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Reagan: Oh, come on. I was not raised to show up empty handed. Either you tell me, or I show up with something you don’t like.Libby: Okay. What do you like?
Reagan: I’m not a big drinker, but I’m kind of having a bourbon moment.
Libby: Sounds great to me. Bring your favorite and I’ll make us something.
Before Reagan replied, Libby fessed up.
Libby: That’s a lie. I don’t really cook, but I’ll have something delicious waiting for you.
Reagan: I’m sure you will. . .
Libby stared at the ellipsis and wondered what they meant. She shifted in her seat as her pulse raced. In a long line of firsts, she was trapped in an existential crisis over three tiny dots.
Reagan: Tonight too soon?
Libby: 8?
It would give her time to shower and shave her legs, she thought before shaking herself out of the haze. It’s not a real date, she lied.
C H A P T E R 1 4
REAGAN WAS PRACTICALLY VIBRATING when she jumped in her truck to pick up pastries and co ee for her first class. She shouldn’t have favorites, but the folks from the retirement community were pretty up there. In the years since she’d been getting to know them, she’d learned so much. Not just about history, which came alive in their first-hand accounts, but about so many life lessons they’d figured out the hard way.
She was on her way back from the Cuban bakery with a box filled with treats and tiny plastic cups to serve a shot of strong, black co ee, when her lip curled at the sight of a shiny black sedan. The car was deliberately parked in her spot. Shoving the sugar substitute for her mostly diabetic class in her jeans pocket, she gripped the box and tried not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction as she parked alongside him.
“Ms. Soto, I’m surprised I didn’t find your truck here,”
Silvio said as he forced his short, thick body out of the driver’s seat. “You know I keep getting complaints about overnight parking. I’m a nice guy, but the terms of your lease are very clear.” He pointed a sausage finger at the faded tow-away sign.
“Sil, there’s no one here. I have a ton of parking for my building. Who the hell would be complaining?” she challenged, clenching her jaw to keep herself in check. She wanted nothing more than to wipe the perennial smug smile o his face.
“Listen, it’s not me.” He lifted his hands as if in surrender as he rested against his car door. “But the city zoning laws are very clear. This is a commercial, manufacturing area only. You can’t live here.”
Reagan bit the inside of her lip. Every few months they had this exact same conversation. It was the world’s lamest dance. She knew what he wanted. All she had to do was flatter him a bit. Ask him to please look the other way. Make him feel like a big generous guy and he’d go away for a while, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She loved her place and cherished the generations of memories, but she wouldn’t fake desperation or gratitude. They both new full well that tenants weren’t clamoring to lease the space. No one but her would pay a penny for it.
While she was seething, Jabba the Hut with legs continued his rehearsed charade. “It’s enough that I allow you to be open to the public. Teaching your little classes in a building full of dangerous equipment. Can you imagine if one of those special kids of yours got hurt? The lawsuit would ruin me, but I have such a soft heart for you.”
His emphasis on special made her want to rip him a new one. “I have insurance for that, and you know it. I’ve shown it to you a hundred times. My policy fully covers all accidents. You’re not liable for anything,” she snapped.
Silvio laughed. She’d given him the satisfaction of getting under her skin. She never understood what his actual problem with her was, but she guessed he thrived on power trips wherever he could get them. How she wished she had the money to buy the place out from under him. He really
didn’t make any money o her rent. It wasn’t even enough to cover the property taxes, but it had been vacant for so long, her money was better than nothing.
Out of the corner of her eye appeared a large white van rolling down the empty street.
“I’d love to have this conversation all day, Sil, but my class has arrived,” she said, kicking the door to her truck closed and heading to the door.
“I hear pottery is therapeutic,” he shouted behind her as he walked around to the front door of his car. “Maybe I’ll buy a few private lessons from you. Get my hands dirty.”
She didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, she propped the door open so her class could file in after they slowly disembarked from the van. When she’d finished setting up the co ee, empanadas, and sweet laminated dough pastries, he was gone.
“Morning, doll!” Peggy greeted cheerfully. Using her walker instead of a cute nurse’s arm, the woman ambled into the studio and went right for the co ee. “You know I love this cafesito,” she said, pronouncing the word with a strong American accent, “but I need real sugar for this thing.”
Peggy lowered her voice and leaned in conspiratorially.
“Where’s the good stu ?”
“You’re not supposed to—”
