Daughters of Men: Chapter 3
Coffee and Elvis
A closet psychic, a genius tween, a mysterious young man…and four generations of secrets.
This paranormal-meets-science-fiction novel is Book 1 in the Daughters series. Paid subscribers have access to the entire book.
Coffee and Elvis
The next morning, Eileen and I were rushing to get her to school on time. After yesterday’s much-overdue trip to the grocery, we’d spent a lovely afternoon together, just hanging out and not doing anything special. I’d missed her mile-a-minute jabbering.
“Really, Mom! Amber just doesn’t get that school is for learning! I was like, ‘Texting your boyfriend won’t help you remember how to work a quadratic formula.’ And then she looked at me like I was a freak, and then Mr. J. took her phone, and then Amber told Alexa that I ratted her out on purpose, and then in Science, I ended up being picked last for the stupid new group project!”
She’d taken a deep breath, but plunged on before I could decide if she was ready for me to say anything. “And it’s on electricity! Why does it have to be a stupid group project? I stayed after class and begged Ms. Miller to let me do it by myself, and she said no!”
Full stop and silence. I’d recognized my cue.
“Sweetie, she just doesn’t want you to have to do all the work by yourself. Who’s in your group? Are you the only super-genius?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Ah, well, such is life, Leeni. Somebody has to take notes…is there a good note-taker in your group?”
It had been hard not to crack a smile. Thirteen was tough. My kid was very smart, very pretty, and very opinionated—a combo which didn’t sit well with most of the other girls in middle school. The boys, I suspected, didn’t mind at all, although Eileen wouldn’t have noticed one way or the other.
“Well…Bethany’s a really good speaker and Tyler’s good at art. And Ms. Miller said she was counting on me to help the group think outside the box. That’s a compliment, right?”
She’d looked to me for reassurance, and I’d pulled her into a big, mushy hug. “Absolutely!”
The hug had lasted for about three seconds before Eileen had squirmed out of it. Not too bad for thirteen.
We’d spent the rest of the afternoon on the back porch with a bowl of popcorn, watching the blue jays swoop in to tease our cat, Pebbles, and then we’d settled into our nightly routine of dinner, reading, and bed. The only reason we were running late this morning was that I’d overslept. Wallowing in a deep, blissfully dream-free blackness, my brain had refused to acknowledge the sound of my alarm. Luckily, Eileen’s had. I wasn’t complaining, though. That was my best night’s sleep in months. And after scooting through a couple of yellow traffic lights, I maneuvered our old Bronco into the drop-off line at 7:58 a.m.
Coastal Achievement Academy was a charter school, a free alternative to public education for kindergarten through eighth grade. It was loosely Montessori-based, designed to foster a life of inquiry and self-exploration, and Eileen loved it. I loved it too, because if I was honest, my kid needed more than a little help in learning to play well with others. There’s a fine line between smart and smart-aleck.
“Have a good day, sweetie! I’ll be thinking about ya!” I called as she scrambled out of the truck.
“You, too!” she called over her shoulder. No goodbye hugs today.
Thirteen, I sighed. I drove away slowly, watching her long, spidery legs scurry her into the building. She was going to be taller than me, and I wasn’t short. At five-foot-eight, I was on the tall side of average, but Eileen was going to be at least five-ten. Not that she cared. Her appearance meant nothing to her, and she chided me whenever I dithered over which shoes to wear or bothered with a bit of makeup.
The irony was rich, considering I was about the last person anyone would expect to work in a clothing store. But, after all the times I’d railed against the media marketing machines and their sexualization of everything from breakfast cereal to buttons, I was more than willing to eat the occasional slice of humble pie.
As I drove, I clicked through radio stations, cranking the volume up when I found one playing some old school Bon Jovi. Back in the day, I’d played “Born to Be My Baby” so many times that my cassette ribbon had snapped. I was younger than Eileen, but already hopeless—and by her age, I was worse. Every little choice confused me, as if puberty had cursed me with perpetual indecision along with a monthly cycle. But I also remembered how excited I’d felt, believing that soon I would fall in love and live happily ever after with my soulmate. I was so eager that I’d searched for him in every class, club, bookstore, and face for twenty years.
I flicked the radio off with my middle finger. Hopefully, I’d raised Eileen to be more grounded.
Sans music, I weaved through traffic with only the rumble of my gas-guzzler for company, and by the time I pulled into the parking deck on Front Street I’d worked myself into full irritation-mode. I had time to get a latte before the shop opened, but I wasn’t ready for human interaction yet—even with a barista. Instead, I stayed in the truck, making an effort to smooth my forehead and relax my jaw.
Once I’d managed that, I could appreciate the panoramic view from my spot on the upper deck. The rising sun had transformed the river into a golden syrup flowing in serene undulations toward the ocean. Even the hulking battleship moored across the river looked peaceful in its marshy home, belying its violently patriotic past. There were still ghosts aboard, though. There were ghosts everywhere. Leftover promises of lives and once-cherished dreams.
I closed my eyes, inhaled, exhaled, then opened them again to absorb the way the sun gilded the river. Beauty and peace were everywhere, too. I just had to focus on the right things. Like my daughter.
8:21 a.m. Time to find a little peace and beauty in a hot beverage.
I left my four-wheeled refuge and headed for Riverhouse Coffee. It wasn’t until I was facing the entrance that I remembered the man from yesterday. After work, I’d given Eileen all my attention, and apparently that hadn’t left enough brain power for obsessing over what a fool I’d made of myself. Besides, he was an oddball, too. Had he even shopped for anything? If I asked Maureen, I’d never hear the end of it.
Jesus, don’t start now, Lila.
I shoved the heavy door open and walked in before I could start wondering whether he was here today. Either he was or wasn’t, but if I saw him, I should thank him again.
Surprisingly, there wasn’t a line, so I didn’t have a chance to look around until after I’d greeted Tessa and confirmed my normal order. The coffee shop made it easy to people watch. Its walls were lined with local art and photography, and with an innocent interest in the framed works, one could effectively scan the clientele.
Two oil abstracts and one watercolor later, I saw him sitting alone at the table by the front window. He was inspecting his left hand, pressing on his palm as if testing an old injury, but he wasn’t looking my way at all. Immediately, I felt better. I’d walked right past him and he hadn’t noticed. Surely yesterday’s paranoia was just from lack of sleep and my overactive angel-friends. Too much information had been thrown my way, and I’d had a little psychotic episode trying to process it. Not the first time.
I turned back to the closest wall and pretended to admire a mixed media portrait of Elvis. Once I’d spotted the man, it was hard not to look at him. He was incredibly attractive and, therein, was the biggest problem. His appearance was literally incredible. As in, beyond the range of natural phenomenon and more like some computer-generated animation of…of a…
I blushed, again imagining him as a glorious ancient athlete, glossed in a Hollywood-perfected sheen of manly sweat; muscles tensed in the pose of a discus thrower…and… Fantastic. Now he was completely naked in my head, and I was ready to climb over the counter and fix my own damn coffee so I could get the hell out of there before he saw me.
“Here you go, Lila!” Tessa’s voice was too loud for the nearly empty shop. Even Elvis watched with interest as I took my coffee.
“Er, thank you. Thank you very much.” My weak impersonation sounded loud, too. Tessa’s big brown eyes blinked, but her smile didn’t waver. I tipped her an extra dollar for her self-control.
To compose myself, I lingered beside The King, studying the Krispy Kreme boxes that had been shredded to create his jumpsuit. My blush quelled, I turned to leave—and smacked right into Mr. Olympian. Glorious, even with my latte slopped all over his hard stomach.
In one agonizing second, my brain compartmentalized my reaction. Part of me wondered how the coffee had splashed only on him while my white shirt had been spared; part of me wondered how in the world I’d been unaware he was behind me, because—thanks to my angels—no one ever snuck up on me; and part of me was fantasizing that he might take his shirt off. Thank goodness my brain was roomy enough for a normal reaction, too. Well, relatively normal.
“I’m-so-sorry!” I sputtered as I grabbed a pile of napkins and started swabbing at his shirt. Why am I touching him?! “I didn’t see you! Did I burn you?” Embarrassment flooded my tear ducts, and my last words sounded thick.
His large hands swallowed both of mine—sopping napkins, half-spilled cup and all—and held me still, forcing me to look up into his face. His mouth was stretched into a full, cheek-lifting, eye-squinching smile as if I’d done him the biggest favor in the world by coffee-dyeing a Rorschach blotch onto his baby-blue button-down.
“I surprised you!” he announced with satisfaction.
“Congratulations. That’s twice now.” My voice was suddenly clear again, but all wrong. Sarcasm had scorch-dried my tears. Smug bastard. You’re not all that. His palms were uncomfortably hot, and I tried to slide my hands free.
Releasing me, he took the cup and napkins. “Go cleanse. I will wait. Your blouse is pristine, and it would be a shame to sully it.”
I stared, but saw no hint of insincerity. My blouse is pristine? I grabbed the restroom key from Tessa’s outstretched hand. She was too busy gaping at Mr. Olympian to notice—or so I thought. But when I took the key, her expression morphed to sympathetic dismay. Yep, I’m an idiot. As I rushed away, I heard her offer him a wet rag.
Luckily, although the restroom door was thin, it offered just enough separation for me to relax and get a grip. I methodically washed my hands, adjusted my hair and clothes, and consulted with my alter ego in the mirror. We took stock of the situation and listed the obvious problems.
Number one, whenever I was near this man, my head was a very noisy place. More so than usual. Two, he was too young and pretty for me to be stupid enough to be interested. Three, because of his oddness, he both intrigued me and creeped me out. He’d snuck up on me twice! Which led to number four…where were my angels? I thought back over the past hours and realized I hadn’t sensed them since I’d told them to leave me alone yesterday afternoon. But I’d have to ponder that one later, because number five was the most important. I needed to get to work.
Priorities in order, I was pleased to see my mirrored self looked confident. Image is everything, right? A giggle struggled to break free as I left the bathroom, but Tessa’s anxious glance made me channel it into a sheepish grin. Then I realized it was his fault she was still out of sorts. He was standing exactly where I’d left him, with a ludicrously rabbit-shaped stain on his shirt, observing his surroundings like a ruler bored by an inconsequential fiefdom.
Ugh. Before my opinion could develop beyond that unflattering assessment, he noticed me and flashed his straight white teeth. I approached cautiously, but even his eyes were welcoming. The sterile crystal facets were now a smoky quartz, as if clouded with genuine emotion. I was completely baffled and desperately missed my angels.
“Well, my hands aren’t sticky anymore, but I’m afraid your shirt won’t be such an easy fix. I’d be happy to pay the cleaning bill…?”
He gestured away my offer and handed me a fresh coffee. With a lid on it. “I asked the worker to fix you a new…soy milk latte, is it? With two packets of raw sugar,” he recited, “and extra foam.”
He turned his smile to Tessa at the last bit, and her full lips popped open in surprise. Clearly, he hadn’t been that affable with the worker while I was in the restroom.
“Ah, thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.” I made sure to target my smile to Tessa, who looked a little dumbstruck.
“I have to go now…late for work. But I really am sorry about your shirt,” I told him. “Thanks for being nice about it, and thanks again, you know…for yesterday…?” My voice faltered as his gaze sharpened again, piercing me in his search for—for what? What was his deal?
With absolutely no idea what to say next, I headed for the door. Just as I touched the handle, I felt the heat of his body behind me, and he reached around to pull the door open for me. My cheek was inches from his chest, and it felt as if the sun had broken through the clouds to warm me, only me, no one else in the world.
“Th-thank you, sir.” I stumbled over my stock reply, shocked beyond measure that this man would open the door for me—or for anyone. What else had I misread?
Deeply flustered, I hurried down the street, jostling through the morning crowd in a daze. At the corner, I forced myself to look both ways, twice, just to resist the urge to look back. His behavior—and my hormones—had made me erratic. I struggled to clear my mind and settled into a rhythmic stride. I might not be a giant like Mr. Olympian, but my legs were long enough to eat up the sidewalk when I was in a hurry.
Damn it. Maureen’s convertible was parked in the loading zone in front of the shop. That was not a good sign.