Part 9 (1/2)
CHAPTER FIVE.
OLIVIA.
After we get Nicholas buckled into the car seat in Archer's truck, I direct him to the furniture warehouse where we load a bunch of old wooden dining chairs, a rocking chair, and an Adirondack chair into the back of the truck. Then we head over to an industrial area of town, one populated by junkyards and manufacturing buildings. He parks near a warehouse whose parking lot is lined with trucks and vans.
The side door opens, and Kelsey strides out. In contrast to her usual professional attire of a tailored suit and silk s.h.i.+rt, she's wearing jeans and a tank top smudged with dirt.
She smiles as she greets us, but a faint awkwardness crackles between her and Archer. Archer unbuckles Nicholas from his car seat and hefts him into his arms.
”What's up with the chairs?” Kelsey asks, nodding to the truck bed.
I explain about the auction as we walk around to the back of the warehouse.
”I'm recruiting both of you to paint chairs,” I tell her and Archer. ”Kelsey, you could do a weather-themed chair or maybe one based on Russian egg painting designs. And, Archer, what about a superhero theme or a Blue chair?”
Tension winds through the air at my mention of Blue, the superheroine Archer created after he and Kelsey met. Based on Kelsey, Blue is a fierce, powerful character who derives her power from the forces of weather and uses tornadoes to defeat her enemies.
”He can't paint a Blue chair,” Kelsey mutters. ”Blue is private.”
”Blue is fearless,” Archer says, shooting her a pointed look.
Kelsey's mouth tightens. Their gazes clash, like sword blades striking. I suddenly wonder what I've started with my innocent remark about chairs.
”Yeah, I'll paint a chair, Liv,” Archer tells me.
”He's not painting Blue,” Kelsey says, her gaze still on Archer. ”Blue is mine.”
”Blue is mine, storm girl.” Archer shakes his head and strides ahead of us. ”You know it. Now you just have to admit it.”
Good heavens. With their strong personalities, Kelsey and Archer still often clash, but I have no idea why a comic-book character is a source of tension. I wait until Archer is a distance away before I lean closer to Kelsey.
”What was that all about?” I whisper.
”Him being a stubborn a.s.s.”
”Dean mentioned something was going on with you two, but he didn't elaborate.”
Kelsey sighs. ”Did Dean push you to get married?”
I blink. ”He didn't have to push me. I wanted to marry him.”
I don't think I'd wanted anything more in my life than to marry Dean West. Not even the love and attention of my mother.
”Does Archer want to marry you?” I ask Kelsey.
”You don't have to sound surprised.”
”I'm not. I mean, I'm surprised he didn't want to before now. You've been together for two years, right? You're living together, you work together, you love each other. What's left to do but get married?”
”Why does that have to be the goal?” Kelsey replies curtly, running a hand through her blue-streaked hair. ”It's so good the way it is, you know? Why change it now?”
Exactly.
The word pops unexpectedly into my head. Kelsey has always been such a no-bulls.h.i.+t friend-a risk-taker, the woman who went up against the male-dominated meteorology department in order to get her Spiral Project funded. And she succeeded. She drives right into storms and tornados. So it doesn't make much sense that marriage would be the one thing Kelsey March doesn't want to face.
On the other hand, I can certainly relate to her desire to keep things as they are. Because when it's so good, why risk change?
”Hey, Liv, this is Roger Jameson.” Archer approaches with a thin, balding man who extends his hand to me.
”Liv West.” I shake his hand before looking past him to the food truck that has a faded burger logo and milkshake painted on the side. ”Is that it?”
”Needs work, but it's got a burner stove and prep s.p.a.ce.” Roger pulls open the door, and I go inside. ”Plenty of storage s.p.a.ce.”
The scent of grease hangs in the air. I look at the rusted fixtures, the old propane tank, and try to envision Allie and I working here. If we fixed the truck up, we could run a mobile unit of the Wonderland Cafe, serving a limited selection of our menu.
But that's not all we want to do. Last year, we talked about the idea of a birthday party truck where we could bring themed parties to children's homes-including the decorations, costumes for kids, character actors, all the party supplies and food. A turnkey party, delivered right to your front door.
I shake my head. ”I'm sorry, but this isn't quite right. We want to be able to serve food, but we need more than a kitchen in a truck.”
As we step outside, I notice an old, silver trailer parked in a corner of the lot overgrown with gra.s.s and weeds. The sh.e.l.l is dented and rusty, the metal tarnished, the windows cracked.
”Whose is that?” I asked.
”The silver Twinkie?” Roger glances toward the trailer and laughs. ”That's an old '72 Airstream. Used to belong to my father-in-law. Hasn't been used in years.”
”Can I see it?” I ask. ”Is it for sale?”
Roger shrugs. ”I never really thought about it, to be honest. Didn't imagine anyone would want to put the time and money into it.”
We walk toward the Airstream-and even though it looks like a huge, old piece of metal pipe, I have a flash of what it could be. A sleek, s.h.i.+ny vehicle emblazoned with the Wonderland Cafe logo.
We go inside. The interior is a mess of scarred furnis.h.i.+ngs and torn carpet, but I can see it as a delightful miniature version of the cafe, with a checkerboard floor, striped curtains, whimsical clocks, and mismatched, cushy furniture.
We'd have Alice in Wonderland murals on the walls and ceilings, teacup-shaped tables, and teapot lamps. We could set up a red-and-white striped awning outside, with table and chairs for the party-goers. If we had a trailer like this, we could even host birthday parties at parks and gardens.
”The sh.e.l.l is good,” Roger remarks. ”You'd probably have to gut the interior. Exterior work too, of course. I can look into a price, if you're interested.”
”I might be.”
I feel Archer looking at me as we walk back outside.
”You'd need another truck to pull it,” he warns me. ”And the restoration would cost more than the sale.”