the pinup models from years ago. The eye-catching sign beckoned to neighborhood residents and passersby using the busy street. The store was not only popular for its juices; sales of stuffed foxes and other memorabilia sold in-store and online brought in a substantial side income.
Sophie entered the shop, bursting with red, green, and yellow designs, and filled with round tables where a scattered group of patrons chatted to each other or sat hunched over laptops and using the free Wi-Fi.
“Hey, you guys,” she greeted two of the employees at the counter. One was over at the juicer, pressing out an order for a customer. The other stopped to wave before continuing to bag the five glass bottles of fresh juice a man standing at the counter had just purchased.
Sophie’s mother was not only conscientious about what went into her body, she was an advocate of protecting the Earth for future generations. The Juice Fox sold individual serving sizes of juice blends in plastic cups, but customers had the option to also purchase them in glass bottles, for a small one-time fee, which could then be refilled indefinitely at a discounted price.
Sophie found her mother in the back, sipping a red liquid from a tiny plastic taster cup. Two blenders, one half-filled with a green liquid and the other containing the reddish one in her cup, sat on the counter among cutting boards with various fruits and vegetables sliced and diced atop them. Apparently, her mother was working on a new recipe.
“Hi, honey!”
Dora Bradshaw’s eyes danced the minute she saw Sophie, and she rushed over to give her daughter a tight squeeze. People often said they looked alike, but Sophie couldn’t see the resemblance. She had amber skin, gray eyes, and dark hair. Her mother’s white skin was very pale, she had blue eyes, and hair the color of her youth, courtesy of a box of Clairol Nice ’N Easy in sun-kissed blonde.
Her mother stepped back and gave her a long look. She rubbed her hands up and down Sophie’s bare arms. “You got a little tan while you were in the Bahamas.”
“Yes, I did. I also received a surprise while I was there.” Sophie crossed her arms.
“Oh?”
So that’s how her mother was going to play it. The innocent role.
“Keith came to see me, and he told me you told him where I was.”
“I had to.”
“Why did you have to? You know I was there to get away, and you told him how to find me.”
Sophie’s father, Dr. Walter Bradshaw, came through the slightly ajar office door after he must have heard them talking. Over long dreadlocks he wore a black tam with red, yellow, and green stripes running its circumference, and was dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans, which meant he didn’t have plans to go into the office today.
One of the foremost authorities of black history and culture in the country, he taught African-American studies at Emory University, and wrote papers and traveled to do speeches on the subject. His age had begun to show by the smattering of gray hair in his neat circle beard, but he was still very fit. Her parents lived in town, and he rode his bike more often than not to the university or whenever he ran errands.
“Hey, Dad,” Sophie greeted him, keeping an eye on her mother’s guilty blush.
“What’s going on?” her father asked, his heavy bass voice filling the space.
“The two of you encouraged me to take a trip on my own, and your wife ratted me out to Keith.”
“I’m sure your mother meant well,” Walter said, amusement in his voice.
Her mother shrugged. “He came by the house looking so pitiful. He practically begged me to tell him where you were, and how could I resist? He sounded sorry and seemed sincere.”
“You could have at least warned me he was coming.”
“That would have spoiled the surprise,” her mother said, sounding reasonable.
Sophie huffed out a breath of exasperation. Her parents didn’t know the whole story about Keith, and she didn’t know yet if she’d
Sophie entered the shop, bursting with red, green, and yellow designs, and filled with round tables where a scattered group of patrons chatted to each other or sat hunched over laptops and using the free Wi-Fi.
“Hey, you guys,” she greeted two of the employees at the counter. One was over at the juicer, pressing out an order for a customer. The other stopped to wave before continuing to bag the five glass bottles of fresh juice a man standing at the counter had just purchased.
Sophie’s mother was not only conscientious about what went into her body, she was an advocate of protecting the Earth for future generations. The Juice Fox sold individual serving sizes of juice blends in plastic cups, but customers had the option to also purchase them in glass bottles, for a small one-time fee, which could then be refilled indefinitely at a discounted price.
Sophie found her mother in the back, sipping a red liquid from a tiny plastic taster cup. Two blenders, one half-filled with a green liquid and the other containing the reddish one in her cup, sat on the counter among cutting boards with various fruits and vegetables sliced and diced atop them. Apparently, her mother was working on a new recipe.
“Hi, honey!”
Dora Bradshaw’s eyes danced the minute she saw Sophie, and she rushed over to give her daughter a tight squeeze. People often said they looked alike, but Sophie couldn’t see the resemblance. She had amber skin, gray eyes, and dark hair. Her mother’s white skin was very pale, she had blue eyes, and hair the color of her youth, courtesy of a box of Clairol Nice ’N Easy in sun-kissed blonde.
Her mother stepped back and gave her a long look. She rubbed her hands up and down Sophie’s bare arms. “You got a little tan while you were in the Bahamas.”
“Yes, I did. I also received a surprise while I was there.” Sophie crossed her arms.
“Oh?”
So that’s how her mother was going to play it. The innocent role.
“Keith came to see me, and he told me you told him where I was.”
“I had to.”
“Why did you have to? You know I was there to get away, and you told him how to find me.”
Sophie’s father, Dr. Walter Bradshaw, came through the slightly ajar office door after he must have heard them talking. Over long dreadlocks he wore a black tam with red, yellow, and green stripes running its circumference, and was dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans, which meant he didn’t have plans to go into the office today.
One of the foremost authorities of black history and culture in the country, he taught African-American studies at Emory University, and wrote papers and traveled to do speeches on the subject. His age had begun to show by the smattering of gray hair in his neat circle beard, but he was still very fit. Her parents lived in town, and he rode his bike more often than not to the university or whenever he ran errands.
“Hey, Dad,” Sophie greeted him, keeping an eye on her mother’s guilty blush.
“What’s going on?” her father asked, his heavy bass voice filling the space.
“The two of you encouraged me to take a trip on my own, and your wife ratted me out to Keith.”
“I’m sure your mother meant well,” Walter said, amusement in his voice.
Her mother shrugged. “He came by the house looking so pitiful. He practically begged me to tell him where you were, and how could I resist? He sounded sorry and seemed sincere.”
“You could have at least warned me he was coming.”
“That would have spoiled the surprise,” her mother said, sounding reasonable.
Sophie huffed out a breath of exasperation. Her parents didn’t know the whole story about Keith, and she didn’t know yet if she’d
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