Page 10 of The Overtime Persuasive

“My coffee, specifically.”

“Wait.” Les steps farther into the hallway. “How did you manage to…am I missing something?”

“When I realized I had enough room to add a small café in the back, I asked the contractor what permits we would need,” I explain. “Technically, Side B is approved as a retail store for records and books, that’s it. Long story, longer…he told me he would handle everything. Sent me permit numbers, gave me updates, and told me the city had signed off on the work. I believed him.”

Les peers over his prescription readers at me. “But he didn’t?”

“That’s the irritating part. He did.” I adjust the binder beneath my arm. “The construction, the new sink, and the electrical work were all permitted. What he didn’t tell me was that those permits only allowed him to build the café. They didn’t give me permission to operate one.”

Les frowns. “There’s a difference?”

“Apparently. The city considers a coffee shop a type of restaurant, even if it’s only one counter inside a store. I needed separate zoning approval, a plan review through the Health Department, and a food-establishment permit before I served the first cup.”

“And yet your contractor said he had taken care of all that?”

“He said he had taken care of everything I needed. I saw paperwork from the city and assumed that was what everything meant.” I hold up the binder. “Now I know better.”

“I’m so sorry, Eva. I know my words won’t do much, but I hope you know that none of that makes this your fault.”

“Still makes it my problem.” I sigh. “Now, if I want to keep running it, I have to apply for the approvals that should have been in place before the café opened. The Health Department has to review the plans, inspect everything, and decide whether anything needs to be changed.”

“Well,” Les says, as he leans against his doorway and looks at me sadly. “I guess it’s a bad time to let you know I’m definitely leaving at the end of my lease, then, isn’t it?”

Les, as far as tenants go, has been the best. I’ve only acted as his landlord for a fraction of time, but he’s been delightful. A widower who was already planning on moving in with his family, I’ll be sad to have him leave. Not only for the hellos and check-ins I get to have on a daily basis when I walk past his door, but also the whole thing where “it feels more stable to have someone paying rent here” helps too.

But his health has been a concern for him for a while now, and after this last trip to the hospital I’m not making a fuss.

“Not at all, Les. We knew this could happen this year.” I look beyond his shoulder into his apartment. Cardboard boxes litter the foyer behind him. “You’re already getting a head start?”

“My son was over today, and he insisted,” he says, waving his hand at the mess behind him. “When you have a chance, will you remind me what day my lease is officially over? He was asking so he can make sure I’m all moved out by then.”

“I think it’s in one month, but I’ll double check the date on your lease tonight and let you know in the morning.”

“Oh, you’re the sweetest, Eva. I’m so lucky you bought the building, you’ve been great about this.” Les smiles, taking a step back inside. “Hey, is that famous dad of yours stopping back by any time soon?”

Only Les could ask me this and make me chuckle. Probably because Les almost passed out the morning he opened up his door and found me and my father in the middle of a conversation right outside. Les is a loyal and true James William Barlow fan through and through.

My father is James William Barlow, although most people know him simply as James William. The James William.

Award-winning singer-songwriter. Sold-out tours. The man whose songs strangers have played at their weddings, their funerals, and apparently during an alarming number of divorces.

And, the guy I simply know as Dad.

“I need to double check, but I think he’s here in a few weeks.”

“I thought I saw he was performing here soon. If he is, I want to get tickets and take my son and grandson,” he says with a wink.

“Well, as luck would have it, I happen to know someone who may be able to help with that.” I pull out my phone and write a quick email to myself as a reminder. “Let me message his manager to see if they can get you guys some good seats, okay?”

Les nods. “Stop making me want to stay.”

“Good night, Les.” I laugh, waving one last time as he closes the door.

I continue toward my door at the end of the hall, carrying my binder and my notice. While my mood has been temporarily buoyed by that quick meet-and-greet, the uncomfortable realization washes over me that I’m in a huge mess, and well, I’m worried.

When I reach my apartment, I unlock the door, step inside, and close it behind me and feel the knots in my shoulder go tighter.

The thing I didn’t tell Les is that I have ten days to challenge a twelve-thousand-dollar fine. Or pay it. And, sadly, I know exactly where the first ten thousand is coming from.