Page 2 of Enemies in Paradise

The walls are a dirty gray and the floor is grimy black and white checkerboard linoleum that’s peeling where it meets a tall counter. The counter stretches halfway across the room with a small lounge area and restrooms taking up the other half. An old cash register rests on the counter, and a stool with a cracked-leather seat sits in front of it.

The smell, though, is the worst part. I can’t quite place it. It’s part motor oil and gas, part sweat, and part… cornflakes, maybe?

Georgia walks around the counter, and even though I fear what’s on the other side of the counter, I still follow her.

She raps her knuckles on the back wall. “The studio apartment is behind here—entrance is in the back, but there’s an interior one too. The living space is small, but it’ll be the perfect place for you to live while we renovate the garage. A perfect live-work space, very on trend.”

My face must give away the doubt I’m still feeling, because Georgia doesn’t pause long enough for me to say anything. She just keeps on with her hard sell.

“It’s really not as bad as it looks. This is all cosmetic stuff.” She runs her fingers along the dusty counter, then brushes her hands together. “You’ve already got restrooms, so you won’t have to add those. We can tear out this counter and the wall separating this area from the garage, so you have more open space.”

“This smell is more than a cosmetic fix.” I wipe my fingers under my nose, which doesn’t help because they have the same scent as the BBQ chips I devoured during the final two hours of my fourteen-hour drive from LA to Georgia’s front door.

But I allow my eyes to travel to the wall she’s talking about tearing out. I don’t see her vision, even with all heryous, as though I’m here to buy, not just entertain a crazy dream.

Except, as she continues to throw out ideas, I start to see some of what she does.

Kind of.

What I can picture is the idea of being my own boss; not taking orders from anyone who underestimates my abilities because of my gender and my looks; having control of my own future.

That picture I enjoy very much.

That dream fitting inside this place, not so much.

“There’s nothing that can’t be fixed.” Georgia opens the door to the garage area, and I follow her.

“Isn’t that a tagline from your show?” I stop short and take in the open space, which is even worse than the lobby area. “You may need to come up with a new one for this place.”

Cement, cinderblock, and junk. That’s all I see. Nothing that comes close to resembling a bookstore or being my own boss.

And it reeks even worse of oil and gas than the lobby did.

In the center of it all is an old car with missing tires, torn upholstery, and the hood and doors open. A red tool chest—its drawers open and cluttered with tools—stands sentinel in a corner, surrounded by oil bottles, gas cans, and old rags. The plywood workbench bolted to the wall is covered in more tools and rags, plus a TV that looks older than me—it’s three feet thick and probably weighs eighty-five pounds.

And that’s just what I can make sense of. Everywhere I look there’sstuff. Barrels, coveralls, gloves, empty soda, and beer cans toppling out of a trash can, half-full water bottles. Old notices posted to corkboard on the walls, engine parts. The chaos of it makes me break into a nervous sweat, despite the near-freezing temps.

“I thought you said nobody used it. Those beer cans didn’t drink themselves.” I kick a can at my feet.

Georgia lets out a breath. “Some of the family are in and out sometimes for this tool or that, and I’ll admit it’s worse than I thought, but still not impossible. We can definitely work with this.”

She ignores my side-eye and keeps talking. “You’ve got to picture it with the car gone. The floors painted a fun color, shelves lining the walls and in rows. That little spot in the back could be the kids’ area, with plush rugs and beanbag chairs, and lots of fun pictures. Kid-sized desks and chairs. A big easy chair for Mrs. C’s story time.” Her eyes glaze over, but I stop myself from getting sucked into her vision ofmydream.

“Who’s Mrs. C?”

Georgia comes out of her daze, still dreamy-eyed. “Mrs. Christianson, my second-grade teacher. You’ll love her. And she’s going to love reading to the kids.”

I stare at Georgia’s smiling face, waiting for her to blink. She doesn’t.

“Georgia,” I say finally. “Kids aren’t safe here. This place should be declared a hazardous waste site. Also, how do you still know your second-grade teacher?”

She tips her head back and laughs. “Zach and I used to play in this old shop as kids, when Grandpa Sparks kept all his electrical stuff and really dangerous tools in here, plus his boat. I promise we can make it safe enough for kids. And I know all my old teachers who still live in Paradise, but Mrs. C. was my favorite.”

“I don’t even remember my second-grade teacher’s name.” I take a few more steps inside and decide to give Georgia’s idea a chance. At least I can look around.

“How long since it’s been used as an auto shop?” I ask, circling the old car, a classic Mustang.

“At least thirty years. Since Great-Grandpa Sparks retired.” Georgia tucks the tools into the tool chest drawer and slides it closed with the sound of groaning metal that tells me it would have rather stayed open. “Grandpa was an electrician, so he didn’t want to take it over from his father. No one else wanted to buy it either, so they just boarded it up and kept it in the family.”

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