“Didn’t they wonder why you were standing by the register at the bookstore for hours?”
“I sat in a nearby chair with a big book, and made little check marks on a piece of paper hidden in it. Very industrial-espionage.”
“Sounds like social-science research to me.” Dr. Santin looked thoughtful. “What about your co-workers? How do you manage them?”
“I’m not the head manager—the head manager is a grad student in the Music Department.” Dora didn’t want to say Gary’s name out loud, to an intimidating and much-too-perceptive stranger. “I’m just the student manager. I am there most of the time, though, since I only have an independent study this semester. But, really, it’s generally considered a pretty good job to have, so people mostly manage themselves. I just make sure everyone has enough of what they need.”
“Like coffee?”
“Oh, definitely coffee. And stirrers—people get really upset when there are no stirrers! And the rest of the stock. And the right shifts, so they’re not rushing in or out or late for classes, and the right people to work with, so they don’t spend the whole time either chatting and ignoring the customers or arguing and ignoring the customers.” Dora was suddenly aware she’d been gesticulating wildly. Embarrassed, she sat straighter in her chair, and put her hands back in her lap.
“What made you take the job in the first place?” Dr. Santin had unclipped a pen from the file folder, but Dora could see she hadn’t written anything down.
“I had been guaranteed a summer job through my scholarship, but that fell through. They probably could have found some kind of make-work for me, but that same day I ran into the head manager, and he was desperate. So I took the job.”
“The manager must have been very persuasive.”
“Very pitiful, is more like it,” Dora said. “But I’m glad I took the job.”
“Meaningful work is a gift. If you can find some, it doesn’t matter what it is, only that it engages you. The coffee shop sounds very engaging.”
Dora’s face flushed. “I know it’s just coffee, but little luxuries are really important to people, especially things like coffee that they look forward to, and plan their day around. Sometimes it seems to me that, the smaller the thing is that people want, the bigger the disappointment when they don’t get it, or it’s not exactly right.”
“And the simpler someone believes something to be, the harder it is to do it to their satisfaction, too.” Dr. Santin looked thoughtful.
“Exactly.” Dora smoothed her skirt over her lap. “My grandmother,” and she went on, carefully keeping her voice even, without a catch, “had a vintage-clothing store, and so many people thought it was just selling ‘old clothes.’ But it’s not. It’s selling history and glamour and . . .
experience
. . . and all sorts of things that can’t be put on a hanger. You don’t just stick a pretty dress in the window and be done with it.”
“Hmm,” said Dr. Santin again, although it was a confirming “hmm.”
“People sometimes think clothes are superficial and shallow—I know I used to—but for my grandmother they were very deep. She wasn’t selling something to wear, she was selling something to
be.
We think of things as belonging to us, but we don’t realize that we belong to our things, too. She wanted to give people things worth belonging to. Especially vintage clothing, things with history and patina and provenance. She was finding people a place in the history of an object, like she was gathering people into a family, almost.”
Dr. Santin looked interested. “Your grandmother sounds like a fascinating person,” she said.
“She just knows—knew people,” Dora said. “And she was
interested
in people. She used to say that only boring people got bored, so I guess that means that interested people are interesting. She was interested in people and things, and how they fit together. She was like a museum curator and a therapist wrapped up in one.”
“Did you work in her store?” Dr. Santin made a quick note with her pen.
“Only for a little while,” Dora said. She swallowed the lump that had appeared in her throat. “But I grew up there.” She didn’t add “this week.”
“Dora, have you given any thought to the kinds of topics you’d like to explore in the program?” she asked.
Suddenly Dora was unsure again. “I’m interested in . . . problems of information gathering and decision-making,” she said. “I don’t have anything more specific.” Her hands fell to her lap again, and she realized that she’d spent most of her time talking about cake and clothes. Dr. Santin must think . . . She didn’t want to know what Dr. Santin must think.
Dr. Santin walked her to the door, and there was another student there, a boy Dora vaguely knew from a Russian-literature class. She remembered him as overly ingratiating, and dreaded a year’s worth of classes with him.
She suddenly dreaded a year’s worth of classes with anyone, even the kind and understanding Dr. Santin. She stopped on the threshold and blurted, “Dr. Santin, I’m really, terribly, terribly sorry, but I don’t think this program is for me.”
Unexpectedly, Dr. Santin smiled. “You know what? I’m delighted to hear you say so. Not that I don’t think you’d do well, it’s just—well, it sounds like you’ve found something else you’d like to do better. I think your grandmother was a better teacher than any of our faculty for what you want to do.”
“I’m so sorry to waste your time.”
“Oh, no, you’ve given me quite a bit to think about.” She looked down at her shapeless jumper. “I’m not sure I want to belong to this dress, for one thing.” She smiled again. “I know you’ll do well, Dora. Good luck!”
• • •
The Liberal Arts program office was just across the quad from the coffee shop. Dora could stop by, straighten out the butter ordering and check on the ant situation, and tell Gary she wasn’t going to do the M.A. program. What that meant she
was
going to do, she wasn’t sure. There was no law against living and working near Lymond and not being a student, right? There were plenty of little shops near the college she could work at, while not being an undergraduate. Plus, Gary never said he couldn’t date townies.
This late in the day, the coffee shop would be closed, but there was sure to be someone there, cleaning up or just hanging out. Sure enough, the back-room lights were on. She tapped at the door before hauling out her key from the bottom of her bag. Someone had left the stereo on, and, wonder of wonders, her iPod was still next to it.
Dora walked to the back room and stood still. Gary was there, leaning against the counter—well, not leaning against the counter, but leaning against a woman who was sitting on the counter, her legs wrapped around his waist. Her arms were around his neck, and he was kissing her thoroughly (and, Dora noted, a little sloppily).
“Oh.” It was a stupid thing to say, but Dora said it.
Gary and the woman broke apart instantly. The woman was Amy. She reached up to adjust her headband.
“Sorry to interrupt, I came by to . . .” Dora thought she was going to say “order butter,” but what came out of her mouth was “. . . quit.”
She picked up her iPod, turned, and walked out, past the chairs overturned on the tables and the empty napkin holders lined up to be refilled. She saw they were out of Snickers again; not her problem. She heard hurried whispers from the back room, but she didn’t stop to eavesdrop. She walked out the door and didn’t bother to lock it behind her.
She was nearly to the library before Gary caught up with her.
“Dora, Dora, Dora”—he came running up to her—“you can’t quit, please don’t quit, I need you.”
“That’s your problem,” she said. “I have different problems, and I’m afraid you aren’t the solution to any of them.”
“Is it about Amy? We’re just having fun, it doesn’t mean anything. . . .”
“I don’t think any better of you for saying that.”
Gary stood still, his mouth open. “I guess you wouldn’t.” He looked sheepish. “Well, um. I’m sorry. If I gave you the wrong idea, or anything. I know I flirt too much, and I guess sometimes I cross the line.” He gave her what he obviously regarded as a winning smile. “And you look amazing in that dress, by the way.”
Dora was surprised at how little pleasure Gary’s saying that gave her.
“I came to quit because I’m moving back to Forsyth. My grandmother died and I’m taking over her store.” Dora didn’t know how she was going to do this, exactly, but Gary didn’t need to know that.
“Oh.” He shifted from one leg to the other. “Um, you won’t report me, will you? For, um, dalliance with an undergrad?”
“No. It’s not worth my time.” Dora looked at her watch. “I really have to get going. I’ll email you with the address for my final check.” She turned and walked away. She didn’t look back.
• • •
The drive back to Forsyth seemed more like flying. There was no traffic, the rush hour having rushed by, for once. Dora didn’t even plug in her iPod. She spent the miles practicing her speech for Uncle John. “I feel Mimi would have . . .” “I know Mimi would have . . .” “Camille and Tyffanee could set up their own . . .” “Continuity in the community . . .” She didn’t have the right words yet, but she knew she would get them. Her uncle John would appreciate a good argument; he would be swayed by logic, if she could find some. As long as she didn’t stray into ad hominem attacks on those idiots who were, after all, his wife and daughter, she should be fine. He had to have been shaken by those telltale tags on the clothes Tyff’s friend had “supplied,” no matter how much hand-waving Camille had used to try to explain it away. He might be stuffy and overly fond, but he wasn’t entirely stupid.
She tried calling Maux, but it rang through to voicemail. “I bailed on grad school, Maux. And I bailed on Gary, and how. I’m going to get Mimi’s store back somehow. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Dora decided to swing by the store on the way home, just to look in the windows, and see how much havoc Camille and Tyffanee had managed to wreak in a day. She parked on the quiet, dark, deserted downtown street; all the lights were off, and it seemed as if even the sidewalks were rolled up for the night.
As she got closer, she saw a white paper in the window. Just like Camille and Tyffanee to put up some half-baked notice, Dora thought: “Camille’s Craptorium & Tyffanee’s Tacky Tackle & Bait Shop, coming soon,” would fit the bill.
Instead, it said NOTICE TO VACATE in big letters, and
LEASE REVOKED
in smaller ones.
There was a smaller piece of paper, too, in the window next to the door. It said
BUILDING PERMIT
. It was dated Saturday. And “Intent to demolish storefront and construct 4 (four) parking spaces, garage-style, ground-level/closed. Overhead door. Street cut to be made 11/12.” There were two numbers to call on that one. One was for the Forsyth Planning Commission, and the other one was for Murphy Fine Construction.
Dora dialed it. She didn’t care how late it was.
Con answered. “Murphy,” he said.
“Parking spaces?” was all that Dora managed to say. “
Four
parking spaces?”
“Dora, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I can explain. . . .”
“Your company’s name is on the building permit, so, unless there’s been a really convenient kind of identity theft, not to mention memory loss, you knew.”
“No, really, let me explain. . . .” Con sounded pained.
Let him
, Dora thought.
“So that’s why you were hanging around Mimi? So you could take her store for parking spaces? You never would have talked her into it, you know.”
“Dora, Dora, I promise you, that’s not it at all. . . .”
“I don’t care what it is, now that I know what you are.” Dora pressed the “end call” button with force.
• • •
Gabby, for a change, was at the house when she got back. “Oh Lord,” she said, when Dora walked in. “I was afraid you were Camille come back.”
“Camille?”
“She’s been here all day, trying to find a copy of Mimi’s lease for the store. I guess the building management came in this morning and told her and Tyffanee that Mimi only had a life lease, and that they weren’t going to renew.”
“‘Oh Lord’ is right.”
Gabby shuddered. “You have no idea. The screeching alone—that woman should not be allowed to talk on the phone.”
“What about Uncle John?”
“He’s washed his hands of it—said he doesn’t have time for this foolishness, and if they want to run the store, they have to figure it out themselves.”
“Did Camille tell you what they were being kicked out for?” Dora asked.
“No, I just thought they wanted more rent than Mimi was paying, and had a more reliable tenant than Camille lined up. Which wouldn’t be hard,” Gabby pointed out.
“It’s parking spaces. They’re turning it into parking spaces. Like a garage.”
“Makes sense,” Gabby said. “It’s at ground level, and there’s no parking around there at all. Nearest garage is blocks away. I remember they made a big stink about it when they converted the old department store to condos.”
“Makes sense? It’s terrible! And what’s worse, Con’s doing it.”
“Con’s doing what?”
“He’s the one turning the store into a garage. The permit was pulled Saturday. He came to Mimi’s service after deciding to turn it into parking spaces.”
“Well, that was a low thing to do, I’ll give you that.” Gabby considered. “But, honey, why are you so upset? I thought you were giving up the store and going back to Lymond? How did your interview go, by the way?”
Dora looked down. “I kind of quit grad school. I mean, I told them I wasn’t going to enter the program. I quit the coffee shop, too . . . and Gary—I’ll tell you more about that later.” She looked up at Gabby and smiled a weak smile. “I came back to talk Uncle John into giving me the store back.”
“That I’d like to see,” Gabby said. “Not that I don’t think you could do it, sugar, I just think it would take some doing.” She looked thoughtful. “But there’s not much to give back now, is there? Without the space, what would you do?”