home. The store will stay standing one day without you.”
He capitulated. “I could use some sleep. Will you be okay?”
“Yes.”
“The reorder is due today.”
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, walking to the coffee bar. “I’ve got Maeve.”
“Sorry.” Noah looked at me, tugging a hand through his nest of hair. “Not much of a welcome. I’ve been working all weekend.”
“When I have a hard time focusing, I find that picking the right socks can help.” He looked dubious, so I rushed on. “I mean, not literally , like the socks themselves do anything, but organizing your thoughts to choose the right pair can put you in the proper mind-set.” I hitched my jeans and showed him my favorite bookworm socks. “I wore these to start my new job.”
“I appreciate the effort,” he said. “Those are nice socks. But I’m not sure they would help.” He sighed.
“Eat this.” Tuesday dropped a plate of scrambled eggs anda sliced tomato in front of Noah. “Then go home. Maeve, let’s get this place operational. Can you please fire up the register, while I try to figure out which book Ronnie Two Shoes walked off with?”
Fascinated, I didn’t want to leave Noah but I obeyed. When I turned again, there was only an empty plate in the café.
I didn’t see Noah until the next day. I showed up promptly at 9:45 A.M. , key in my hot little hand. Tuesday had a performance in Tucson, so she wasn’t coming in for two days. I’d gotten up early to run, eager to start work on time. I hoped I remembered everything she showed me. I knew she’d had to cajole Noah into trusting me alone in the front, and he’d only conceded because of his deadline. I wasn’t supposed to know that, but I’m expert at translating hushed voices.
“When Noah’s on deadline, he doesn’t do anything but write,” Tuesday had explained to me. “And I mean anything—he can forget to eat, sleep, change clothes. Forget about helping you in the store. Sharp as a tack the rest of the time, but not the last mile. You’ll probably want to bring him a sandwich around lunch. It might seem like the secretary fetching coffee, but trust me, low blood sugar equals cranky equals not fun. It’s in your best interest.” I could relate. I was a biotch when my blood sugar bottomed out.
I was feeling confident. It was pretty basic register operation and sandwich making, nothing I hadn’t done in past jobs. Traffic was light. Yesterday we’d only had a few browsers and a handful of coffee seekers. I put out inventory, kept track of what needed reorder or restock, kept the store tidy, ran the register, and made coffee and sandwiches in the café. Today was no different. In the absence of customers, I busied myself dusting the front table. Then, I busied myself changing it. No one was going to buy War and Peace unless they already intendedto, no matter how prominently it was displayed. It was a waste of prime real estate. I replaced it with Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. Similarly, Run , by Ann Patchett, and And Then We Came to The End , by Joshua Ferris, replaced Madame Bovary and Moby Dick . Time for some fresh voices.
At 11:38 exactly, I could resist no longer. It was almost noon. I sidled to Noah’s office.
He was sitting at a large cherry desk staring into space and drumming his fingers. He looked less demented. And very attractive.
“Knock, knock, J. Alfred Prufrock,” I called.
He looked up, surprised. “Oh hello.” Back to drumming.
“I was wondering if there’s anything you don’t like on your sandwich?”
“Hmmm?” Absently: “Oh whatever.” Then he came to himself. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can make my own lunch.” He didn’t move.
“It’s no problem,” I assured him. I hesitated. “What’s got you blocked?”
His head swung back toward me, body following as he rotated his leather office chair. A far cry from the Gin Mill office, this one was tasteful wood and leather; only the
He capitulated. “I could use some sleep. Will you be okay?”
“Yes.”
“The reorder is due today.”
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, walking to the coffee bar. “I’ve got Maeve.”
“Sorry.” Noah looked at me, tugging a hand through his nest of hair. “Not much of a welcome. I’ve been working all weekend.”
“When I have a hard time focusing, I find that picking the right socks can help.” He looked dubious, so I rushed on. “I mean, not literally , like the socks themselves do anything, but organizing your thoughts to choose the right pair can put you in the proper mind-set.” I hitched my jeans and showed him my favorite bookworm socks. “I wore these to start my new job.”
“I appreciate the effort,” he said. “Those are nice socks. But I’m not sure they would help.” He sighed.
“Eat this.” Tuesday dropped a plate of scrambled eggs anda sliced tomato in front of Noah. “Then go home. Maeve, let’s get this place operational. Can you please fire up the register, while I try to figure out which book Ronnie Two Shoes walked off with?”
Fascinated, I didn’t want to leave Noah but I obeyed. When I turned again, there was only an empty plate in the café.
I didn’t see Noah until the next day. I showed up promptly at 9:45 A.M. , key in my hot little hand. Tuesday had a performance in Tucson, so she wasn’t coming in for two days. I’d gotten up early to run, eager to start work on time. I hoped I remembered everything she showed me. I knew she’d had to cajole Noah into trusting me alone in the front, and he’d only conceded because of his deadline. I wasn’t supposed to know that, but I’m expert at translating hushed voices.
“When Noah’s on deadline, he doesn’t do anything but write,” Tuesday had explained to me. “And I mean anything—he can forget to eat, sleep, change clothes. Forget about helping you in the store. Sharp as a tack the rest of the time, but not the last mile. You’ll probably want to bring him a sandwich around lunch. It might seem like the secretary fetching coffee, but trust me, low blood sugar equals cranky equals not fun. It’s in your best interest.” I could relate. I was a biotch when my blood sugar bottomed out.
I was feeling confident. It was pretty basic register operation and sandwich making, nothing I hadn’t done in past jobs. Traffic was light. Yesterday we’d only had a few browsers and a handful of coffee seekers. I put out inventory, kept track of what needed reorder or restock, kept the store tidy, ran the register, and made coffee and sandwiches in the café. Today was no different. In the absence of customers, I busied myself dusting the front table. Then, I busied myself changing it. No one was going to buy War and Peace unless they already intendedto, no matter how prominently it was displayed. It was a waste of prime real estate. I replaced it with Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. Similarly, Run , by Ann Patchett, and And Then We Came to The End , by Joshua Ferris, replaced Madame Bovary and Moby Dick . Time for some fresh voices.
At 11:38 exactly, I could resist no longer. It was almost noon. I sidled to Noah’s office.
He was sitting at a large cherry desk staring into space and drumming his fingers. He looked less demented. And very attractive.
“Knock, knock, J. Alfred Prufrock,” I called.
He looked up, surprised. “Oh hello.” Back to drumming.
“I was wondering if there’s anything you don’t like on your sandwich?”
“Hmmm?” Absently: “Oh whatever.” Then he came to himself. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can make my own lunch.” He didn’t move.
“It’s no problem,” I assured him. I hesitated. “What’s got you blocked?”
His head swung back toward me, body following as he rotated his leather office chair. A far cry from the Gin Mill office, this one was tasteful wood and leather; only the
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