While Dixie skated from the kitchen to tables with platters of three-egg omelets, cinnamon French toast, or double bacon cheeseburgers for those ordering an early lunch, the hum of conversation brought Olivia a sense of calm. She didn’t come to Grumpy’s for the atmosphere, nor did she share Dixie’s deep admiration for Andrew Lloyd Webber. Every booth paid homage to one of his musicals, and though Olivia was amused by the displays showcasing Starlight Express, Cats, or Phantom of the Opera, she preferred to sit at the sole window booth and work on her writing projects.
Olivia ate at the diner at least once a week. Upon returning to Oyster Bay, Dixie had become her first true friend. Olivia was fond of the smaller woman’s feisty personality and sharp wit. Dixie also adored Haviland and had Grumpy prepare special meals for the coddled poodle while requesting items not found on the regular menu for Olivia. This morning, she skated to the counter with a frittata made of fresh spinach and shredded provolone and a bowl of honeydew melon squares.
“Those folks at the Jesus Christ Superstar table are drivin’ me hog wild!” Dixie said through gritted teeth. “They wanna know if our bacon is local. Shoot, I told them we’ve got more pig farms in this state than gas stations.” She whipped a compact from her apron pocket and applied a fresh coat of pink frosted lip gloss. “Don’t think they cared for that answer, but I reckon they’re lousy tippers anyhow. All those yoga-twistin’, garbage-recyclin’ tree huggers are tightwads.”
“It’s the booth decor, Dixie,” Olivia said after swallowing a bite of frittata. “It makes some people uncomfortable. Maybe you should replace Jesus with a poster of Glenn Close from Sunset Boulevard.”
“That right there is blasphemy!” Dixie presented Haviland with a plate of gently cooked ground beef mixed with rice and greens. He gave her his most sincere canine smile and then turned his attention to his second meal of the morning. “Maybe Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat would make people more at ease. I’ll have a look-see on eBay tonight.”
Using the green pen Harris had given to his fellow writers, Olivia circled a typo in the first line of the second chapter of his work in progress, a science fiction novel entitled, The Chosen One.
Having critiqued the first chapter, Olivia knew that the story’s heroine, Zenobia, had been safely evacuated from her dying planet, Zulton. However, upon arriving at her new home on the Planet Remus, Zenobia discovered that the ship carrying her parents and most of the other government officials was destroyed in an inexplicable collision with a floating prison colony.
Olivia didn’t care for science fiction as a rule, but she was interested in Zenobia’s fate, proving that Harris knew how to create a strong, complicated female character. However, his writing was often bogged down by too many details concerning space travel or the complicated names and nuances of alien races. His minor characters also spoke in dialogue riddled with clichés.
“Let’s see what will happen to Zenobia now,” Olivia murmured, took a sip of coffee, and began to read.
Zenobia stepped out of the healing bath, her aching muscles and sore joints restored to normal. If only she could dip her feelings in the warm, medicinal waters and resurface without the knife twists of grief. Practicing her fighting technique in the simulation room allowed her to concentrate on something else for a little while, but when it was over and her score flashed on the wall screen, she was still filled with rage. She’d punched the bare wall with her fists until her knuckles were shredded and dripping blood. Now, looking down at them, they were merely a little redder than the rest of her skin. She turned her hand over and touched the tattoo on her palm. It was only a few pinpricks of blue, creating a constellation known as the Hunter. The very first Chosen Ones hailed from a galaxy where the Hunter was one of the most prominent constellations in the sky. For the past one thousand years, all Chosen Ones were tattooed with this star formation at birth as a sign of their superior physical and mental prowess. The children of Chosen Ones entered into marriage contracts by the time they were five years old, but Zenobia’s betrothed, a man named Halydyn, was dead, killed in a devastating space collision with a drifting prison colony. “Everyone’s dead!” Her words echoed like a rushing river in the close chamber. She put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the strangeness of her own voice. A message appeared on the wall screen by the door. The Regent was summoning her. There were decisions to be made, a memorial service to plan, judicial cases to be heard. He expected her to sit beside him in one of the crystal thrones beneath the Sky Dome within the hour. “I didn’t ask for this,” Zenobia muttered at the silent screen as she dressed in loose pants and a blue tunic. She fastened her weapon belt, holstered her photon pistol, and twisted her fiery red hair into a Samurai’s knot. “Damn it all! Why did this have to happen?” She traced the stars of her tattoo again, as if they could somehow take her through a wormhole, to another time before the tragedy. She was sixteen years old and all alone. Her parents, her closest friends, and the man she was meant to marry were gone. Chosen Ones were not supposed to cry. Zenobia’s pride stopped the tears from coming, but there was a yawning emptiness in her chest, like a part of her had been carved out and jettisoned into deep space. She felt lost in the sparkling new palace and she wanted to run, but there was nowhere for her to go. The deaths of the other Chosen Ones would follow her like a thousand shadows.
Olivia stopped reading, pausing to write comments here and there on Harris’s word choice. The book’s tone seemed to grow heavier with each sentence, but Olivia was unsure if it was the content or her experience earlier that morning that made her reticent to read any more.
“I know that look,” Dixie said, appearing at her side. “You need somethin’ sweet.”
Save for two tables of tourists struggling to finish every morsel of their copious brunches, the diner had cleared out. Dixie laid checks down at both booths and then slid a plate containing a slice of warm apple bread in front of Olivia. She performed an ungainly climb onto the next stool and sighed. “This is the only time I feel like I’m the same size as everybody else, but it’s a right pain to get up here.”
“Your brain makes up for your lack of height,” Olivia replied with a smile. “And you have an uncanny gift for knowing exactly what I need to eat. My mother used to make bread like this for my first day of school and she always packed an extra slice for my teacher.”
Dixie twirled a strand of her feathered hair around her finger. “I should do that. Might save me a few trips to the principal’s office. I was there so much last year that I got to know all about his secretary’s love life. Lord, but that woman is a tramp!”
Olivia laughed. “Thanks, Dixie. I’m going to finish this life-affirming treat and then head to the restaurant. Maybe if I watch over Michel’s shoulder while he cooks I can take my mind off what I saw on the beach.”
“He’s a chef, ’Livia. You hang over his shoulder and you’re liable to get a cleaver in the face. Go see that man of yours. If those eyes and that bod don’t make you think of somethin’ else besides a dead stranger, then nothin’ will.”
After placing a twenty on the counter, Olivia stepped out into the sunlight. Instead of walking to her car or in the direction of her lover’s bookstore, she and Haviland headed for the docks. There was a decrepit building on the waterfront she’d had her eye on for some time. It was a mess, requiring months of work at enormous expense, but it was for sale. Only someone with very deep pockets and a love of old buildings would consider purchasing the dilapidated warehouse.