Before driving home, Cissy stopped by Joltz, the local coffee shop and deli where she sometimes set-up her laptop for a few hours of uninterrupted work, parking in a spot that still had a little time on the meter.

Joltz offered tables, couches and free wireless, and there were days when Cissy had worked surrounded by the warm scent of roasting coffee, the gentle buzz of conversation and the sputter of the espresso machines.  She didn’t mind the occasional burst of laughter nor the whine of the coffee grinder.  Sometimes the little table she always used as a work area was a respite from the office, where she shared a cubicle with three other freelance writers, or home, where she was always distracted knowing her baby was nearby.  Here, in relative anonymity, she had found it surprisingly easy to work, drink coffee or even choose lunch from the array of sandwiches and salads in the deli case.

“The usual?” one of the baristas asked.  “No fat double mocha with whipped cream?”

“I owe it to myself,” Cissy said and reminded herself to climb on the elliptical machine tucked into the extra bedroom when she got home.

“You got it.” 

The workers behind the counter didn’t wear a name tags, but Cissy was in here often enough to recognize Diedre with her quick smile and sharp wit.  She was slender, blonde and friendly, whereas the woman who worked with her, Rachelle, was a little quieter, not quite as outgoing and was always rotating the colors of her hair.  Today’s hue of choice was a rich mahogany shimmering with deep purple highlights.  Modest by Rachelle standards.  Both baristas were attractive and witty enough to keep the regulars coming back.

Rachelle saw her in line and said.  “I heard about your grandmother.”  She shook her head.  “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Diedre asked as she took Cissy’s credit card.  “Oh . . . wait.”  She glanced back at Rachelle.  “It was on the news, wasn’t it.  The old woman in the mansion.  Found dead.”

By me, Cissy thought.  “Yeah,” Cissy said, slightly uncomfortable as there were two other people in line, staring at the offerings in the bakery case while waiting to order.

“And all that business about your mother,” Rachelle added.  “That’s gotta be tough.”

Cissy didn’t know how to respond.  Yes, these women knew a little bit about her; she’d gladly offered up a few details as she’d been virtually alone with them in the early afternoons when business was slow.  Obviously, she should have kept her mouth shut.  She knew she was blanching but managed to force a thin smile.  “You have no idea.”

“What?” Diedre said again and Cissy groaned inside.

Rachelle caught Cissy’s mortification.  “Sorry,” she mouthed, whispered something to Diedre, then turned her attention to the next woman, a jogger with beads of sweat still sliding down her face.  Fortunately the woman, panting from her exercise, hadn’t heard the exchange.  Only Selma, a regular positioned in her favorite reading chair near the corner window, seemed to be paying attention.  She took a long swallow from her cup, then buried her nose in her paperback again.

Diedre handed Cissy the mocha as Rachelle hit the grinder.  A hard whirr roared through the room.  In a soft tone, Diedre said, “Look, I’m really sorry.  I didn’t know about your mother and believe me, I understand.  My family--”  She rolled her eyes.   “–they’re the worst.”

Not even close, Cissy thought, as she signed the receipt and tucked it, as well as the card, back into her wallet.  Deidre handed her the cup and Cissy headed outside.  She pushed the heavy door open with her shoulder and stepped into the late morning chill, nearly running into a man in a long dark coat, a frustrated expression etched into his narrow pissed-off face.  He stepped around her, his briefcase hitting her on the thigh.  She reacted, the lid came off her drink, and hot chocolate, coffee and whipped cream sloshed all over her jacket. 

“Hey!” she called, but he never turned around, just walked as if wherever he was going was more important than stopping long enough for a quick “Excuse me.”

“Damn it all,” she grumbled to herself.  After picking up the now-dirty lid, she  walked into the shop again.

“What a jerk,” Rachelle said.  “I saw what happened.”  She had already plucked a stack of napkins from behind the counter and handed them to Cissy. 

“It’s okay.  I just need a new lid.”

Rachelle offered, “I can refill the mocha.” The line waiting for service was already stacking up, Diedre taking orders.

“I’m fine,” Cissy told her as she wiped her hands and refitted her drink with a lid.  Once again, she took a sip of the hot mocha and, more carefully, this time, stepped onto the street.

After that the walk to the car was uneventful, but as Cissy reached the Acura, she noticed the parking meter had expired.  After everything else she’d gone through, a stupid parking ticket might just send her over the edge!

Fortunately, she’d lucked out.  The meter reader hadn’t been by, but as she pulled out of the tight spot, she nearly hit the car in front of her, missing it by inches.

She drew in a couple of slow breaths, taking her time, searching for her own equilibrium.  “Count your blessings,” she told herself, whispering one of Gran’s favorite sayings.  She’d gotten no ticket.  There was no fender bender. 

But it was still morning.

God only knew what the rest of the day would bring.

Lost in thought, she drove down the hill.  She stopped for a red light at a crosswalk near the park.  As her engine idled, a brightly-colored bus belched clouds of exhaust her way, the smelly smoke mingling with the bits of fog still trailing through the city. 

Cissy waited foot on the brake, fingers tapping the wheel.

Several pedestrians crossed in front of her.  An old man walked his impossibly tiny dog, a young couple held hands, lost to their own world, a teenager on a skateboard with a stocking cap pulled down to frame his face rolled past, skating around a business man in a long dark coat.

Cissy snapped to attention.

She focused on the man in black.

Sure enough, it was the same creep who’d nearly knocked her down.  She contemplated blasting him with her horn, when he turned to look straight at her.  She froze.  Had she seen him somewhere before, not just on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop?  He never stopped walking to the bus stop but he stared at her long and hard with eyes that seemed to have no soul.  And then, before he stepped onto the curb where the bus was waiting, he smiled.  A cold toothy grin that quietly promised they would meet again.  Though no word was spoken, Cissy understood the silent message.

The bump on the sidewalk at Joltz had been no accident.

This appearance in front of her car had been planned.

She thought of the figure she’d seen just the night before staring at her bedroom window.  At B.J.’s window.

Her heart jack hammered.

Her blood froze in her veins.

What the hell was this all about?

She needed to pull over and accost the man, right here, in broad daylight, with witnesses.

And what?

Accuse him of hitting her with his briefcase on purpose?

Of walking in a crosswalk and grinning evilly?

She, the daughter of Marla Cahill?

Impotently, she watched him disappear behind the idling bus, then heard the honk of an angry horn.  The light had turned green and the guy in the Range Rover behind her was in a hurry.  “Get a life,” she muttered, stepping on the gas, but as she drove through the intersection, she kept one eye on her rearview mirror where fog was clouding her view and the bus bullied its way into traffic. 

The man in the black coat with the frighteningly cold grin was gone.  Like a scary-looking marionette yanked quickly off the stage by unseen hands, he’d vanished.