Page 22 of The Fantastic Fluke

“People are going to start leaving if you don’t hurry it up,” my father said, standing there staring at me as I tried to work my way through the line at the checkout. “They can get books anywhere, but they chose to get them here because they liked the place before.”

“Before” being before he died, of course. No one would come to the shop for me, only him.

One or two people in the line did, in fact, look disgruntled. Most were on their phones or chatting with each other, but really, the last thing I needed was Dad distracting me while I tried to catch up with the people waiting in line.

Of course, if I told him that, at best I’d look like an asshole who told his customers to shut up. At worst, I’d get a reputation for talking to myself, which was statistically more likely to be a mental illness than a mage seeing ghosts. Not that society much liked either option.

A longtime customer of my father’s was third in line, staring me down and clicking her tongue every now and then. The woman in front of her, thank goodness, was on her phone, but every time the older lady gave a dramatic sigh, she’d glance up at her.

As the college student at the checkout packed his purchase into his backpack and vacated the counter area, the old woman clicked again, muttering, “I remember when the clientele here weren’t all children.”

The woman in front of her set her books at the register, met my eye, and rolled hers. “What ever happened to the old guy who used to work for you?” she asked.

I blinked and it took me a moment to shake off my astonishment, because in the last decade, the only two people who had worked at the store were me and Dad, and I doubted anyone could have mistaken Dad for my employee. “He, um—”

“Was so much better than this,” the other woman sighed. “Poor man must be rolling in his grave at the way you’re running his store.”

My father liked that, of course. He nodded. “You have no idea, Mrs. Wellington. It’s like a nightmare.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I took the books from the younger woman and started ringing them up. “I’m afraid he passed away,” I told her.

“Tell that girl I did not work for you,” my father snapped, ignoring the fact that “that girl” looked to be a professional woman in her thirties or forties, and turning to me with a glare. “I won’t have her thinking that.”

Instead, I turned to the older woman. “I was sorry you couldn’t make it to his funeral on Wednesday, Mrs. Wellington. I’m sure he would have liked to have you there.”

The woman at the counter, in the process of pulling out her wallet, stopped and covered her mouth, hiding a smile, if poorly. “I’m sorry if you were close,” she told me, and considering she was a step removed from laughter, the words seemed sincere. “But he was always kind of a jerk. You’re probably better off without employees who go around insulting half your customers.”

Mrs. Wellington gasped—I half expected her to reach for a string of pearls she wasn’t even wearing—and turned to stare at me. When I didn’t say anything, she slammed her book down on the counter. “Well I won’t be shopping here anymore. Not if you’re going to let strangers disrespect your poor dead father.”

Considering the fact that she didn’t immediately storm off, she must have expected me to make an impassioned plea for her to stay. Argued on my poor sainted father’s behalf, explaining to the woman that he hadn’t been a jerk, just misunderstood.

The truth was it did surprise me, the notion that some customers hadn’t liked him. The charisma he got from his social magic had been considerable, and if he put effort into it, people had always liked him.

I considered for a second, then I shrugged. I was on a roll for alienating my father’s favorite customers for the week, why stop with just Mr. Ashwell? “I can’t tell people what to think about my father, ma’am. If that offends you, maybe it’s a good idea for you to find a better bookstore.”

That was when she got really offended, marching off, swearing up a storm, and threatening to report me to the better business bureau.

The younger woman gave a low whistle, then picked up the book the woman had left on the counter and set it on her pile.

“You don’t have to—”

“It was the last one, and I wanted it anyway.”

I glanced down at it. A mystery about cats and knitting. It would have been the last one in the store, since we usually only stocked one of anything my father didn’t enjoy personally. “I’d say we could carry more in the future, but maybe you’ll be the only one who wants them now.”

She gave me a bright smile. “Oh, but I have a book club among the university employees. Your father wouldn’t talk to me about ordering for them, but”—she glanced back at the line behind her— “I’ll drop by next week and we can talk about it?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “We’re always willing to order in anything people need.”

“What a disrespectful little—” My father geared up to go on a rant, but right then, foxy hopped down off the couch and sauntered over to sit right where he stood, inside his legs. He glared and took a step to one side. Foxy stood, stepped to that spot, and sat again.

I looked away, biting my lip hard to keep from laughing, and when I turned to the woman, she was doing the same thing. She leaned in. “Also, your familiar is awesome.”

I wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but she was right, so I nodded. I didn’t feel like explaining the whole “he’s a familiar but not my familiar” spiel, so I just agreed, “He’s pretty much the best.”

As she gave me her debit card to pay for the books, she pulled out a business card too. “I’ll be back about the book club like I said, but if you find yourself in need, feel free to shoot me a text. I know it’s a tough call, but sometimes it’s the only one.”

She traded me the card for her books and debit card, and I stuffed it in my pocket without looking at it and didn’t think about it again until I had worked my way through the rest of the line. Most of them weren’t too bad, though one man gave me a hell of a stink eye. I could practically hear “disloyal son” in the daggered look he shot me.

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