herself. “Piper acts as though he has a personal problem with me,” said Frank.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Clarissa. “I know he’s a bit odd, but think of his value. An A-list reporter from the city’s biggest daily. He’s taking it upon himself to cover your store. Each paragraph in the paper is like paid advertising. This is golden, Francesca.”
Frank nodded. “I know all that, and I appreciate it. But he seems so hostile.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“It’s not paranoia if someone really is out to get you,” Frank explained. One of Frank’s pet fears was typical for New Yorkers: She’d be walking by herself late at night, going home from the subway. On a deserted street she’d hear footsteps behind her. Before she could run or call for help, the rapist/murderer/cannibal would attack. It wouldn’t be a random act of violence. No. The maniac had picked her out months earlier. Maybe it was the color of her shirt (perhaps this was why 95 percent of New York women wore all black, all the time). Maybe it was an expression on her face, one that said “I’m mildly discontent”—psychopath translation for “kill me now.” Frank wasn’t inclined to trust strangers. Especially twitchy, antagonistic men in trench coats.
Out of habit, Frank counted heads. The police excitement drew some passersby off the street. The crowd around Piper was animated. By morning, the nonstory of the fireworks exploding would probably be reported as a full-scale race riot. Frank watched as a handful of ladies picked mugs and coffee presses off the products display. She walked behind the register to take their money, not sure why the items that had sat dusty on the shelves for so long were now hot. Then she got it: these people wanted souvenirs, mementos of their big night on the front line. Maybe there was something to this coffee-house-as-spectacle thing.
Amanda was nowhere to be found. The cops were inside, lapping up some complimentary brew (show of support for the police presence). Amanda had probably slipped upstairs for the night. It wasn’t like her to miss out on hubbub, but Frank assumed she was worn out from the long day, especially considering that it’d kicked off with her dead date on a gurney.
“Do you have wrapping paper?” asked Walter at Frank’s side. “This woman wants to gift wrap her French press.”
“No, sorry,” Frank said to the customer, who bought the press anyway and slipped the box into her purse. Frank had to admit that, with Walter at her side, she was glad her sister had disappeared. Amanda never meant to take male attention away from Frank. But she did, starting with their father, continuing with boys in school, and finishing with Eric, Frank’s ex-fiancé, who came to life at Greenfield family gatherings.
Frank wondered why Walter paid any attention to her with Clarissa in the room. But hadn’t she said they spent the night talking? That nothing happened? Was it even remotely possible Walter was interested in her, not Clarissa? Frank let a small fantasy surface. She imagined herself in a gown, Walter in a tux. They were dancing somewhere elegant, a ballroom with heavy curtains, a long spiral staircase and a balcony. Yes, a balcony with a view of a fabulous garden, the air heavy with pine and roses.
“Francesca.” He said her name like a song as they dipped to violins. She was draped in backless satin.
“Uh, Francesca.” His voice again. Soft and heavy at the same time. They kissed by moonlight. Walter touching Frank’s face gently with his hands. Then touching her shoulder. Then shaking her gently, then a bit more firmly.
“Earth to Francesca,” Walter said.
Frank descended back to reality. “Yeah,” she sputtered. “I’m here. What? Walter, what?”
“This lady would like her change,” Walter said evenly.
“Here you go.” She passed some quarters to the customer. Frank’s face had to be poker red.
Walter said, “Where were you?”
“Forget it.”
He
“That’s ridiculous,” said Clarissa. “I know he’s a bit odd, but think of his value. An A-list reporter from the city’s biggest daily. He’s taking it upon himself to cover your store. Each paragraph in the paper is like paid advertising. This is golden, Francesca.”
Frank nodded. “I know all that, and I appreciate it. But he seems so hostile.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“It’s not paranoia if someone really is out to get you,” Frank explained. One of Frank’s pet fears was typical for New Yorkers: She’d be walking by herself late at night, going home from the subway. On a deserted street she’d hear footsteps behind her. Before she could run or call for help, the rapist/murderer/cannibal would attack. It wouldn’t be a random act of violence. No. The maniac had picked her out months earlier. Maybe it was the color of her shirt (perhaps this was why 95 percent of New York women wore all black, all the time). Maybe it was an expression on her face, one that said “I’m mildly discontent”—psychopath translation for “kill me now.” Frank wasn’t inclined to trust strangers. Especially twitchy, antagonistic men in trench coats.
Out of habit, Frank counted heads. The police excitement drew some passersby off the street. The crowd around Piper was animated. By morning, the nonstory of the fireworks exploding would probably be reported as a full-scale race riot. Frank watched as a handful of ladies picked mugs and coffee presses off the products display. She walked behind the register to take their money, not sure why the items that had sat dusty on the shelves for so long were now hot. Then she got it: these people wanted souvenirs, mementos of their big night on the front line. Maybe there was something to this coffee-house-as-spectacle thing.
Amanda was nowhere to be found. The cops were inside, lapping up some complimentary brew (show of support for the police presence). Amanda had probably slipped upstairs for the night. It wasn’t like her to miss out on hubbub, but Frank assumed she was worn out from the long day, especially considering that it’d kicked off with her dead date on a gurney.
“Do you have wrapping paper?” asked Walter at Frank’s side. “This woman wants to gift wrap her French press.”
“No, sorry,” Frank said to the customer, who bought the press anyway and slipped the box into her purse. Frank had to admit that, with Walter at her side, she was glad her sister had disappeared. Amanda never meant to take male attention away from Frank. But she did, starting with their father, continuing with boys in school, and finishing with Eric, Frank’s ex-fiancé, who came to life at Greenfield family gatherings.
Frank wondered why Walter paid any attention to her with Clarissa in the room. But hadn’t she said they spent the night talking? That nothing happened? Was it even remotely possible Walter was interested in her, not Clarissa? Frank let a small fantasy surface. She imagined herself in a gown, Walter in a tux. They were dancing somewhere elegant, a ballroom with heavy curtains, a long spiral staircase and a balcony. Yes, a balcony with a view of a fabulous garden, the air heavy with pine and roses.
“Francesca.” He said her name like a song as they dipped to violins. She was draped in backless satin.
“Uh, Francesca.” His voice again. Soft and heavy at the same time. They kissed by moonlight. Walter touching Frank’s face gently with his hands. Then touching her shoulder. Then shaking her gently, then a bit more firmly.
“Earth to Francesca,” Walter said.
Frank descended back to reality. “Yeah,” she sputtered. “I’m here. What? Walter, what?”
“This lady would like her change,” Walter said evenly.
“Here you go.” She passed some quarters to the customer. Frank’s face had to be poker red.
Walter said, “Where were you?”
“Forget it.”
He
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