Page 2 of For My Finale

T he morning rush at The Bankton Bean was in full swing.

Although, in a village as small as Bankton, the word rush was somewhat of a relative term.

The cafe, cozy, and perpetually smelling of cinnamon and espresso, was already abuzz with chatter and familiar faces as Blossom Baker wiped down the counter with practiced efficiency.

It was home-like, that was what Blossom liked most about the Bean.

The furniture was a delightful mismatch of cushioned chairs and wooden tables, the kind of charming disorder that just worked.

The villagers were always friendly. And if the pay wasn’t exactly a fortune, what she lacked in financial compensation, Blossom more than made up for with job satisfaction.

She stacked up some cups and the cafe door swung open right on cue, ushering in a gust of cool morning air and Ives Pearson, Blossom’s best friend.

All sharp angles and effortless androgynous style, today Ives was in fitted trousers that bared her ankles, and a long-sleeved button-down shirt that covered her colorful tattoos.

She was also wearing an expression that suggested that she had yet to make peace with being awake at this hour.

“You look entirely too cheerful for this time of the morning,” Ives grumbled, as she dropped onto a stool at the counter.

Blossom grinned. “It’s called caffeine and optimism. You should try it.”

Ives snorted, but accepted the black coffee that Blossom placed in front of her. “What, no side of optimism?”

“You’ll need to provide that yourself,” Blossom said. “And how’s village life treating you this fine morning?”

“Oh, you know, coffee, gossip, existential dread, the same as usual.”

“Existential dread?” Blossom asked.

Ives smirked. “We’re all going to die alone, the world is a lonely place, that sort of thing.”

“You just don’t like mornings,” said Blossom. “Which is odd in a teacher. Shouldn’t you have chosen something with a later start time?”

“No comment on the fact that we’re all dying alone, then?” asked Ives, ignoring her question. “Still in denial about your chronic single status?”

Before Blossom could respond to this, the door jingled open again, and Blossom grinned.

Daisy Green, Bankton’s ever-enthusiastic postwoman, bustled in, pink-cheeked from her morning rounds.

“Here’s someone that’ll solve your dating problems,” Blossom said to Ives.

Daisy was the village Cupid. Or at least she tried to be.

“Blossom,” Daisy called out, making her way over to the counter. “I’ve found her. The perfect woman for you.”

Blossom groaned. “Not again, Daze.”

“Again,” Daisy said, undeterred. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “She’s lovely. Runs a little florist in the next village over. Sweet, kind, loves dogs.”

“The last blind date you set me up on turned out to be already married. To a man,” Blossom said.

“This one isn’t, I swear,” said Daisy. “You’re wasting your prime years of attractiveness.”

“And you’ll die alone,” said Ives, nodding solemnly. “I keep saying so, don’t I?”

Blossom rolled her eyes. “The two of you should start a support group.” She started an espresso shot just as the door opened yet again.

This time, there was a whirlwind of scarves and skirts, not to mention a hint of self-importance, as Gloria Cunningham, Bankton’s self-appointed leading lady, swept in. She looked like she might be arriving for a press conference, rather than her normal cappuccino.

“Blossom, darling,” she caroled. “I need you.”

Blossom gave Ives a resigned look before turning to Gloria. “For coffee, I assume?” she asked politely.

“For art!” Gloria declared, clutching her hands to her chest. “For art and poetry and beauty, without which the world would be a faded photo of itself, all in black and white and—”

“Jesus,” Ives said. “Do you want a coffee or not?”

“I want to rehearse,” Gloria said.

“But the Am-Dram Society isn’t doing anything at the moment, is it?” Blossom asked.

Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “Not the point, my dear. Far from it, in fact. One must always be prepared. Now, be a dear and bring me that cappuccino as well as some water for my throat. Then you can help me with this monologue. A Streetcar Named Desire, good old Ten Williams was always a favorite of mine. Of course, I’m a little young to play Blanche, but one must be flexible in these things.

Such an iconic role, such an iconic play. ”

Blossom was about to protest that she had no time just at the moment, when Gloria struck a pose, her head tilted back, her hand to her heart, and bellowed. “Stelllaaaaa!”

An elderly couple in the far corner of the cafe almost spilled their tea.

Ives, unfazed, sipped at her coffee. “I do love how you bring such a calming presence to the cafe, Gloria.”

“Thank you, darling,” Gloria said, the sarcasm flying so far over her head that it might as well have been interstellar.

“Cappuccino,” Blossom said, passing one over to Ives to pass to Gloria. “And an iced coffee for you, Daze,” she said, sliding one over the counter. “Anything else I can get for anyone?”

There was no time for anyone to answer her question.

The door opened again, this time the bell creaked rather than jingled the door was opened with such force.

Arty Foster, pub landlord and former journalist, strode in like he owned the place.

He had the expression of a man who’d just won a radio quiz show and needed to tell the world about it.

“Arty,” Blossom said. “You’re not often in at this time.”

“Not often up at this time,” Ives said.

“I run a pub,” said Arty. “I have a lot of late nights.”

“And a lot of pints,” said Ives.

“Yeah, well, it’s all part of the image. Can’t be a journo without having a drink problem,” said Arty.

“Nonsense,” Ives said. “You’re perpetuating a stereotype. Plus, you’re not actually a journalist anymore, so you don’t need to be so ridiculous.”

“Speaking of which,” Arty said, sliding onto a stool. “Headline of the decade, right here.” He tapped a folded up newspaper on the counter.

Blossom arched a brow. “Bigger than when Mrs. Fairchild’s goat got stuck in the town fountain?”

“Ooo, what about when someone graffitied the bus shelter?” asked Ives.

“Bigger than when I headlined as Medea?” enquired Gloria, who had always taken an interest in Arty. He was from London, Gloria wished that she was.

“Fools, the lot of you,” said Arty, but he said it kindly. “We’re talking world news here, not measly village gossip.”

“Go on then,” said Ives, looking interested against her will.

Arty leaned forward, grinning. “Lilah Paxton just quit Hollywood.”

There was silence in the coffee shop for a long few seconds.

Ives was the first to break it. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.” Arty unfurled his paper, a tabloid, revealing the headline. “She won the best actress Oscar last night, and promptly quit on the spot. Just like that.”

Blossom very carefully schooled her face to look neutral and got to work making Arty a flat white. But Ives was having none of it.

“No, no,” Ives said, teasingly. “Don’t you even pretend not to be interested in this. Your teenage crush has just blown up her entire career, your hands are literally itching to get ahold of that newspaper.”

Blossom felt herself blush furiously. “I do not have a crush on Lilah Paxton.”

“So you didn’t wallpaper your bedroom with posters of her?” asked Ives. “You didn’t check her horoscope against yours in the paper every day?”

“No,” Blossom screeched.

Ives laughed. “We’ve all known you too long and too well to believe that, Bloss. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve all had our crushes.”

“I just adore that young Matt Damon,” said Gloria, staring wistfully into space.

“He’s about thirty years too young for you,” said Daisy, who wasn’t known for her tact. Gloria scowled at her.

“The real question, though,” said Arty, who was skimming through the newspaper article. “Is what is she going to do now?”

“Move to a private island,” Gloria said. “Or disappear into obscurity, like Greta Garbo.”

“Maybe she’ll come to Bankton,” said Blossom, without really thinking about it. Ives and Arty both turned to stare at her.

Ives narrowed her eyes. “Why in the world would she come here?”

Blossom hesitated before giving up. “Because she was born here.”

“And you’re definitely not a fan,” Ives said. “You definitely don’t know so much information about her that it’s practically creepy. Like, I don’t know, like where she was born.”

“She’s right,” Arty said. “Lilah Paxton was born here. Her parents emigrated to the States when she was a few months old.” He looked up to find everyone staring at him. “What? I do my research. Old habits die hard and all that.”

Blossom grabbed a dish towel and busied herself wiping down the coffee machine. “It’s just trivia.” She was trying not to die inside.

It wasn’t like she was a stalking kind of fan.

It was more… Well, every little lesbian needed an idol to fall in love with.

That was just the way of the world. And hers had been Lilah Paxton.

With her long red hair and her wide green eyes and her perfect pink lips and… Blossom’s breath hitched a little.

Arty leaned back. “Well, if she does show up here, it’d certainly make life interesting.”

Gloria pursed her lips. “If she’s looking for a role in the next Am-Dram production, I hope she realizes that she’ll have to audition just like everyone else.”

Ives drained the last of her coffee and stood up.

“Seriously? What are the chances of Lilah Paxton showing up here? You lot live in a dream world sometimes, I swear.” She nodded at Blossom.

“I’m off before the kids start a coup.” Then she put a hand on Daisy’s shoulder.

“And I’ll take that blind date, whoever it’s with. ”

Daisy clapped her hands in glee. “Excellent, you won’t regret it.”

“I’m already regretting it,” Ives muttered as she slid out of the door.

“And I’ve got work to do,” Arty said, throwing back his flat white in one big gulp. “Come on, Gloria, you can monologue at me while I wash the glasses from last night.”

And as quickly as they’d all arrived, they were all gone, leaving Blossom behind the counter in a far more peaceful cafe.

She exhaled, laughing a little to herself. The idea of Lilah Paxton coming to Bankton was ridiculous. Completely absurd. The stuff of fantasies. Teenage fantasies.

Still, as she went back to work washing cups, she couldn’t help but remember her childhood bedroom, Lilah’s face staring down at her from different angles, her eyes watching every movement.

But nothing exciting ever happened in Bankton. That was just a fact. A fact that Blossom Baker sometimes found herself wishing wasn’t true at all.