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I shoved aside the thoughts that sprang up over Donovan’s recent return to town as I poured a shot of espresso into the cup, put a lid on it, and gave it a swirl. When I set the drink on the counter in front of Carmella, I picked up our conversation. “Dad’s eccentric, definitely, but this goes beyond that. He’s given up Purty’s pulled pork, his absolute favorite food on earth, and has been talking about becoming a vegetarian. He hates vegetables. I spotted him jogging on the beach the other day, too.Jogging. You know how he feels about regimented exercise.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Jogging?Really?”
“Good for him,” Redmond piped in. “Move it or lose it.”
In his late forties, the redheaded, ultra-buff Redmond owned the local gym simply called Red’s, and even though he eyed a blueberry cake donut with cream-cheese frosting with deep,deep longing, he wouldn’t be buying it. According to town gossip, his health-nut lifestyle was one of the reasons he was newly single—last month he’d had a massive argument outside of Mother of Pearl, the jewelry store belonging to his partner, Javier, over Javier’s love of cinnamon rolls and mocha lattes. Both had stormed off in opposite directions and had barely spoken since, except to discuss custody arrangements for their beloved pet cockatiel.
Redmond turned his back on the pastries. He wore a utilitarian gray muscle shirt and gym shorts, his standard outfit despite Javier’s continued pleas to snazz up his wardrobe a bit. “There’s no age limit on wanting to get healthy. How old is Dez now?”
“Sixty-eight,” I said.
In my head I could hear Dad’s voice saying,You’re only as old as you think, my little magpie.And I like to think I’m in my forties. No, thirties. No, twenties. Hoo boy. My twenties were something, let me tell you.
For most of his twenties, he’d traveled the world, but he liked to say those adventures paled to meeting my mother, Tuppence, at a Mardi Gras parade over in Mobile when he was twenty-eight. After spotting her standing along the route, he’d jumped off the float he’d been riding to give her a MoonPie and his heart. She’d accepted both enthusiastically. She dideverythingenthusiastically. After that they’d settled down here in Driftwood and had been inseparable. Well, until…
I shook my head. No need to go down that road right now.
“There’s a class at the gym geared toward the over-sixties age range that he might be interested in. Drifters and Shakers. Dance moves mostly. Great for the heart.” Redmond glanced at Carmella, and she narrowed her gaze at him as if daring him to say something about her fitness level. Being a smart man, he looked away.
“I’ll tell him,” I said, then punched Carmella’s order into the register. “And it’s not just Dad’s new, healthier lifestyle that’s bothersome. He’s selling most everything he owns. I can’t tell you how many times he’s said he’d rather cut off a limb than getrid of any of his treasures, yet not only is he planning a big yard sale, but he has made it a whole community-wide event.”
I’d garnered the nickname Magpie early on. As soon as I learned how to walk, I was off, picking up anything shiny or unusual—having watched both my parents do the same. It wasn’t until I was older that the focus of my collecting narrowed to very specific objects. My father, however, had always collected anything that struck his fancy, with no rhyme or reason. Those items filled two large storage units and were stuffed into every nook and cranny in his house. He hadn’t been able to bear parting with anything. Until now, apparently.
Carmella rooted around her tote bag for her wallet. “You know Dez likes mixing things up. Says it keeps life interesting.”
Carmella had been in my life… forever. She’d been my mother’s best friend, and from the time I was eleven years old she had tried to help fill the gaps in my life left behind by my mama’s absence. It was an impossible task, but I loved her dearly for trying.
“And his talk about selling the coffee shop? That’s not mixing things up. That’s…” I searched for the right word.
“The dumbest idea I’ve heard in a month of Sundays,” Mrs. Pollard called out.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pollard,” I said. “That’s exactly what it is. Dumb.”
“Dez is selling Magpie’s?” Redmond asked, his voice threaded with disbelief.
“No.” I wiped water droplets from the counter and tried to will away the headache I felt coming on. “He mentioned something about it, is all. It’s just talk.”
When I’d questioned Dad on why he’d evenconsiderselling, he only said, “Waves of change should be welcomed, Maggie. They can uncover beauty and treasures untold. It might be time for me to let go and move on.”
I loved discovering treasures as much as the next person—maybe more—but I also knew how waves of change could be destructive, destroying anything in their path.
Especially families.
So why rock this particular boat?
Sympathy flooded Carmella’s eyes. “I don’t think it’s just talk. He’s planning on getting a business evaluation and is gathering revenue statements—things he’d need to get Magpie’s on the market.”
Redmond’s dark eyes flared wide and he whistled low.
My heart rate skyrocketed. This didn’t make sense. My father wouldn’t sell the coffee shop. Mymother’scoffee shop. Magpie’s was a fixture in Driftwood. It was theheartof this town. Closing it would be devastating.
It was where so many connected and reconnected. Where gossip was shared. Where business deals were discussed. Where friends laughed so hard they cried. Where Mermaids gathered. Where relationships began. Where some ended. It was where life waslived. It was also where magic happened when it came to the curiosities I’d collected.
The bells on the door rang out again, and if not my mama, then I hoped it was Rosemary Clark, the best employee known to mankind. She’d called earlier to say she was running late because of car trouble. Instead, it was Sienna Hopkins who breezed through the doorway.
The relatively slow morning was the proverbial calm before the storm, since I knew the Mermaids, members of Driftwood’s beachcombing club, would be along soon enough. They arrived every morning around nine after having walked the beach with their buckets and bins, searching for treasures like driftwood, shells, fossils, and sea beans. Mostly, though, the Mermaids were on the hunt for sea glass, which was extremely rare on our beaches but chances increased after a big storm. Their usual numbers would likely be doubled today—maybe tripled—because of last night’s bad weather.
I took a moment to scan the small dining room, knowing that there was no way to fit all the Mermaids inside. They’d come anyway, spilling out onto the sidewalk and into the park across the street after ordering. I felt a surge of love for my small southern town and how supportive they were of the coffeehouse—and all the businesses here in the square.
