Read Online The Merchant of Venice Beach by Celia Bonaduce - Free Book Online Page A

companionable silence but was in fact abject terror that her clientele was going to think they were being served some penicillin-laced delight.
Suzanna flitted between the two establishments as sort of an overseer, but always made sure to be on hand for the afternoon tea rush, serving as the hostess. Her nerves were on edge as Harri carried out the first tray of mountain laurel finger sandwiches. Harri shot Suzanna a confused look.
Oh, no! A panic swell.
Suzanna clutched the little podium that stood at the entrance to the tearoom, but it was no use. Her heels lifted off the ground. She tried to concentrate. Sometimes, if she could focus, she could keep her big toe on the ground, but the sight of the triple-tiered tray full of crustless purple finger sandwiches was too much for her. She felt herself floating perpendicular to the podium.
Well, at least I’m not on the ceiling.
Even though her ears were clogged, and every sound seemed far, far away, Suzanna managed to hear a squeal from table twelve.
Maybe I should let go of the podium. It might be safer on the ceiling.
But the squeal turned out to be one of delight. The Red Hat Society—women of a certain age who wore red hats and purple dresses to their weekly tea at the large circular table—called Fernando out and were showering him with applause and kisses. They loved the purple sandwiches.
Pop! Suzanna’s feet were back on the ground. She shook her head and realized that Harri was standing beside her. Suzanna was always stunned when Fernando’s crazy ideas and fits of pique met with approval from the customers. He marched to his own drummer and people seemed to get in line to join his band.
“I sometimes wish I could just soak up his vision,” Harri said. “I mean, I just don’t understand how you could be working away in a kitchen and suddenly think, ‘You know what these sandwiches need? Some red and blue dye . . . . just mix them together and add to the dough until it’s a nice . . . mountain laurel and I’m good to go.’”
The rest of the afternoon rush passed pleasantly. Eric stopped in to make sure Fernando and Suzanna weren’t plotting each other’s demise, and Suzanna had to sheepishly admit that Fernando had a winner on his hands—everyone seemed to love the bread. They were chatting when Phyllis, a tiny firecracker of eighty and one of their regular customers in both the tearoom and the bookstore, started past them on her walker.
“Hey, Phyllis, what did you think of the new sandwiches?” Eric asked, knowing that of all the customers, Phyllis was sure to hate them.
Phyllis was as old and bitter as the day was long.
“I don’t know what you were thinking,” she said. “Why don’t you just leave well enough alone?”
Suzanna thought instantly of her dance instructor and pushed him out of her mind.
Phyllis never had a good word to say about anything that was served at the Rollicking Bun. Suzanna used to worry that she would stop coming to the tearoom—granted, it would be a much more pleasant environment without her, but she spent a lot of money there. Last year, Phyllis had had a hip replacement and wasn’t around for a few months, and Suzanna was surprised to find that she really did miss her. Phyllis was frailer since her surgery, and used a walker. She never stopped complaining, but she never stopped coming in, either.
Phyllis turned her remarkably keen eyes on Eric.
“Did you get that book I called about?”
Eric and Suzanna exchanged a look over the old woman’s head. Phyllis would never say the name of a book she had asked for. She wanted to make sure Eric remembered on his own. Eric called it “proving his love.”
“Yes, I did. The Beggar Maid, right?”
Phyllis beamed.
“That’s right.”
“I put away a copy just for you.”
Phyllis headed across the hallway toward the bookstore. Eric tried to take her elbow, but she slapped him away.
“I can manage,” she said. “I’ll go look around the store.”
Eric and Suzanna