Read Online Secondhand Spirits by Juliet Blackwell - Free Book Online Page A

“overheard” snatches of conversation from the coffee line. Today a tall, lithe wood sprite of a teenager turned to her slouching, purple-haired companion, put her hands on her hips, and declared: “He’s just so unabashed when he talks about the theoretical aesthetics of commercial architecture. After all, it’s just more . . . what’s the word? I don’t know, just I guess essential to live in a world of essence.”
    I tried to commit it to memory.
    â€œWhat’ll you have?” demanded the barista, Wendy, when it was my turn.
    â€œSomething chocolate,” I said, hoping Wendy might jump in with a suggestion. Yesterday’s events and three hours’ sleep left me feeling like an emotional punching bag, and the only cure I knew for such a state was chocolate.
    â€œI can’t decide between a cayenne hot chocolate and the Chocolate to the People,” I tried again when Wendy remained mute. “What do you suggest?”
    Wendy tapped her black-painted, chipped fingernails on the counter, barely refraining from rolling her eyes. She didn’t share much in common with her Peter Pan namesake. She was big and tall, her bangs cut straight across, the rest of her thick dark hair slightly curled under and cut to brush the top of her shoulders. A brave young woman who seemed quite at home in her own oversize-for-current-fashion body, she had a tendency to wear black satin bustiers and other lingerie items as everyday clothing.
    â€œI’ll just go with the Chocolate to the People, then,” I said when it became clear Wendy wasn’t going to be of any assistance. “And I’ll take one Flower Power, two cinnamon rolls, and a bagel with cream cheese and avocado . . . and jalapenos.”
    My personal goal was to come here often enough so Wendy and the other regular barista, Xander, would recognize me, smile in welcome, and maybe even ask, “The usual?” as they did with their friends. Complicating this plan was that I never ordered the same thing twice. Still, a witch can dream.
    Ten minutes later I emerged into the sunshine balancing my goodies in my handwoven Brazilian basket, and crossed the street.
    â€œLily!”
    I looked around to see a neighboring merchant, Sandra, trotting out of her storefront and waving me down. A petite, pretty woman in her mid-thirties, she stopped when she reached me on the sidewalk. As usual, she stood just a little too close and stared just a little too intently.
    â€œGood morning, Sandra. How are you?” I asked.
    â€œI’m so glad I caught you outside your shop! I’ve been trying to get you over here for days! I believe you simply work too hard. Staffing the store every day plus buying and then preparing all the clothes—it’s too much!”
    â€œI’m sorry I can’t really talk; I’m actually bringing this food back to Conrad—”
    â€œHe can just come right over and get it from you; you buy it for him, after all. Conrad!” she yelled before I could stop her. For a small woman, Sandra had some impressive pipes. “Come on over and get your breakfast from Lily. We’re going to visit for a few minutes!”
    Unfolding his lanky frame, Conrad stood from his spot on the curb and trudged toward us with his hands stuck deep into the front pockets of his grimy jeans. I handed him his food and drink and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but Sandra beat him to it.
    â€œWhat do you say?” she demanded, as though he were a child.
    â€œThank you ever so much, ma’am,” he said in a truly terrible Texas accent, lifting an imaginary cowboy hat in my direction. I tried not to laugh.
    Bowing to the inevitable, I asked Conrad to watch the door of Aunt Cora’s Closet for a few more minutes and stepped into Sandra’s shop, called Peaceful Things.
    Like Coffee to the People, her store was exactly what tourists from around the world expected to find when