Читать книгу Norah's Ark - Judy Baer - Страница 6

WELCOME TO NORAH’S ARK

HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR IGUANA TODAY?

Norah Kent, owner-operator of Norah’s Ark Pet Store and Doggie B and B—Bed and Biscuit

I stood back and studied the sign I’d placed in the window. Creative marketing for a pet store has its own unique challenges. It’s hard to know, really, if an iguana will lend itself the same “isn’t that cute” factor as my Cuddle A Puppy Tonight! campaign had. It would help if I had an extra dime to spend on professional advice, but I usually have at least a hundred and fifty extra mouths to feed and that adds up. Granted, the fish and birds don’t take much, but the mastiff puppies I’m currently housing make up for it.

“New Monday-morning promotion, Norah? What will it be next, Grin At Your Guppy or Tickle Your Toad?”

I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Joe Collier from the Java Jockey, the coffee shop and hangout across the street from my pet store.

“What do you think?”

“Makes me think I’d rather hug you.”

“Get a grip, Joe, this is important business.” I didn’t turn around to look at him because I knew he was serious and didn’t want to encourage him. Joe’s been pursuing me ever since the day my menagerie and I moved into the storefront near him two years ago.

I left a perfectly nice, secure, decent-paying job managing a veterinary clinic and being a veterinarian’s assistant to pursue a dream of owning my own business, and not even hunky, persistent Joe is going to derail me now.

“When are you going ease up, Norah? Norah’s Ark has as much walk-in traffic as my coffee shop. You do as much business as anyone on the street.”

I turned around to look at him. Joe is six feet two inches tall, has curly black hair, pale blue eyes and the best muscles a lifetime membership at the sweatiest gym in town money can buy. He always wears a white, long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up his forearms, jeans and loafers without socks. That’s no easy feat in Minnesota during the winter, but Joe’s a guy for all seasons.

“There’s no time for a small business owner to ‘ease up.’ You know that.” I waved my arm, gesturing at the rows of businesses housed in quaint, former Victorian homes flanking both sides of Pond Street. Pond Street was named, tongue in cheek, because it runs directly into Lake Zachary, one of the largest, most populated and popular boating lakes in the city. In fact, every street in Shoreside runs directly toward the lake, like spokes on a bicycle. The avenues, which would normally run in the opposite direction, are more in an every-man-for-himself pattern. The slightly rolling terrain and difficulty of finding one’s way around town only made it more appealing to people. Over the years, Shoreside has become an exclusive and trendy—if confusing—place to live.

“None of us would be here if we ‘eased up.’” The summer traffic here is great but winters can be slow. We have to work when the sun shines—literally.

“So just slip out for a couple hours this Saturday night and I’ll introduce you to this great Italian restaurant I know. Think of it as an opportunity to pay tribute to my maternal ancestors. What do you say?”

Joe has a smile so beguiling that it can melt ice cubes. If I don’t give myself some space to think, I succumb to it every time.

“I’ll let you know later.”

“Not much later, I hope,” he teased. “I have a whole list of other beautiful women to ask out if you turn me down.” His dimples dimped—or whatever it is dimples do—but I still resisted. “I’ll tell you after I close the store tonight, okay?”

“You’re a hard sell, Norah. Maybe that’s why I like you.” He chucked me under the chin as he does my dog Bentley, a mixed breed Staffordshire terrier, beagle and who-knows-what-else, and sauntered back to the coffee shop.

If he thinks my hard-to-get persona is attractive, that means that saying “no” is only going to fuel his fire. I’ll have to think of a new tactic to keep him at bay.

It’s not that I don’t like Joe. I do. Almost too much. The problem is that I’m just not ready for Joe. He wants a serious girlfriend, someone with marriage potential who is ready to settle down, and I’m not that girl—yet. Sometimes I worry that he might not be willing to wait.

Still, I love owning my own business and being independent and I want to have that experience for a while longer. I’m a throw-myself-into-something-with-total-abandon kind of girl. When I marry, I’ll be the most enthusiastic wife and homemaker ever, but right now I am focused on the shop. Besides, although I’ve never admitted it to another living soul, I’m waiting for bells to chime, to feel the poke of Cupid’s arrow as it lands in my backside or sense a shimmery-all-over feeling that I imagine I’ll have when I fall in love. It’s my personal secret. Everyone thinks I’m a sensible realist. Hah! Nothing could be further from the truth.

I decided to leave the iguana sign up for a day or two to test the response and was about to reenter the store when Auntie Lou came out the front door of her store to sweep the sidewalk. Surreptitiously, I watched as she tidied up the front of Auntie Lou’s Antiques. Her name is actually Louella Brown and her age is—well, somewhere over a hundred and fifty, I think. Auntie Lou is the oldest antique in her shop, cute as a bug and wrinkled as a raisin. She also dyes her hair a fire-engine red-orange that makes Lucille Ball’s and Carrot Top’s tresses look anemic. This morning her distinctive hair was tucked under a cloche hat and she wasn’t wearing her upper plate so she looked especially raisinlike. Still, I found her smile appealing when she waved me over for a visit.

“How’s my pretty today?” Auntie Lou asked. She always says that. When she does, I immediately flash back to Dorothy and the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. If I had a dog named Toto, I’d grab him and run.

“Great, how are you?”

“Arthur kept pestering me all night and Ruma-tiz, too. Those boys are pure trouble.”

Translation: her arthritis and rheumatism are acting up again.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, to be young and pretty like you!” Auntie Lou reached out and touched a strand of my long, dark hair, which is currently in one of its wilder stages.

I inherited my naturally curly hair from my mother who, no matter how hard she tries, can’t get those kinks and waves to settle down. Mom’s blond and beautiful and has settled for an upswept do that tames it fairly well. I, on the other hand, have let my dark hair grow as long as it will and usually harness it in to a whale spout sort of ponytail that erupts from the top of my head and hangs to somewhere between my shoulder blades. People—especially kids—always want to touch my hair to see if it’s real.

My mom also has remarkable gray-green eyes which, happily, I also inherited. As a child, I would look into her eyes and feel as if I could actually see her tender heart enshrouded in that smoky gray-green haze. My dad says I have the same eyes, “only more so.” He insists I actually wear my heart on my sleeve and it’s my entire soul that is on display in my eyes. It’s an interesting concept but I try not to think about it. I’m not sure there’s a good mascara sold to enhance one’s soul.

I am a big softy. This much is true. I’m a total pushover for children, the elderly and anyone who is an underdog or down on his luck. I am also a complete and total sucker for anything with four feet, fur, gills, wings, claws, tails or webbed feet. I volunteer as a willing midwife to anything that gives birth in litters, broods or batches. I love tame and wild, pedigreed and mutt alike. I’ve been this way since the first time I grabbed our golden retriever Oscar by the tail as a tiny child and he licked my face instead of giving me the reprimanding nip I deserved.

My parents still remind me of the Christmases I’d cry when I saw a doll under the tree instead of stuffed animals and the bucket of oats and toddler swimming pool I kept filled with fresh water in the backyard “just in case a pony came by.” I rode the back of our velvet floral print couch like it was a bucking bronco until my plastic toy spurs shredded the pillows and I was banished to pretending to ride a horse around the backyard. I must have looked deranged, now that I think of it, whooping and slapping myself on the butt to make myself go faster. Good thing I didn’t own a riding crop or whip.

My dad is a veterinarian and my mom a nurse, so there was usually something with wings or paws bandaged up and living at our house while it mended. In fact, I assumed that everyone had a pet snake until I took mine to my friend’s house to show her mother how pretty he looked now that he’d shed his old skin. That, I was quick to discover, was a very bad assumption. She did forgive me, however, as soon as the paramedic revived her.

Anyway, I’m a softy for all the unique characters on Pond Street, too.

“You got a good mouser over there?” Auntie Lou inquired. “I’m in need of a shop cat, a working feline. How much will it cost me?”

“Not much. I’ll drive you to the animal shelter tonight and we’ll find something perfect for you. I think a calico kitten would be a great accessory for your antiques. He’d sleep on that soft cushion on the platform rocker in the window….”

“How do you make a living, Norah? I want to buy a cat from you.”

“Let’s adopt a kitten and I’ll sell you a kitten bed, food, toys, catnip and a scratching post instead.”

Auntie Lou shook her head helplessly.

“And I’ll make you sign a paper saying you’ll buy him a lifetime supply of food from my store, if that will make you happy.”

“Done, you silly child.” Auntie Lou patted me on the cheek and turned to reenter her shop.

I like to consider myself an adoption agency, not a pet store. I place animals in homes. I spend time with prospective pet owners helping them decide what type of pet is best for them and then help them find the perfect one. I’ve even considered adding “pet consultant” behind my name. Dad says I’m nuts, but I actually make a great living selling all the pet accessories people need for their perfect pet. I have a very loyal following—all people as nutty about animals as I am. I also run the Doggie B and B—Bed and Biscuit—out of the back of the shop for loyal customers who want to travel and have their pets in a safe and familiar place. The business keeps growing, especially now that I include all pets, not just dogs, and have begun serving homemade birthday cakes to those who celebrate their special day away from family. Once a customer caught me and his beagle wearing paper birthday hats and howling out an eardrum-splitting rendition of “Happy Birthday To You.” Needless to say, I got a huge tip and a lifetime fan. Only animal people understand these things.

Of course, I do have the usual pet store animals in my store—at least two of everything just like Genesis 7:8. “Of clean animals and of animals that are not clean, and of birds, and of everything that creeps on the ground, two and two, male and female, went into the ark with Noah, as God had commanded Noah.” Except the rabbits, of course. I always start with just two, but, well, they are rabbits after all. Anyway, if it was good enough for God and Noah, it’s good enough for me.

I’ve been a Christian since I was ten years old. As a child, I was drawn to all the verses of the Bible that refer to God’s four-legged creatures. Even the most lowly, a donkey, for instance, held significance for Christ. When He rode into the city of Jerusalem, he didn’t do so on a chariot. Instead, he came humbly, a serene, peace-desiring king on a donkey’s unbroken colt. “Go into the village ahead of you…you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden: untie it and bring it. If anyone says to you ‘Why are you doing this?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it….’” The commonplace becomes exceptional when God is involved.

Everyone, it seemed, was having a difficult time staying indoors on a beautiful day like this. Next out of her store was Lilly Culpepper, our local fashion maven. Lilly and I moved onto Pond Street and opened our little shops within a few weeks of each other and have ridden the up-and-down rollercoaster ride of small business ownership together ever since.

She runs a funky clothing store called The Fashion Diva next to Norah’s Ark and is a walking advertisement for the things she sells in her shop. Today she wore a long, red Santa Fe–style crinkle-pleated skirt, a short boxy sweatshirt the color of old mushrooms, high-heeled black boots and a gray felt fedora. And it looked good. I wonder how many hopeful shoppers leave her store with similar outfits hoping that they’ll look like Lilly when they get home and put their new clothes on. And I wonder how many of those shoppers realized that at home, those same clothes look like the pile of wrinkled, mismatched laundry they already have lying on their closet floors.

What Lilly doesn’t—and can’t—sell is her style. She looks good even in a gunny sack and a pair of galoshes. I know this for sure because one year we went to a costume party as a sack of potatoes and potato fork. She looked great and I looked like I’d been wrapped in brown crepe paper and had a set of pronged antlers strapped to my head. Next time I get to be the vegetable.

“Joe asking you out again?” she greeted me with no preamble. Though she came nearer, she didn’t walk toward me. Lilly doesn’t walk, Lilly sweeps.

Anyway, as she swept toward me, I said, “Good morning to you, too.”

“If you’d say the word, he’d get down on bended knee and ask for your hand in marriage.”

“My hand isn’t much good to him without the rest of me.”

“You could do worse,” she advised me. She fingered the chunk of jewelry at her neck. It was a hodgepodge of beads, colored cubes, macramé lumps and various ribbons. That, too, looked fabulous on her. On me—or 99.9 percent of the world’s population—it would have looked like a terrible blunder from the craft factory. No doubt she’d sell at least two or three today to people who admired it on her.

“Don’t wait too long,” she warned. “That little waitress at Tea on Tap has been eyeing him lately.”

“What’s the tea lady doing in the coffee shop? Scoping out the competitor?”

Lilly gave me one of those pitying looks she saves for when she thinks I’m being particularly obtuse. Usually I get them when we’re talking fashion.

“What else is happening on Pond Street? I seem to be out of touch.”

“It’s all those animals you surround yourself with. It doesn’t give you enough time for people.” She studied me with a surgical glare. “You need a date that doesn’t have four legs and a tail.”

“Shh. Don’t say that too loud. Bentley might hear. You know how sensitive he is.”

I was only half kidding. I rescued Bentley from a shelter. He’d been abused in his former home and, in my professional opinion—such as it is—Bentley has serious self-esteem and confidence issues. These may also stem from the fact that, due to his indiscriminate parents’ genetics, he’s not the most intimidating presence on the block. Or in the pet store. Or anywhere. He may be stocky but his heart is pure powder puff. I’m sure I saved Bentley from extinction. Nobody else would have been crazy enough to adopt a dog like him. He knows that and has committed the rest of his life to loving me—what a great swap.

Happily, Lilly ignored me and began to fill me in on the latest from the rumor mill on Pond Street.

“Belles & Beaus is adding another masseuse.”

Belles & Beaus is a day spa located in a huge restored Victorian up the street. It started out as a hair salon with two stations and a lot of out-of-date magazines, but has rapidly become a very chic and stylish spot. Then again, everything along Pond Street is becoming that way. The Bookworm now has author signings and poetry readings, the Drugstore’s old soda fountain is the place for kids to hang out and you can—much to Joe’s dismay—buy a latte at Barney’s Gas Station right along with your unleaded premium.

Someday I’m hoping that Barney will realize that his sign, Barney’s Gas, isn’t quite specific enough. I’ve had more than one person come into my shop laughing and ask what kind of gas Barney has anyway. I usually leave that question alone. It’s an explosive issue.

“The store beyond Belles & Beaus has been sold to someone who’s planning to open a toy shop.”

“Cool.” A toy store—my kind of people.

“And guess who said hello to me when I was at the Corner Market today!”

“Sorry, I left my mind-reading kit at home today.”

“Connor Trevain, Commander Connor Trevain.” She said it in the tone of an awestruck groupie.

“Back for a visit, huh?” Commander Connor owns the fleet of cruise boats that sail Lake Zachary, although he’s never spent much time in Shoreside. He actually was a commander in the Navy, a graduate of the Naval Academy and served as a ship’s captain. It was well-known that he “came from money” as Auntie Lou would say. The fleet has some fabulous boats, the largest, the Zachary Zephyr is regularly rented for weddings, anniversaries and class reunions. The food and service are amazing and the surroundings romantic. It’s a très chic place to be married. The smaller boats take tourists sightseeing around Lake Zachary, sometimes stopping at Ziga’s, a supper club the Trevain family owns on the far side of the lake.

“No. That’s the best part!”

“I thought you said you saw him.”

“Not that. The best part is that he’s not here for a visit. He’s here to stay!”

That made about as much sense as wearing Bermuda shorts to shovel snow. Last I’d heard he was suffering away his time with some boating venture in Hawaii. “Why?”

“He’s decided to be ‘hands on’ with the business. Isn’t that exciting? He plans to captain the Zachary Zephyr.”

“Well, shiver me timbers, think of that.” I put my hands on my hips and stared at my friend. “So what?”

“So, he is rich and handsome and single, that’s what!”

The sun came out and the fog in my brain cleared. “And you have your eye on him?”

“Both eyes. He’s going to make the scenery around the lake more spectacular than ever.”

“Are you interested in dating him?” I asked, never quite sure what direction Lilly is going in with her rambling conversations. She’s a smart girl but fixated on clothes and, occasionally, men.

“Are you kidding? Of course, but he won’t look at the likes of me.” She grabbed my hands. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he asked me out?”

Her eyes got wide as two saucers. “I have to check to see what’s on order for the store. I’ll need new clothes. Who knows when I might run into him!” She eyed me up and down like a disapproving school marm. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get something new, either.” With a swirl of red, she shot back into her shop, where, I knew, she’d spend the rest of the day poring over fashion magazines and doodling with her own clothing designs.

I love Lilly. She’s funny, beautiful and my polar opposite. For every fashionista outfit she has, I have a pair of denim jeans and a sweatshirt. Of course, she doesn’t haul fifty-pound bags of dog food, change litter boxes or deal with untrained puppies in her business, either.

“And…”

I spun around to see Lilly poking her head out the door again.

“…the new cop is on duty. We can all sleep well tonight.” Then she disappeared again around the doorjamb and didn’t return.

Whew. Feeling as though I’d just been through a windstorm of trivia, I shook myself off and went back to tending to the only business I should be minding anyway.