Page 3 of At The Coffee Shop of Curiosities
Being in Driftwood was about as far out of my comfort zone as I could wander, yet as I stood here, my nerves settled, calmed. It gave me hope that coming here hadn’t been a big mistake.
So far, the small beachside town seemed perfectly normal.Magpie’s was one of two dozen businesses that comprised three sides of a square, each storefront painted a cheerful pastel color. On the fourth side, seemingly anchoring the town, stood a simple pearly white church topped with a bell tower and cross.
Sitting prettily in the center of the square was an oval green space. On one end of it two women sat on a blanket chatting as two young children kicked a red ball to one another, and on the other side of the lawn, a line dancing class was taking place with ten or so elderly participants.
As I watched the dancers scoot forward, then back, behind me came the sound of scuffling footsteps and the jingle of dog tags. I turned and saw a man and his dog walking along the sidewalk toward the coffee shop.
He was a big guy, broad and tall. The type of guy you’d expect to see with a Labrador, golden retriever, or German shepherd at his side—not a small cream-colored long-haired dachshund. The disparity amused me to no end.
Flashing me a distantly friendly smile, he said, “Good morning” as he used a hook on the storefront to secure the leash.
He had a nice voice, the timbre mellow with a hint of raspy.
With a quick rub of the dog’s long, furry ears he said, “I’ll be right back, Norman.Stay.”
The dog sat.
Norman? For some reason I’d expected the dog to be a girl with a name like Goldilocks or Godiva. He was just so…pretty. I sent him a silent apology for jumping to conclusions.
The man strode past me and pulled open the shop’s wide glass door. Bells tinkled and the scent of freshly ground coffee beans wafted out of the shop, along with the dissonant strains of many voices, the clink of dishes, the whizzing of a grinder.
Using his shoulder to prop the door open, he regarded me with downturned eyes, dark brown with golden flecks. I was taken aback by the heartache I saw in their depths.
With thick eyebrows lifted in question, he said, “You goin’ on in?”
I glanced at my watch: 8:49. It was too soon. I wasn’t ready. “Not yet, thank you.”
With a nod, he stepped into the shop. The door closed slowly behind him, but not before a hollow burst of a woman’s laughter floated out, sounding so brittle that it might break. Thatshemight break.
As if the dog had heard the woman, too, and was sympathizing, he made a guttural noise, low and staccato. I wouldn’t call it a bark. It sounded more like it was half bark, half… quack. I immediately termed it aquabark.It was adorable.Hewas adorable.
“You’re a handsome fellow,” I said to him.
He blinked his sweet brown eyes.
Across the street came a burst of children’s laughter, and Normanquabarked again, as if wanting to join in the fun. Dozens of people roamed about, walking here, there, everywhere. Bicycles adorned with baskets rolled past, and people pulling wagons loaded with fishing gear headed toward the beach.
“This seems like a nice place to live,” I said to Norman.
He tipped his head and I swore it looked like he was nodding. I started to wonder if I was dreaming. This couldn’t possibly be real. Any of it. The mysterious letter. The out-of-character road trip. This delightful town, which looked postcard perfect despite gloomy skies. The beautiful, expressive dachshund.
To make sure my imagination hadn’t gotten the best of me, I held my breath until I felt fit to explode, then gasped for air. Instead of waking up in my apartment in Cincinnati, I still stood in front of Magpie’s, breathing in the salty air caught on a warm, whispering September breeze.
The line dancers grapevined left, then right, in rhythm to a bouncy country song. The little ones giggled as they mimicked—or mocked, I couldn’t be sure from this distance—the dancers. A golf cart rolled into an empty parking spot in front of a breakfast diner across the square, its brakes squealing. Norman scratched his ear, making his tags jingle.
All this was absolutely real, orsurreal,if I was calling it straight. There wasn’t anything I could see or hear, near or far, that didn’t feel absolutely enchanting. Even the gray clouds were puffed up with charm, edged in pale gold, as if an artist had watercolored their scalloped ridges.
Could I ever possibly fit in around here? Among all this perfection? Little imperfect me, who’d so often been calledweirdorstrangebecause some people didn’t know how to label something they didn’t understand.
As slivers of sunshine poked through the clouds, light spilled across the coffee shop’s aqua exterior. The unexpected brightness spotlighted an older woman sitting at a small table on the other side of a large picture window. With furrowed pencil-thin eyebrows lofted high, she peered at me, a hint of surprise in her steady gaze.
I returned the look, simply because I was spellbound by her attire. She wore a form-fitting black sequin gown that accentuated her overly curved spine and a black pillbox hat with a birdcage veil.
I offered the woman a hesitant smile. She responded by puckering her lips as though tasting something sour. Then she lifted her chin, sticking her nose up in the air, and turned her hunched back on me. The sequins on her dress shimmered in solidarity, as if bidding me a not-so-fond farewell, and I couldn’t help the spark of hope that flashed through me.
“Perhaps this charming town does have a place for an oddball or two.”
Norman’s tail happily thumped the ground. I took that as complete agreement and suddenly I wanted to be part of this charming town more than anything. I needed to get this job.
