Before Him

To fear love is to fear life

~Bertrand Russel

1

Kennedy

WHO’S THE DADDY

I’m not a fan of people. This is not a fact that’s common knowledge or one you’d guess from watching my interactions. Maybe it’s not so much that I don’t like people but that I don’t expect a whole lot from them, which, I guess, can be put down to experience. It’s not like I go around tripping up toddlers or slapping old ladies. My thoughts are my own, and I mostly keep them to myself. Naturally, there are people I do like, and there are people who mean the world to me. I’d do anything for that small bunch, but the rest? They get a slice of polite (and mostly fake) interest and my customer service face. The face I’m pulling right now as the bell above the door jingles in welcome.

“Take a seat, ladies,” I call over. “The usual?”

“Yes, please, Kennedy, dear,” Ursula Kowalski, one of my regulars, happily calls back. “And one of those heavenly butter cookies, too.”

My smile widens at the pre-emptive delight evident in hers. Polite customer service face or not, Ursula is my neighbour. She’s also as sweet an old lady as any you could find. I defy anyone not to like her.

“Make that two,” Betty, her sister, adds with neither a please nor a thank you. While Betty is also my neighbour, she belongs to that other group of folks. The ones I’d refuse to engage my bladder for. You know, if they were on fire. Though I guess Miss Betty is old, so maybe I’d squeeze out a little pee for her if she really were aflame.

“Coming right up!”

“Urgh, pretend perky is so hard to deal with when it’s already after five.” Jenner, my grumbling barista, pulls a cup from the top of the coffee machine. “We should’ve flipped the closed sign already. The place was empty.”

“And now it’s not.” He’s just angling to get out of the cleanup like vacuuming is against his religion or something. “I have to be here when the new renter picks up the keys for the pixie place, anyway.” The pixie place is the holiday cabin I’d recently had built at the bottom of my yard, so named because of its size. Technically, it’s not quite a cabin but a tiny house, the kind that is all the rage for trendy vacationers right now. Not that this is exactly a vacation kind of town, but there are those who like to visit the coast, and then there’s the cheese factory, I guess. What’s important is that it’s turned out to be a pretty good investment.

“Why get them to pick the keys up from here when you already live there?”

“Because the renter is a single man, and I have nosy neighbours.” I slide a meaningful look to where the old ladies have taken the table closest to the counter. Not a whole lot goes on in this town, and they’re determined not to miss any of it. “Also, safety, Jenner.” The hint of censure goes straight over his blond-highlighted head. “I should just hand him a coil of rope along with those keys.”

“Sounds like my kind of date,” he replies, hip checking me out of the way.

“You are . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t have words for what you are. What do you think of the refurb, ladies?” I call over, changing the topic and conversational partner.

“Oh, I love it,” Ursula replies, lowering herself into a wooden bistro chair. “The ladies over at the quilting circle think it’s wonderful!”

I suppress a small smile of pleasure. I imagine the old biddies over at the stitch and bitch club were worried I’d give High Grounds a bared brick and light bulb hipster kind of vibe, like the coffee chain that shall not be named. Starbucks. When, in fact, the look I’ve gone for is probably much more their thing with plush velveteen, floral china, tablecloths, and mismatched chairs. Jenner thinks he’s being cute when he calls it old lady chic, but he knows in his heart the style is genteelly eclectic.

“Well, I think it’s too dang fancy,” Betty mutters, her eyes flicking disdainfully over the new décor. Her brows lower, and her mouth puckers like a cat’s butthole as her gaze flits from a tasselled lampshade to the front half of a tin zebra that appears to burst through the far wall. I might’ve gone a little overboard with this, but I like to think its surprised expression is the result of it finding itself not quite having escaped a hunter’s gun, even if it was salvaged from an old-fashioned carousel.

“But what could you expect?” Betty mutters in the manner of the senior citizen she is. As in loud enough for the whole place to hear. “The family just live to make a spectacle of themselves.”