Page 11 of The Nook for Brooks
“No, Lonnie. Gravity works the same way. They’re still shaped like croissants. You know… kinda like a pastry in the shape of a boomerang.” By now I kept glancing over at the display case, wondering if I was ever gonna get fed.
Ronnie nearly doubled over laughing. “A boomerang croissant! That’s brilliant, Lon, we should pitch that to Pascal.”
She lit up like he’d just solved world hunger. “We’ll call it a buttered boomerang!”
I rubbed my stomach, which growled loud enough to join the conversation. “Can I just order something to eat?”
Lonnie pulled out her pad. “Of course, dear. What would you like?”
“Just a croissant would be great. Thanks.”
“You mean… buttered boomerang!” declared Ronnie.
They both burst out laughing, then hurried excitedly back to the kitchen, calling out to Pascal as they pushed through the swinging doors.
I leftPascal’s Patisserielicking flaky pastry crumbs from my fingers and wondering how soon was too soon to order another “buttered boomerang” without looking like a greedy emu.
I glanced up and down the riverside promenade and noticed the bright blossoms filling the buckets out front of the store next door—Bud’s Blooms.
I paused on the footpath. Flowers weren’t my usual impulse buy, but after my friendly pat on the shoulder sent Brooks slamming into his own bookshelf earlier in the day, I figured I owed the poor guy a peace offering. A bouquet seemed more dignified than an “oops, sorry mate” scrawled on a Post-it note and stuck to his front door.
As I stepped inside the flower shop, the scent of roses and lilies washed gracefully over me.
Not so graceful was the voice that bellowed from behind a tower of carnations.
“Mrs. Cuthbert, you stupid old cow! If I told you once I’ve told you a thousand times! Ten o’clock is my first lunch break. If I don’t eat, my blood sugar levels come crashing down like a hot air balloon on fire and my always polite demeanor takes a turn for the—”
The short, sturdy woman who stepped out from behind the carnations—a chocolate éclair in one hand and a bowl of some kind of cereal in the other—gawked like a galah when she saw me, mouth slightly agape, her mouthful of half-chewed food on full display.
“Ah… g’day,” I said, equally wide-eyed, I’m sure.
“G-what?” she muffled through her food.
“G’day.”
“No need to be rude,” she said.
“I wasn’t, I was just saying hello.”
“In what language?” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you, Russian?”
“No, I just walk really fast.” I laughed at my own joke. “Get it? Russian… rushin’…” My laugh faded fast. “You don’t get it.”
She squinted at me even more suspiciously. “You’re weird. Lucky for you you’re also hot. So I won’t kick your ass out the door just yet.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“Nice would be you telling me what the fuck you want so I can get back to my puppy chow.”
I screwed up my nose. “You’re eating dog food?”
She screwed up her nose. “Of course not. Ew! Jesus, maybe that’s normal in Russia, but not here in the good old US of A.”
“I’m not from Russia.”
“You just said you were a fast-walking Russian.”
“No, that was… I was trying to be funny… You know what, forget it. I’ll just be on my way.”
