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It was midday, and there weren’t any patrons, only woman with fiery dyed red hair that curled in thick waves wound into a topknot. She stood behind the main counter. The place looked friendly and warm, decorated in burgundy and deep brown, with a bank of wine bottles for sale near the front and an eclectic mix of kitsch on a few wobbly shelves above a row of wooden seating. I strode to the back bar and ordered a small latte, figuring I’d fare better if I patronized the place first.
“I’ll have it out in a few minutes,” the woman told me, not giving me much of a look as she started to make the drink. “And that will be $4.68.”
“Certainly.”
I handed her ten bucks and told her to keep the change, not taking off my glasses, even in the dimness of the restaurant. As she created my order, I considered various ways to ask what I was looking for, but when she returned with the hot beverage, I still didn’t have a decent plan for getting the information I needed.
“I was wondering something,” I tried as I took the drink from her hand. “Do you—”
“Oh God.” She blew air through her nose and I saw her expression grow darker. “You’re ajournalist. I should have known, even though I thought all of them left last night. Shit, you guys are insatiable.” She braced her hands on the bar, as if she was preparing to launch into a memorized speech or keep herself from decking me. “No, Rebecca isn’t giving interviews, and no, she—”
I held up my free hand. “Stop. I’m not a journalist.”
“Who are you, then?”
I pulled off my sunglasses so she’d see my face for the first time. A glimmer of recognition rolled over her face and I knew I didn’t need to formally introduce myself. “Please,” I tried again. “I’m trusting you here...I’m trying to get ahold of her.”
“Holy shit. It’syou.”
"It is.”
She huffed.
“Based on that, I’m guessing you’re good friends with her.”
The woman nodded.
“Rebecca won’t return my calls. Or my texts. Or my emails.”
She huffed a burst of air. “Can you blame her?”
I bowed my head. “No, I can’t.”
“She doesn’t need this,” the woman said, a hint of defensiveness sharpening her words. “After all she’s gone though in the last few years, she really doesn’t.”
“I know.” I paused. “But do you know where she is? I need to talk to her.”
“Not so sure she wants to talk to you.”
“But you know where she is. Listen, I’m not here with any kind of agenda. I want to talk to her, want to see if she’s all right. And I want to try to explain.”
The woman studied me for a long beat. I realized she hadn’t introduced herself, but it didn’t matter. I was so singularly focused on figuring out where Rebecca had gone. It was currently my only goal. Finally, she jerked her head in the direction of the door.
“Let’s go to the back office and chat there.”
“What about leaving the front unattended?”
“I can see the door if I’m standing in the back doorway.” She sized me up. “I’m thinking more about you, and what will happen if someone comes in and recognizes you.”
She had a point, and when I told her it was kind of her to think of me, she shrugged and led me to the small back office. There, she offered me a seat in one of the plastic chairs. I took the blue one with a broken back. She stayed in the doorway, half her body in the office, and the other half in the small hallway that connected it with the main part of the shop.
“Do you care about her?” she asked once I was settled.
“I do. And I just realized you haven’t told me your name.”
“It’s Olivia.” She trained her attention on the entrance. “I wish you’d seen what it was like here a few days ago. All the media camped out here with no regard for anyone who lives or works on this street. They just took over, harassing everybody and asking the same questions repeatedly.”
“They can be awful.”
