finally remembered such a loyal customer and really great person. “And you always get a warm cinnamon bun with honey butter slathered on the top and a sprinkle of cinnamon.”
(I would be making a double batch of those beauties and delivering them personally just as soon as I had a kitchen again.)
“I do,” she gushed, obviously pleased that I recalled her order. “I love my sweets almost as much as I love my coffee. Mom says it’s a Big Cat thing. I think it’s just a ‘me’ thing. Heck, I’ve loved anything ooey, gooey, and chocked full of calories since I was a little girl. Don’t think it’s gonna change after two-hundred-and-fifty-two-and-a-half years, do you?”
"Nope," I agreed, the shrill trill of sirens forcing me to use my extra-sensitive Dragon Queen hearing to be sure I wasn't talking over the dear woman. "I'm over five-hundred, and I still live on caffeine and chocolate, no matter how many extra curves I get."
Laughing out loud, the Tigress readily agreed, “Just more of us to love, right?”
"Yeah, well, it's been great talking to you, Theresa, but the firemen are here and… and… and…" Yep, I was really stuttering like a scratched record, and it didn't stop there.
Wowza! My train of thought was completely blown. I’m sure I even heard the kapow of my little grey cells exploding. It was a brain orgasm. At least that’s what my no-nonsense younger sister, the middle child, Maeve Dellencourt, called them in the same deadpanned, straight-faced manner she pretty much said everything. All I knew for sure was that menopause or middle age or whatever the hell it was that had caused me to be more interested in starting a fire in my shop than a blaze in the bedroom could go right to hell. I was in heat and getting hotter by the minute, and that's saying something since fire literally runs through my veins.
I couldn't speak. Hell, I wasn't even breathing. Nothing in all the world, in all my five-hundred-and-sixty-seven years, could have prepared me for the hot-as-homemade-sin, sexy-as-the-day-is-long, man – no, make that Fae (Yes, I said Fae, like Fairy, like Oh my Goddess in electric blue Gogo boots, that man has wings and he knows how to use them, F-A-I-R-Y–all capital letters– climbing out of the fire truck.
