Page 1 of The Overtime Persuasive

CHAPTER 1

EVA

“I’m looking for an album,” the woman across the counter tells me, which is promising, considering she’s standing in my record store.

“Excellent.” I gesture to the bins lining the wall. “We have several.”

Her gaze travels across the bins and over the shelves behind me, already overwhelmed. I’m sure having “Misty Mountain Hop” by Led Zeppelin playing through the speakers isn’t helping either, so I reach over and turn the store stereo’s volume down.

At the far end of the counter, my best friend Lucy stills with one hand buried in my emergency gummy bear stash. She knows potential entertainment when she sees it.

I recognize these vacant stares now: they usually belong to someone who knows what they want by the sound, and have no clue of the name of the creator that produced it. “I don’t remember who it’s by.”

As I thought, and yes, that has made this moment a lot less promising. “Do you remember the title?”

She takes a moment to ponder the question before shaking her head. “No. I wish I could.”

“Okay, all is not lost,” I continue, hopeful. I’ve been to this rodeo before, we’ll figure it out. “Can you remember any of the other songs?”

She twists her mouth to the side, pinched in thought, then brightens. “There was one about a breakup.”

“Okay…” I glance around Side B at several thousand albums containing at least one song about a breakup. At least she didn’t say teen angst. “We’re narrowing in.”

“I know, I’m useless.” She laughs. “Wait. A woman sang it.”

“Promising. Current, like today’s music, or older?”

“Older.” Said with confidence. I’m starting to like our odds.

“How much older?”

Her forehead creases. “Maybe the sixties?”

“All right.” I head over to the section marked for the sixties. Now, we’re cooking with gas.

“Oh wait,” she murmurs, staring at the ceiling in thought. “Or the seventies.”

And the flame goes out.

I pivot on my heel and head toward the section that houses my seventies collection, and stop when a high-pitched scraping sound assaults my ears. I look toward the back, where Mrs. Green drags one of the café tables three inches to the left, steps back, and studies it.

“Mrs. Green, is everything okay in there?”

She pats her bun, smoothing her hair at the sides while in thought. “I think we may need another table.”

I look past her toward the back café, where she’s been preparing for this morning’s book club since 9:45 a.m. The meeting isn’t until 11:30, but Mrs. Green has already arranged a plate of cookies, repositioned every chair at least twice, and placed a handwritten RESERVED sign on the old leather couch in case anyone needs softer seating, because apparently my chairs have been compared, in some circles (meaning amongst the book club members) to sitting on cinder blocks.

No one told me that owning my own business would also mean playing cruise director six days a week for customers.

“How many people are on the list for today?” I ask. “You should have plenty of chairs if you stick to the original headcount.”

“I know.” Her expression turns grave. “But Marjorie’s sister is coming now, and she likes space.”

“Naturally.” Don’t we all? “I’ll find another table soon.”

She gives me a satisfied nod and returns to the café, as the customer snaps her fingers in the air.

“You know what, the singer. She sounded sad,” the woman adds. “Mournful. But also, she was furious. Like she wanted him back, but only so she could ruin his life properly.”