Chapter 15: Not Without Breaking A Few Eggs

Akewillow Chapter 15 Not without breaking a few eggs. My brother has this scar. Today, it looks like a discolored, jagged line at the bottom of his chin, but when he was a kid, it was this deep... pink nasty mark. He got it when he was about 10, so I would have been around 6. The front wheel of his bike got caught in the sewer grate and threw him to the curb. Knocked out three teeth, which wasn't a big deal since they were his baby teeth.

but he got this gross laceration on his chin. That would have been the end of the story. Young skin and good care would have made short work of the wound. A few weeks with a scab, then some tenderness for a couple of months, and all that would be left of the accident would be a cool story and a broken bike wheel. But Eric, my brother, wouldn't leave it alone.

He picked at his chin until it got infected. Again, that wouldn't have been so bad. Mom cleaned it for him, which was a painful, messy experience, but it was fine. You'd think having a wound reopened, drained of pus, and cleaned would have been enough of a lesson for him to stop. But that scenario played out two more times before he let the damn thing heal completely. That's why Eric always wears a beard.

That's one thing my brother and I share, a propensity to picket things, even if it causes damage. That's why I kept poking the bear when dealing with Chef Gagnon. Being here in the lobby of the Aquilo Police Department... feels like the beginning of the same kind of habit. My only experience here so far has been anything but good.

i've since mended things with detective wilson but the place still gives me the creeps you can feel it just walking through the parking lot the unmistakable aura of a place out of time The cars are stolen from the 80s, models I couldn't name because I've only seen them in movies, with antiquated gyrating lights on top and sun-washed colors. The lobby itself could be a set piece in a museum.

When was the last time I saw wallpaper? Let alone wallpaper with burnt orange accents and geometric patterns. The reception desk is behind a glass barrier with only a small round speaker to allow communications. I'm here to see Detective Wilson. The officer at the desk looks about as bored as you'd expect a small-town cop on desk duty to be. I almost expect him to be lazily chewing gum while filling out a crossword puzzle.

Instead, going against his environment, he's playing some sort of colorful game on his phone. Let me get him for you, the officer says, putting his game on pause with more reluctance than the situation warrants, in my opinion. The device in his hand and the one he uses to contact Wilson's office look a hundred years removed from each other, adding to my confusion about this police station. Either way, a short conversation later, and I'm asked to wait.

The grimoire of recipes sits on my lap as I wait for Wilson to show up. I carried the massive book with me all the way from the Aquilo, even as the weather became more overcast, threatening rain in the afternoon. I clung to the volume, holding it against me. There's no practical use to carrying the book with me. I'm not going to point at a recipe and convince Wilson that I've got the solution to all his problems.

Like Doris's spoon and apron, her recipes, the recipes of all my predecessors, are more a source of comfort. Miss Dufour, Wilson welcomes me. I didn't expect you to come down here. We could have done this somewhere more comfortable for you. I'm not here to give my statement, but I can't let him know that yet. Instead, I follow him to his office.

It's a lot less intimidating than the interrogation room I was brought into the last time I was here. Wilson's office is even more of an anachronism than the rest of the station. One could even say that it's ground zero for the nostalgia bomb that went off here. Where every other part of the station, like the reception area and the bullpen, look like they're from a movie set in the 80s.

Wilson's small corner office is a black and white photo from the 40s. There's an actual rotary phone on his desk, the only piece of technology, surrounded by a sea of papers and open file folders. Horizontal blinds filter the light from outside casting shadows over cluttered bookshelves.

There's an empty crystal decanter with matching glass that should contain whiskey, though I suppose even Wilson's image can't stand up to regulations and a code of conduct. Have a seat, he says, closing the door behind me. Large windows allow us to look outside to the bullpen, but the door is frosted with stenciled letters spelling the name Detective Aaron Wilson. I obey, setting the grimoire on my knees. Wilson grabs a pen and paper.

I half expect a moleskin and a fountain pen, but he settles for a spiral notebook and a cheap disposable ballpoint. He does indulge and lean back in his chair, swinging his feet onto his desk. So he starts. Demons, right? My lips tighten into a forced smile. Wilson's tone doesn't leave much room for ambiguity. He'll entertain my story, but he won't believe it. Don't worry, detective.

I'm not here to tell you any fairy tales. I'm here to make a deal. This declaration doesn't shake the good detective. He nods as if he expected my exact words, tapping his pen on the page of his notebook.

I don't care if you believe in demons or ghosts or anything else, I continue. The only thing I need you to believe is that the murders aren't going to stop with Gulliver's arrest. Whatever it was that the Inquisition was shooting at in my cafe last night. It's still out there, and it will kill again. I pause, and Wilson lets the silence play itself out for a while before resuming the rhythmic tapping of his pen. Mr. Kemper is not in our custody.

There's nothing I can do for him. But if you could, would you? Wilson doesn't answer, tapping his pen a few more times. I could push. I want to push, but I don't think that's a good idea. You mentioned a deal, he asks. I swallow. Hard. Here's the gambit I want to play. The part where I try to bluff and pretend I'm someone I'm not. You won't get an arrest. You won't get...

Answers. There's no glory in it, no promotion or medal from the mayor. You won't get to stand in front of reporters at a press conference to announce how you've solved the case, but I can stop the killings. The conflict within Detective Wilson plays out on his face. His eyes are a dueling ground between his duty towards his career, with respect for due process and his peers.

and the carefully crafted image of a grizzled, hard-boiled detective. If I can get him to embrace the part of himself that's satisfied with getting the job done, fame and fortune be damned, I can get him to strike a deal. How will I know you've succeeded? You won't, I admit. All you can do is trust me. But ask yourself, if it was Doris sitting here making the same promise, what would you say? You're not Doris. But...

I insist, ignoring the implication. What if I was? Wilson's tapping accelerates, keeping pace with the fury of the struggle within. Each impact of pen on paper is a salvo from either the protocol-abiding Wilson or the rules-be-damned Aaron. I refuse to succumb to similar fidgeting.

The key to a good bluff is to show no tell, to allow for no emotion. I can't let him know that, no matter his reply, I'm still going after that demon. But if Wilson thinks I could allow it to go on if he doesn't play ball… Then I have leverage. Of course, a lot of that depends on the kind of person Doris was. The tapping stops. Detective Wilson puts his notebook and pen back on the desk.

I'll call L'amour, he says, like a promise. But don't let me down, Miriam. Turns out, Chef Gagnon was so very much like a demon. This isn't just my loathing of the man speaking. As much as I dislike Gagnon, I'm not just calling him names. See, Chef Gagnon had this knack for being impossible to please. He'd teach us recipes that didn't work and then blame us for failing.

Meanwhile, any attempt at straying from the instructions was met with pushback that bordered on bullying. The hunger demon isn't that much different. Much like Gagnon, he's impossible to satiate. To get the chef on your side, you had to improve on his guidance, but somehow give him credit for the results. An impossible balance to strike. To get the demon pacified, I didn't have to feed it.

Just trick it into thinking it was fed. No amount of pastries, cakes, and stew will fill a stomach that isn't there. I won't matter if I can satisfy it without feeding it. And that is what Doris did. Pistachio Marzipan Petit Four I don't claim to understand Doris' magic. I kind of get the sigils imbued with will and intent.

And according to her notes, the pistachio is used to break curses, cumin provides the gift of retention, and almond eases addiction. That's all well and good, but how does she come up with these combinations? There's more to doing this do-for thing than just cooking, and I don't have a teacher to guide me. Hopefully, I have enough right here on the counter to make things work. When learning to cook, you start with boiling an egg and move up from there.

To learn this odd brand of magic, it looks like I'll have to start with a souffle. First, summon forth a ghost, and then feed the unfeedable. There's no learning curve. Only a learning cliff. Climb up. or fall off. Adding to the pressure, I have to succeed, on my first try, and I only have an afternoon to get it done to perfection. It doesn't leave much room for experimentation and self-expression.

I don't have time to test out theories or chase down wild ideas. Unlike Julia's poppy seed honey cake, I have no idea if Doris left margin for error in her recipe. and I don't have the luxury of doing it wrong the first time. If this doesn't work, someone will die, and that someone might very well be me.

Standing in Doris' kitchen. My kitchen. Ingredients laid out like surgeon's tools before a life-saving operation. I endure the weight of responsibility a girl my age should never have to. Writing down the sigil, a complex symbol that I will one day learn to decipher, I struggle to push the pressure aside and focus on my intent. It's easy in a way.

To satisfy or impress with food is an intent I've carried with me since that first day when I painted the ceiling of my mother's kitchen with bad cookie dough. Hearing, I couldn't take another bite, is the ultimate compliment. a client well-fed and satisfied is the finish line but it's only when i start spreading pistachios on a baking pan to toast smelling the food i'm preparing

and touching the ingredients I'm about to transform, like an alchemist, into more than the sum of their parts, that I find my peace. Focus comes flooding back to my senses. Buttering pans, mixing ingredients, measuring flour or milk, these are all second nature to me. They might as well be muscle memory. The only struggle is sticking to the instructions.

Doris's recipe is elegant and beautiful. Like a musician who can see how well a melody will turn out from reading the sheet music, I can tell that Doris's Petit Four are going to turn out amazing. They'll be Doris's petit four, not mine. I look at the instructions in the book, and I can't help imagining variations that I want to implement and experiment with. But then they'll become Miriam's petit four.

and I don't know that those will work. To appease one demon, it seems I have to do what would have appeased another. I'd find the symmetry beautiful if I didn't first find it annoying. The recipe makes a dozen small cakes, and I have to hand it to Doris. They smell amazing. The whole apartment is filled with the pleasant aroma of roasted nuts and cooked sugar.

I pack most of the small cakes into a plastic container that I squirrel away in the refrigerator, keeping only a single petit four that I set on a plate. I make it with plenty of time to spare. this would have been a perfect time to call on some help i don't know if i would have wanted to drag olivia and her husband into this or helen edna and gulliver is still behind bars along with the inquisitors

though I doubt I'll be asking for their help again anytime soon. I would leave Detective Wilson. It would be great to prove to him that the demon is real and have someone with a weapon at my back. But I've seen what impact guns have on the demon. Besides, I've already asked for his help. It doesn't mean I have to do this alone. I take my tiny dessert plate with my tiny cake down to the ruins of the Aquilo. My heart still aches at the sight.

I'm a little surprised that no one's come in to picket the ruins and steal furniture or equipment. Then again, what is there to steal? Food, maybe. Whoever wants to walk through the broken front window and take some salad out of the fridge is welcome to it It's not like I'm not used to having food vanish from under my nose My foot kicks around at the ruined glass on the floor

A piece of adhesive vinyl sticks to my sneakers, the green of the Aquilo tree pale under all the dust. As I bend down to remove the offending debris, I notice another artifact of the Aquilo. Near the front door, buried in glass and splintered wood, the door chime lies on the floor. The thin metal tubes look like the remains of a tiny pipe organ, tangled up in strings. I bend over and pick it up.

It makes a wounded version of its normal song, which used to announce customers, but now sounds like it's begging to live. I set it and the cake on the dusty counter. I should worry about contaminating the food, but... this isn't meant for human consumption. Neither is what I'm retrieving from the kitchen. From there, I stuff a plastic bag with all manner of baked goods. Leftovers from the previous day and things I'd prepared for today.

It looks like I'm throwing out good food. And in a way, I am. But I've got my reasons. Grabbing a box of salt, I take my bag of desserts and pastries to the back of the Aquilo. already the sun is lowering towards the horizon it's too early for the demon's traditional appearance at the edge of the woods but late enough that my time is running out with a grunt of effort i flip open the lid to the closest garbage bin

There's a sound of scurrying claws as the waning sunlight floods inside. To outside eyes, this is probably the stupidest part of my plan, and on the surface, it does seem that way to me too. In truth, all I'm doing is acknowledging an established pattern and encouraging it by supplying the usual variables. The angry offspring of a hiss and a growl greets me as I look inside the dumpster.

It's the fat raccoon, the one they call the Don. He's hissing his frustration at my invading his domain. I'm an uninvited guest to his castle, and he makes sure I know it. Calm down, I say, not even trying to sound friendly. I come bearing gifts. The bag of pastries dangles above the huge raccoon.

He pushes himself up on his hind legs, stretching his fat neck so he can sniff around the bottom of the bag. His growling is quickly replaced by a sort of cooing purr, accompanied by copious amounts of drooling. That's right.

I say. It's all yours, but you've got to do me a favor first. I don't know how I managed to fall asleep, or how no one saw me slumped over the counter of the aquilope sleeping. When my eyes open, it's to almost complete darkness. Night has fallen, but also the usual light from street lamps and neighboring businesses is missing.

It's almost as if all of Aquila was removed from around the cafe, or that the coffee shop had sunk into the ground or been swallowed by some cosmic horror. It takes a moment to realize what's actually happened. Someone... probably at Olivia's or Helen Edna's behest, put up plywood boards over the broken windows in front of the shop. Whoever did it probably even saw me sleeping.

They may have even been extra careful not to wake poor Miriam Dufour. She's been through so much already. With the best of intentions, I ended up entombed in my coffee shop. A fitting metaphor for how the Aquilo has snuck up on me and chained me to this town. Only the appliances in the kitchen supply what little light allows me to navigate the cluttered remains of chairs and tables.

Even then, I almost trip and fall flat on my face onto a floor littered with broken glass, at least twice. The boarded-up windows don't just mask the light from outside, but also swallow up most of the sound. Aquilo is already a quiet little town, but now the cafe might as well be lost in the middle of the woods. Bang. The perfect silence is obliterated by the loud metallic sound of a dumpster lid being dropped.

Blurry memories tell me that's the very same sound that woke me up in the first place. Still draped in darkness, I rub my eyes with the palm of my hand, hoping to massage more coherent thoughts into my brain. It works a little. I remember cooking Petit Four. I remember coming down here and giving salt and pastries to the raccoon in the back. I remember my plan.

Frantic, I make my way back to where I fell asleep and, careful not to toss it to the ground in my panic, feel around for the dessert dish with a single pistachio marzipan petit four. The sigh I release when I find it sounds loud and desperate. The cake is intact, coated in a blue glow from the kitchen lights. It's my weapon, and the time for battle has come.

here's hoping i put my trust in the right vermin with one hand holding the plate and the other tracing the side of the counter for guidance i make my way to the back door feeling around i take the handle and with one final deep breath i push the door open the porch light greets me with a warm welcoming orange glow sounds of crickets and distant cars fill the air

I can smell the dumpster, but the stench isn't so aggressive as to make me gag. Everything seems so normal that it feels like I should just be throwing out a bag of garbage before going back to an intact Aquilo to continue my shift. What if that's it? What if all the unnatural horrors and bizarre tragedies I've experienced so far are just a little story I tell myself while taking out the trash? What if everything is fine?

Wouldn't that be nice? Better a flash of insanity in my brain than a world of insanity all around. Tiny claws over rusted metal pull me back from the indulgent optimism. The world... is a nightmare and there is death everywhere there was death two blocks from here next to the bank there was death at the foot of the green dumpster in this very alley when i turned my head

to look towards the edge of the wood. There's death shambling around. Like clockwork, I whisper. My fingers tighten around the edge of the dessert plate. as if it were the last few crumbs of my courage that I was holding on to. My heart skips a beat when I get close to the two green bins that serve as the raccoon's palace. I trusted the Don to do what he and his subjects always do.

Take my salt and draw a circle around their home. They were doing it before I got to Aquilo and they've kept doing it ever since I arrived. I even bribed them into doing the work this time. But the box of salt I generously donated is still where I left it. I could draw the circle myself, but I don't know if it's that simple. What if there's more ritual to it?

It sounds stupid to think that raccoons know more about tracing a ward against demons than I do, but they do, and I'm not going to question their expertise at this point in time. You lazy, traitorous little... I stop short. A timid kick at the box reveals that it's empty. The salt circle is there. I don't know how I missed it. It seems a little larger, maybe, and it is that time of night where everything feels gray. But it's there.

and I somehow didn't see it. Relief is short-lived, however. Events of previous evenings repeat themselves, and the hunger demon announces its presence with a hollow moan and a wet growl. It's closer than I expected and sounds more desperate than I feel safe hearing. I damn near leap beyond the threshold of salt on the ground, hopping into the protective shelter of the circle. It does very little to alleviate the terror.

especially seeing how close the hunger demon got this time. The plethora of wounds inflicted on the creature have not mended, not in any human sense. Every hole punched in by one of the Inquisition's bullets is still there, seeping thick black blood. The copious damage does nothing to slow down the monster. It's no more or less clumsy than before. Each of its steps is half-tripping, half-stumbling, but I know from experience that the demon can become unnaturally agile in the blink of an eye.

Large mouth opened wide. It gurgles while it smells the air around the cafe. To my relief, its abdominal cavity remains empty of fresh organs. That's right. I mumble, look what I made you. I expect the demon to turn towards me and notice the cake. I brace myself for it to lunge at me, trying to get at the petit four on my plate.

I've seen the thing throw itself at the salt circle before. I've heard the desperate howl when it couldn't find the pastry of its choice. I've had the monster chase me in frenzied hunger to get my organs. I do not look forward to seeing all three of these behaviors combined in one. The Don pokes his head out of the dumpster, pulling his rotund body up with his tiny paws.

It's not the monster he's hissing at, but rather the petit four on the plate I'm so desperately holding on to. That's not for you, I growl, my eyes shifting between the raccoon and the demon. To my relieved disappointment... The creature seems hesitant to approach me. Even the little cake I'm holding seems to do nothing to attract its attention. If I didn't know better, I'd assume it's intimidated. Come on, my voice shakes.

I haven't got all night. The only reaction I get is a tilt of its head and a half-hearted smelling of the air. Otherwise, the hunger demon remains completely uninterested. I watch helplessly as the hunger demon drags itself to the back door of the Aquilo, pulling it open. If the scenario repeats, it will stalk up to the display case, discover that there's nothing there it wants, scream its displeasure at the uncaring universe before bounding out in search of fresh organs to hijack.

And I can't let that last part happen again. Hey, I call out, stepping outside of the salt circle. I slaved all afternoon over a hot stove to make this. I don't know if it was the circle that kept it from noticing the petit four, or maybe our violent encounter from the previous night had left the hunger demon wary of me, but either it can now smell the cake, or it's me that's attracting its attention.

The fat, gray, moist head of the demon snaps towards me. Deep and hollow eyes, as hungry for light as the beast is for food, lock onto me. My heart beats so fast that I can hear it in my ears and I can feel the blood pressing against my veins. We stare at each other, immobile, each trying to decide what to do next.

I feel like I'm swimming with a great white shark, and I just swam out of my protective cage. I should step back, return to the protection of the salt circle, but what if it ignores me again? I have to keep the demon's attention and feed it the petit four. So I keep staring. It's only when I start, for the length of a breath, to think that we might have some kind of truce.

that the monster pounces. Pain shoots through my whole body. First, it's the impact of the demon crashing into me like a freight train, punching the air out of my lungs and tossing me back. Then there's the stabbing pain in my gut. I can't tell for sure, but I think the beast stabbed me. I've never been stabbed before, so I don't have a point of reference, but I've cut my fingers a fair amount of times, and this is something very similar.

Finally, my back is smashed against the dumpster with such force that the heavy metal container is pushed back half a foot. My body crumbles to the ground. my face coming to rest inches from a line of undisturbed table salt. I'm both reassured that I can feel my arms and legs and terrified at the amount of pain my body is in. I can only guess at the damage that's been done to me, and I know there's blood. I can feel it pool under me, but at least I suppose my spine is okay.

I want the agony to end, and I'm almost thankful that the demon seems intent on putting me out of this instant memory, but it threw me back into the confines of the salt circle. The shark pushed me back into my cage. Yet that's not what stops the monster from finishing me off. Instead, it's the pistachio marzipan petit four. The cake is smashed and the plate shattered.

No self-respecting person would eat it now that it's been on the ground, especially so close to the garbage. But self-respecting people aren't eternally cursed with insatiable and eternal hunger. Clumsy and with much difficulty, the demon manages to pick the petit four between its razor-sharp claws. In one awkward gulp, it stuffs the cake into its long-waiting maw.

Like a child-given candy the demon barely chews, swallowing the cake whole. The food does what I feared it would. Instead of coming to rest in the creature's stomach somehow, The half-chewed and undigested cake drips out of the dangling esophagus in its open abdomen. It looks like my plan is a failure. I'm wounded and broken, maybe dying.

Some other girl will also be killed tonight so the monster can have her organs. All of it for nothing. Except, one thing doesn't seem to want to fall out of the demon's gut. The small piece of rice paper, the one on which I drew my sigil, dangles in the abdominal cavity, wet and sticky. In an odd display of light, the rice paper seems to self-combust, consumed in green fire.

There's no smoke and the flames linger for too long, eventually reshaping themselves into my sigil. The image hovers, burning where the demon's stomach and guts should be. Then the weirdest thing happens. The demon, a creature of tortured hunger, its mouth always open in the blind hope of being filled, looks happy. No, not happy. satisfied long arms stretch akimbo to its side and its face turns towards the black heavens above

Its chin shakes for a moment and the muscles in its neck trembles as it reshapes its mouth into a smile. I watch the creature walk. Not stumble or leap, but walk back towards the woods. The flame in its belly burns all the while as my consciousness slips away. My last thought before I completely pass out is, I'll be damned. It worked.

Helen Edna, notary public, is the one who picks me up from the hospital. It's been a few weeks now. Nearly a month, really. The weather in Aquilo has cooled down considerably, and the threat of winter can be smelled in the air. The damage to my body turned out not to be as bad as I feared in the moment. I did get stabbed in the gut by the demon, but the claw didn't hit anything important on the way through, scraping a little against my lower intestine but failing to puncture it.

I'd probably be dead otherwise. A few of my ribs got cracked and, oddly enough, my spine didn't get off completely unscathed. One of my vertebrae got chipped. The doctor said it's going to be fine, but... I did end up in observation and bedridden for weeks. I was amazed at the number of people who came to visit. Olivia and Henry, of course. They brought me and my nurses a copious amount of apples, but...

also snuck in a few bottles of cider. Detective Wilson showed up with a surprise. True to his word, he managed to get the charges against Gulliver dropped and brought him along to show he'd held up his part of the bargain. Gulliver's gratefulness was damn near unbearable, and he looked like he was going to explode when he was told he couldn't hug me to express his thanks. The cloud worshippers, led by a tall, blond man called Ian, visited twice.

each time in a group of six, both times performing a strange ritual of chants and hand motions, followed by a long five minutes of complete silence. The nurses offered to remove them, but I was both curious and reluctant to insult some of my best clients. The mustache man and the sandwich man both dropped by.

Turns out the mustache man is a painter of both walls and canvas, and his name is Michael. The sandwich man calls himself Pat, and made a point to compliment my butter pecan sandies. Trevor and Cindy also visited. A few times, actually. Maybe it's because I wasn't in our apartment, surrounded by the evidence of our failed relationship, but it wasn't that unpleasant to see them. A little awkward, sure, but...

I could remember what had attracted me to Trevor in the first place and, I have to admit it, recognize a little of what he sees in Cindy. My family dropped by too, though my brother was there for me most. It was great to talk to people about mundane things, his boyfriends and his job and whatever European trip he's planning for the winter. All in all, there's something awfully liberating about having all your responsibilities put on hold.

School, inheritances, even relationships take a back seat to mending your body. The one thing I did, as soon as I could string words together and get a message to her, was tell Olivia Figg of the Eleven Petit Four in Doris' apartment.

and asked her to put one out at the back of the Aquilo once a week. Look in my attaché, Helen says, as passionless as ever. We're driving back to downtown Aquilo. Apparently, some of my new local friends want to celebrate my release from the hospital. It's an uncomfortable proposition, but it will be nice to be surrounded by people who care enough to do that kind of thing.

what's this i ask pulling out a file with my name written in impeccable cursive on the cover that is a loophole she says with maybe a touch of pride or rather notarized permission for you to ignore doris's last wish i can sell the aequilo indeed you can the truth is i've run out of relatives immediate enough

You're not exactly the end of the line of succession, but you're the only reasonably viable inheritor on her list. The case can be made that if the Aquilo Cafe doesn't end up in your hands, it won't be owned by a qualified descendant anyways. Oh. It's almost hurtful that I was so far down on the list. Then again, I didn't know Doris and she certainly didn't know me. That I'm a last resort isn't that big a deal and it wouldn't have mattered five weeks ago.

But now, I feel like I know Doris, like I've walked in her shoes. I hope that, in the end, she would have been happy with how I turned out as an operator of her cafe. Here we go, Helen interrupts my musing. I hope you like it. Hope I like what? My question becomes meaningless as I look up from the paper. Helen's beige BMW is parked right in front of the Aquilo.

mouth agape and fingers barely holding on to the papers i step out of her car what happened i mutter the wooden boards that covered the windows are gone replaced instead by fresh clean glass etched with the aquilo tree that's both the city and the caf's logo beyond the glass i can see a dozen people waiting looking at me

Olivia stands closest to the counter, and when she sees me looking at her, she grins and points at the shiny copper and brass monster of a coffee machine. How did you look in your file? I flip a few pages of Helen Edna's legal jargon before I find an envelope, the same kind you buy with a greeting card. Open it, Helen instructs. I was right. It is a greeting card.

It depicts a cross at the top of a church steeple, silhouetted over a bright setting sun. There are no words printed on the front, but inside, in gentle block letters, the following is written. After talking to your representative, it turns out your coffee shop has terrible insurance. Thankfully, the Inquisition has deep pockets. With our apologies and our thanks, Orléans. Surprise!

A small, rare smile appears on Helen Edna Notary Public's face. It should sell pretty well now. Emotions start to well up and tears threaten as I'm overwhelmed by what I see. The Aquilo, resurrected. It's a little under-decorated, but Olivia Figg said you'd be happier taking care of that yourself. The damage to the apartment upstairs has also been repaired.

I wipe my nose with my sleeve and see a handful of people in the cafe clap, which makes matters even worse. It's just as I'm on the verge of breaking down that I'm saved. The low growl of a heavy vehicle announces the arrival of a truck too big for the street. He's a little late, but we knew there was no way to coordinate down to the minute.

Gulliver's red cab and gray trailer stop inches behind Helen's BMW. He gets out and notices my wet face and goofy smile, which in turn makes him laugh his unique laugh, his face pointed to the sky. He grabs a box from the passenger seat. It looks light in his hands, but I know it's probably close to 40 pounds of books in there. Big letters, scribbled in black marker on the front, spell kitchen.

I'll just bring this and the other boxes upstairs, he asks, still smiling at my discomfort. You don't have to do it now. There are people waiting for us in there. They're waiting for you. Don't worry about it. Won't take long. Go in and see what they've done with the place. I toss him the apartment keys and Gulliver makes his way to Doris' home with my box of recipe books.

When I turn back to Helen Edna, wiping another tear from my cheeks, her look is one of complete shock. Are you, she asks a little incredulous, are you moving into the apartment? I smile. and start to walk towards the entrance to the Aquilo Cafe, already admiring the repairs they've made. I see Henry looking at me, and notice him mouth the word thrive as I step to the door. Surprise, I say, looking back at Helen. I push the door open and step into my coffee shop.

Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot, narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to hear more, please rate and review us on Apple Podcasts or your preferred podcast platform. You have no idea how much it helps. Questions? Comments? Email us at Akewillow at gmail.com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.