Monday
October 2nd
"I think I had a bad dream," Lattie says after wandering into the kitchen, still in her starry pajamas.
"What of?" I ask, stirring the gingerbread creamer into her mug of coffee. I'd heard her feet hit the floor as soon as she'd gotten out of bed three minutes ago.
"Well I can't remember it very well." She climbs up on a stool at the breakfast bar, rubbing her tired eyes. "But I think there was a wolf attacking something. I don't think I saw it, but I remember hearing the sounds they make on National Geographic. Like the—" She curls her lips back and attempts to imitate a wolf snarling. She ends up accidentally drooling down her chin when she attempts a biting motion, and I can't hold in my laughter. Some of it is due to her ridiculous imitation, some out of nervousness at the fact that she wouldn't last half a night in the woods.
She laughs, too, wiping her spit away. "I don't know. It was really vague."
Still grappling with my smile, I carry the mug of coffee over and place it in front of her. Her hands wrap around it like two greedy snakes. "Ooo, thank you! Did you have any dreams?"
"Um..." I lean my elbows on the opposite side of the breakfast bar. I can't tell her I didn't sleep, or that I was too busy looking out for peeping toms to close my eyes. She'd never feel safe again. "I don't think so. I don't remember any."
She frowns, taking a sip. "That sucks."
"Yeah," I agree absently, shifting my weight anxiously.
The sun hasn't yet risen. If I were to check the clock, it would likely read something near 5:00 AM. The McNamaras' café opens at 6:00, so Lattie's awakening is right on time.
I haven't gone outside yet. I was waiting for both Lattie and Nanni to be up and cognate before even considering unlocking a door. I only need to step outside before they do, before their scents can mingle with any others that might be there.
"Is Nanni still sleeping?" I ask Lattie.
"No. She was dressing when I came down." She takes another sip contently, her nose concealed within the mug.
"I better help her down the stairs then." I push off of the bar and start toward the living room. I don't make it there before Lattie sits up and spins around on her stool.
"Hey, why did she use your bedroom? Is something wrong with hers?"
I bite my tongue to catch the lie. Yes! The heating wasn't working and I figured since heat rises... I've never felt pressured to lie to Lattie before, but now the urge is suddenly coming as an instinct.
"No. No, I just thought it might be safer considering... current events."
Lattie's face falls and in the end I wish I did lie.
"Oh. Yeah." She turns back to her coffee, no doubt with the memory of her dead friend swirling in her head.
Maybe today won't be better than yesterday.
I start toward the stairs again, but stop short when something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. On the window near the front door, two large, oily handprints are clung to the glass. I hurry over to draw the curtains before continuing my trot up the stairs.
~
"Leila, dear," Nanni begins as she's pinning a bejeweled, autumn leaf brooch to her white blouse, "What did you get up to last night? I heard the awfullest ruckus down there. It sounded like a badger got into the kitchen again."
"Uh, no badger. Just me." I take the white boater hat from off a nearby ottoman to hand to her. She places is atop her grey curls, picking at this hair or that in the mirror. "I couldn't sleep so I rearranged the cabinets. You know how you always say you can't reach what you need. I'm sorry, Nanni. Did I wake you?"
The vague banging noises can be passed off easily enough, but my shouting will be another challenge entirely. The muscles surrounding my stomach clench in anticipation for how the brain will talk our way out of this one.
I'm one lie in already. What's another, if necessary?
"Nooo," Nanni drags out distractedly, inspecting her shoulders meticulously for lint. "I was in and out all night. Blasted knees were flaring up every other ache in this old body."
There's no hinting tone or angle to her voice like there is when she's leading up to something, usually a scolding. She has a fantastic affinity for running words around your head until you've dug your own grave beneath your own feet. I'm relieved to see that I still stand on level ground, and that she hasn't yet tried handing me a shovel.
Nanni must have been in one of her spells of sleep when the yelling had taken place last night. I would say it's uncanny how lucky I got, but after all the absurdities that led up to it, I think I might actually deserve it.
"Don't call yourself old," I say, a bit too happily due to the hook I'd recently hopped off of. "What's the saying? You're only as old as you feel, right?"
She lets out a great guffaw, more bitter than it is humorous. "If that were true I'd have been dead twenty years ago."
Nanni finishes her nitpicking of herself and leaves the floor length mirror to hobble past me. "Have you your keys, Leila?" She asks, and then, in a murmur so quiet that it's meant for herself, she says, "Since I can't seem to find them," before raising her voice back to its natural volume. "You can drive us."
"Uh, actually Nanni, I was hoping to take a few hours off today. Around 8:00 probably. I have a few errands to run."
"Well that's fine. So long as you come back by closing and I don't miss my programs."
She shuffles out the door and down the hallway, and I can only assume by the sounds of things, to the top of the stairs.
"Who put these godforsaken things here? What an absolute nit!"
I prevent myself from telling her it was the carpenter she contracted sixty some odd years ago that put stairs in her two story house—mostly because I'm afraid doing so will result in me being thrown down them.
Mouth sealed, I run to help her with her descent.
~
The first two hours of the cafe being open crawl by as though they have all the time in the world to pass. The usual Monday customers, those passing through on their early morning commutes to out-of-town jobs, come and go like normal. I've been juggling the front—taking orders, interacting with customers, serving, billing—whilst Lattie has been in the back with Nanni baking pastries and brewing coffee. Usually, Lattie is front and center at the counter taking orders (as well as compliments) and working the register while I serve and Nanni brews and bakes.
Lattie's position at the front counter is an unspoken strategy of Nanni's which I've picked up on but haven't mentioned. Everyone loves her, regardless of demographic. I've seen schoolboys as well as working adults order two separate coffees on two separate bills just so they could have a reason to speak to her twice. More than once I've caught boys sneaking glances at her from afar, and girls beaming happily at her after they've just handed her their money. Sweet little Lattie McNamara is a Heisenbühl treasure and, second to the mouthwatering food and lush coffee, why this little cafe is as popular as it is.
Which is why the damp mood that settled over Nanni was so prominent when she and I decided that it would be best if Lattie worked in the back today. People talk in small towns, and a local girl's unnatural death is guaranteed to be a hot topic. As far as I'm concerned, the less outside human contact Lattie has for the next few days, the better. At least until people grow bored with the subject.
"Thank you," a woman of about thirty says once I've handed her her coffee. "Is Lattie not working today?"
I've dealt with these types of questions all morning. One elderly couple even asked if she was sick, followed by the wife offering to bring over a pot of her great grandmother's medicinal kartoffelsuppe, "Guaranteed to cure everything from the bubonic plague to a persistent sniffle." I force my smile and warm my voice and give everyone the same answer: that Lattie is just in the back learning recipes from her grandmother, that she's perfectly fine and no alarms need to be sounded.
The congenial woman in front of me receives the same answer as she hands me her euros, thanking me again and wishing Lattie good luck with the recipes. Once she's gone, leaving the cafe in a moment's emptiness, I slump down behind the counter with a deflating breath. The forced smile I've been wearing drops, finally allowing the muscles in my face to relax.
It's not the people. The customers have all been perfectly friendly and mannered. If I were to break down in front of one and spill all my life's problems, I'm confident most would comfort me, if not reciprocate the gesture. Though I'd rather the earth swallow me whole before doing that.
I have to get out of here. Too many things are eating at my mind.
Sophie's fate.
The werewolf in my driveway.
The handprints on the McNamaras' windows and the replaying sounds of the man who left them attempting entry.
While I sat wide awake through the night, I wondered if the person who wanted in the house was the same one who'd paid a visit to mine. He isn't. When we were leaving this morning, I stepped outside a minute before the McNamaras. I smelled the air, the body oil on the windows, the outer side of the front door where he'd touched. I got my answer.
The man who had tried to break in is not a werewolf.
I don't know whether to be relieved or distressed about the discovery.