Read Ruby Unscripted for Free Online Page B

twirling.
    I imagine all kinds of Sound of Music twirling as I work in the coffeehouse. I imagine that I glance up at one of the customers and there’s Nick. His arrival is like the scene in Chocolat when Johnny Depp returns to the little chocolaterie for Juliette Binoche. Who couldn’t feel that all the way through the toes? What happens next as the movie credits roll . . . who knows and who cares? We know he’s taking her from her loneliness, and they’ll love each other for the rest of their lives.
    â€œRuby!” Aunt Jenna says loudly, making me jump and realize she’s been calling my name for a while. “Off in Rubyland again?”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œOne of our regulars, Natasha, is at her table by the corner window. She’s waiting for a ginger currant scone and chai tea with rice milk. The tea is on the counter—just pour some rice milk from the lower fridge into a cream server.”
    Natasha isn’t easy to locate. I hadn’t noticed the tiny table tucked behind the indoor stone fountain in a corner by the window. She’s fully engrossed in a book with a stack of other books and sketches spread out on the small table, making it impossible for me to set down the tea saucer and plate.
    â€œExcuse me,” I say in a library-soft voice—why, I’m not sure.
    She looks up as if surprised to see me, as if surprised to find herself sitting at her usual spot in my aunt’s café/movie house. It’s not a ditzy sort of look, but one that makes me think she’s still somewhere else, in whatever place that book took her.
    â€œOh yes, I apologize. Let me make some room.”
    She’s old—like maybe fifty—and beautiful. I think she’s the most beautiful older woman I’ve met. Her hair is cut short, very short, in a way only certain women can pull off—and she’s one of those certain women for sure. Her earrings are black pearls, and she wears a matching black pearl necklace.
    â€œWhat are you reading?” I ask.
    â€œShort stories from a Croatian writer,” she says, turning the book over. She moves her books to a chair and thanks me as I set her tea and scone beside a paper with notes scribbled on it.
    â€œCroatia? Is that in Europe?”
    â€œFormer Yugoslavia—Eastern Europe. Croatia is next on my list of places to visit—the Dalmatian Coast, to be precise. I’m hoping to go in the autumn, and then I’ll head for my favorite place to visit in October—the Austrian Alps. Have you ever been to Europe?”
    I smile. “Uh, no. I haven’t. Not yet.”
    â€œThat’s the spirit. I believe you most certainly will, and not too far in the future.” Natasha gives me a confident look, as if she can see it clearly.
    I can’t talk any longer; we have a large order for a team of advertisers having a board meeting.
    As I’m cleaning tables later, I imagine myself over at Natasha’s table in thirty or more years. I’m chatting with a teenaged girl, telling her how I once worked here and then all about my world travels, encouraging her to venture out as well. The girl might ask about the book I’m reading. An art book written by me, or a travel guide written by me, or maybe it’s written by someone else, but I’m planning my next trip. My handsome husband shows up—Nick?—who says he’s booked our tickets and we’ll be spending the summer on a lake in Italy or on the coast of Brazil or in a small beach hut in the Cook Islands.
    â€œRuby,” Aunt Jenna calls, and again I realize that she’s called me more than once.
    I really need to control my daydreaming.
    My shift should be over. No one can give me a ride home. If Carson were here . . . but he isn’t, I remind myself. And he won’t be. I suppose I’ll need to learn public transportation. There’s no such thing in Cottonwood, unless you count hopping on the nearest