Page 12 of Two’s A Charm

Back in high school, the careers adviser Mr Nolan had asked Bonnie what she wanted out of life, and she’d shrugged – how could anyone answer that?

Meanwhile, Effie had been set on a librarian career since she’d admonished Bonnie, then aged three, for arranging her picture books by colour instead of alphabetical order.

Effie had always been fascinated by imaginative worlds; how knowledge could be contained and organized; by how, she said, one building on a hill could be a haven to everyone.

When Mr Nolan pressed Bonnie about her own goals, Bonnie had stammered out something about being memorable.

Because she didn’t know quite what she wanted, but she did know what she didn’t want.

To be invisible, to be forgotten. Now Bonnie had her own building on a hill (all right, near a hill), and she was determined to make it the place where the entire town wanted to spend their time.

And also, given the wholly unexpected expense of running the place, their money.

A few groups of hotel workers and college kids came in, including Terrance from The Winged Monkey, still in his barista T-shirt, who shyly ran his fingers through his hair when he saw her.

‘How’s the talent show audition going?’ she asked.

‘I’m really good at memorizing the jokers. It’s the queens that get me all messed up.’

‘Queens will do that,’ said Bonnie with a grin. She poured him a glass of milk from the crate that Bobby had left her with, then slid it over to the barista, along with one of Mom’s brownies. ‘There. Calcium’s good for the brain.’

Probably.

‘Got it.’ Taking a sip of the milk, Terrance produced a pack of cards from his pocket and handed them to her. ‘Do you want to do the honours? You can be my good luck memory charm.’

‘Only because it’s quiet.’ Bonnie tipped out the cards and quickly laid them out.

‘First one’s a queen of hearts,’ he said approvingly.

‘Correct! Now you just have fifty-one to go. Let me know when you need a top-up.’

She left him to his milk, then poured a jug of beer for a trio of girls she recognized as psych majors from the college.

This was something she always found amusing, as they’d sit around the patio firepit for hours, textbooks open, reading each other’s palms or wondering whether the lunar tide cycles were behind a professor’s tough grading rubric.

Bonnie was pretty sure she’d had the same professor before she’d dropped out in sophomore year.

‘Here you go, babes,’ said Bonnie, dropping off the jug, together with a stack of chilled glasses. ‘How are the lifelines today?’

‘Ugh, awful ,’ said a tiny, peppy blonde who reminded Bonnie of herself. She’d go far in life. The girl jabbed at her palm. ‘See this line here? There’s a callus on it. Disaster. There goes my future earning potential.’

‘You have been putting in a lot of time on the rower at the gym,’ said one of her friends, a brunette with morose eyes wearing a lilac pantsuit that Bonnie coveted.

‘Combined with the change in my Mount of Mars...’ The girl prodded at the fleshy pad of her thumb. ‘You see what I’m seeing, right?’

‘Sure,’ said Bonnie, because who was she to argue with her patrons? Just so long as they paid their bills and tipped generously, they could read whatever they wanted in their palms. Or their beer foam. Or their napkin folds.

‘Desdemona Nocturne did a whole video about it, and now all I can see is how my palms are all wrong.’ The girl wiped her hands on her denim skirt. ‘And sweaty, ugh .’

‘But did you see the one from Lyriana?’ countered the third girl, who was swimming in a hoodie she’d apparently borrowed from a boyfriend. ‘You’re emotionally resilient.’

‘Well, there are always gloves,’ said Bonnie cheerfully. ‘You can go fingerless if you’re feeling the 80s vibe.’

Other customers were starting to file in.

Winston and his friends, some of the young creative types from the coworking space that had recently opened up above the old bank, and Bowow Walker with a corgi wearing a collar that looked like a crown.

Bonnie left the psych students to their palm comparisons, which she was pretty sure weren’t covered in their textbooks.

But who knew, maybe their professor was giving them extra credit for considering additional diagnostic criteria.

Customers continued to stream in, and Bonnie lost herself in the work of it all: the mixed drinks, the bussing of tables, the keeping up with tabs and tips and change.

At some point, the sun began to drift down in the sky, and outside, the fairy lights strung over the patio switched on.

Things would start to get busy after this, but her friends would clock on to help.

Hannah, who was still getting her foothold as a realtor, never minded the tips, and Kirsty fancied herself a maestro when it came to high-end mixology.

Even Alana, who didn’t drink, could be counted on to plate up some baked goods in a pinch.

And of course, there was always Bobby. Who, despite his volunteer status, was the hardest worker she had.

She was returning to the bar with a stack of empty glasses and brownie-crumb garnished plates, when her mouth suddenly felt sour. Ugh, had her hangover caught up with her again? She reached for her glass of soda water, hoping to wash the taste away.

But then her vision blotched slightly, as though a migraine aura were starting up. Blobs of brown discoloured her peripheral vision – blobs the exact colour of Mom’s disquieting painting in the stairwell.

She glanced up, knowing exactly who she was about to see. Uncle Oswald.

He was dressed ostentatiously as usual: pointed shoes, green pants, a voluminous shirt, and an ascot tie that sparkled with an emerald motif.

And then there was the hat. It was impossible to be truly pretentious without the requisite headwear, and Uncle Oswald was committed to the part.

Like some sort of 1920s gangster, he sported a bowler hat high upon his head.

She imagined that beneath it, a slimy version of the rat from Ratatouille was tugging his oily hair and making him behave amorally.

‘I didn’t expect you to grace us with your presence,’ she said warily, setting out a glass on the rich wooden counter. She’d never spent much time with Oswald one-on-one: his rocky relationship with Mom had made sure of that. Besides, what did they have in common?

‘I thought I’d stop by while things were quiet at the shop. Good to see they’re less quiet here.’ Oswald set a fifty on the table and slid it towards her. ‘Mint julep.’

Of course. Oswald loved his green.

After some careful muddling of bourbon, simple syrup and bitters, all topped with a generous mint garnish, Bonnie pushed the drink towards her uncle, swallowing as she caught a hint of Mom’s features in Oswald’s cheekbones and the shape of his chin.

This meant there was a hint of Bonnie in there too.

Reckoning with what that meant, she took the money and popped it in the vintage till, hesitating for a few beats too long when it came to picking out his change.

A few beats more. She was confident by now that Oswald wasn’t expecting change.

He’d tipped her an extremely generous amount for a very simple drink, which meant that he wanted something.

She wasn’t silly. She might have been the pretty face, but she was wily when she needed to be.

‘You’re doing nice work here,’ said Oswald, his gaze travelling across the room.

Bonnie tried to see it through his eyes.

The groups of community college kids and young hotel workers laughing uproariously, if self-consciously, for everyone that age thinks that every eye is on them and them alone.

Winston and the darts players clapping beers together when they made a tough throw.

The coworking ‘solopreneurs’ trying to beat the pinball machines into submission.

The endlessly changing faces of the tourists who’d sidle in for a weekend of fun, then disappear again as quickly as they’d come.

To an outside observer, the bar looked like a success, all packed tables and glowing reviews.

No one knew just how close Bonnie walked the line to insolvency each and every week, especially with quarterly taxes coming up.

She made a mental note to ask Tessa about those when she next saw her.

She was way less intimidating than Effie, who’d no doubt roll her eyes and admonish Bonnie for not filling out ten obscure forms or opening a special bank account or whatever.

‘Thanks,’ said Bonnie, as she mixed a G&T for a sparkly-looking girl with dark ringlets and incredible hoop earrings. ‘I’m really happy with how things are going. I wish Mom were here to see it.’

She passed the drink across the bar to the girl, who leaned forward conspiratorially, her earrings waggling.

‘You’re so pretty,’ said the girl, like she was sharing a deep secret.

‘Aw, thank you!’ said Bonnie, who never tired of hearing this. It was a sign that all was right with the world, after all. She slid over one of the cookies that became a crowd essential towards the end of the night. ‘That’s for you.’

The girl waggled her fingers and wandered off, drink in one hand and cookie clenched between her teeth.

‘She’d be proud.’ Uncle Oswald drank in infuriatingly tiny sips, dabbing his moustache with his handkerchief each time. Momentarily, he added, ‘So, my reason for visiting is this: I was going to ask if you’d noticed something odd about the townsfolk recently.’

He cocked his head. Unfortunately, the hat did not fall off, and Bonnie was left none the wiser about the existence of Bad Ratatouille.

Bonnie propped her chin on her hand and regarded her patrons. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

‘I mean, Effie might say they’re a bit odd,’ she said lightly. ‘But that’s Effie for you.’