“Hey!” Someone raps firmly on the glass door, making Mom and me both jump. Mr. Butters raises his head and gives a single lazy whuff of alert.
“Dot, you scared the daylights out of us,” Mom scolds, unlocking the door and letting in her best friend of many years. She flips the sign on the door toOPEN.
“Where’s our birthday girl?” Dot booms, glancing arounduntil she sees me. At almost six feet tall, Dot is broad-shouldered and larger than life, with a chopped pixie cut dyed a shade of burgundy usually reserved for red velvet wedding cake and a gravelly voice that sounds like bottom-shelf whiskey on the rocks. She’s loud, opinionated, and unapologetically herself.
Today Dot is wearing a tight T-shirt that proudly proclaims “Part-Time Mermaid.” People tend to assume the shirt is a joke since Dot owns the Salty Mermaid, the boutique next door where she sells all sorts of seaside-themed home décor and personal apparel. However, Dot is quick to whip out a business card for her side business, Mermaid Tales. A two-hour session costs two hundred and fifty dollars, and Dot will come to your chosen location dressed as her alter ego, a mermaid named Serene, and entertain guests with clean or bawdy (your choice) stories from the sea. Or if you have a pool, she also offers a one-woman aquatic show. If it’s an adult party, she can also bartend, either in the water or on land.
When Dot turned fifty, she had a mermaid tail custom made for her by a woman in California, bought a long tangerine-and-teal-colored wig from Etsy, and somehow mustered the breezy and brash self-confidence to pull the whole ensemble off. Serene is especially popular with bachelorette parties, or so I’m told.
“Happy birthday, baby girl,” Dot announces, holding out a package wrapped in the starfish paper from her shop. I tear the paper off carefully, revealing a silicone spatula with the words “Getting older is a beach” printed on the handle, below a row of starfish whose arms are embedded with crystals.
“To replace that ratty old one you have in your mom’s kitchen,” Dot explains. “Figured you could use a new one. This one’s good quality. Plus, you know I love a naughty pun and a little sparkle.”
I’m touched that Dot noticed my spatula, which is old and falling apart. It’s also one of the only things I brought back withme from France. It holds so many good memories from my training days in Switzerland and bittersweet recollections of long-ago evenings with Romaine in the Jacques Genin workshop kitchen in Paris, talking and working side by side, gradually falling in love. I can’t bear to part with that old spatula, even though the handle tends to fall off every now and then at inconvenient times. It reminds me of a time of life that is now gone.
“Thank you. I love it,” I tell her, pressing a quick kiss to Dot’s leathery cheek. “I have to hide it from Gus though. He gets puns now.”
Dot chortles. “Glad you like it, baby girl. You know I love you like you’re my own.” I squeeze her hand. Dot and her partner Jude never had children, and after Jude passed away almost a decade ago, Dot was left with just us and her brother Walt as her family. She’s like an aunt to me, and she has always loved me to bits.
“Any news from around town this morning, Dot?” Mom asks as she opens the till. Dot manages to know everything that goes on in Poulsbo, a mysterious talent that often comes in handy.
Dot shrugs. “Same old, same old. Nothing much to report today. Although I noticed your doorknob is loose. Felt like it might come off in my hand when I came in just now.”
“I’ll take a look. Probably just the screws are loose again.” I grab my little tool kit from its place on the shelf below the cash register. As I tighten the screws on the doorknob, I try not to think about the long list of old and worn items that need to be replaced around here, starting with the gas burner for heating the fudge. A new, modern system costs thousands of dollars, so I’ve been making do with the finicky burner, watching it like a hawk in case it acts up. Today’s burnt fudge is a stinky reminder that we need more reliable equipment. We need a lot of things.
Every time I turn around something is going wrong in thistired place. A leaky faucet, a wobbly shelf. I always try to fix small problems by watching YouTube videos. I give it my best shot, and I’ve learned to do more than I thought I could. And sometimes I swear things seem to repair themselves in the night. More than once I’ve come in after something breaks to find it seemingly miraculously working again, like we have elves helping us as we sleep. I wish that were true. I want it to be true. But those little repairs—my own and the inexplicable ones—do not even begin to touch the renovations this old place needs. Those are going to require far more than YouTube and elbow grease or handy elves.
I shudder to think of the cost we could be facing eventually. So far we’ve avoided having to make the more major repairs, but word around town is that new county standards are going to be enforced soon, and that all businesses are going to have to bring their plumbing and electrical systems up to code. At least that’s the scuttlebutt Dot has heard. I try not to think about what that might entail, not just for us but for many of the small businesses that surround us downtown. I think we’re all just trying not to worry until we have to. As Dad used to say, “No use borrowing trouble. It’ll come knocking soon enough.”
I stash my toolbox back in its spot and grab the last tray of fudge from the kitchen. I’m just coming back with a tray of orange dreamsicle slices in hand when the bell on the door jingles.
“Freeze! Police!” A petite woman with a cascade of dark curls, wearing a navy blue uniform and a shiny gold Poulsbo Police badge, pops into the shop. She spots me and says with mock sternness, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step out from behind the counter and come with me.”
I grin and quickly slip the tray of fudge into the case. “Why, Officer Diaz, have I done something wrong?” I blink in faux innocence, playing along.
My best friend shakes the handcuffs at her waist and frowns. “Failure to comply will result in police action,” she announces, trying to look stern and failing. She beams at Mom and Dot, her smile such high wattage it looks as though it could power the sun. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take this suspect in for questioning,” she tells them. To me she says, “Come on, birthday girl. Let’s hit the bakery before they run out of raisin buns.” Then she notices Mr. Butters, who has left his dog bed and waddled up to her, wriggling his stump of a tail so enthusiastically that his whole body shakes. He’s standing beside her, making whining noises, trying to get her attention. He adores Dani because she breaks the rules for him every time she thinks we aren’t looking.
“Ooh, Mr. Butters, you handsome devil.” She pauses and fishes a doggy pot pie out of her pocket, feeding it to him on the sly. He swallows the pot pie whole, then licks her hand, grinning happily. He’s supposed to be on a diet, since he’s gotten a little pudgy and looks like a Twinkie or a Tater Tot. But Dani indulges him. She’s also been known to pocket more than one of his more humiliating accessories (here’s looking at you, twinkling Christmas light doggy headband), for which I think Mr. Butters is eternally grateful.
She looks at the bow tie. “It’s not that bad,” she whispers to him, scratching him affectionately under the chin. He pants and grins happily.
“Ready to go?” she asks me.
I glance at Mom, who makes a shooing motion.
“Go,” she urges. “Enjoy your birthday treat. It’s tradition.”
It is tradition, but I thought Dani would bring something yummy to the shop. I don’t like to leave Mom to manage the store by herself. What if someone needs help reaching a highshelf or buys something heavy? What if the shop is suddenly overrun with customers?
“I’ll help keep an eye on things here,” Dot promises. “You go celebrate. Bring back a bear claw for me.”
I hesitate a moment longer, torn between a feeling of responsibility and the desire to sink my teeth into a delicious fresh Scandinavian pastry. It’s my birthday so the pastry wins out. Barely.
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” I promise, heading out the door after Dani. “Don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone.”
“Sorry, we can’t hear you,” Dot shouts as the door swings closed. “We’re too busy planning all the crazy things we’re going to do while you’re gone.”
Chapter 2
