“Bye, Meg.”

“Hey, Meg?” Shelby interrupts. “Meet me at the pub on the corner for drinks around five.” Breaking down a box into a flat rectangle, Shelby adds, “You can come, too, Seth.”

“See you guys later,” Seth grunts, stepping over bubble wrap. “You should lock the door – it’s a mess in here.”

Thessaly waves them off as she glances at the iPad screen with Levi’s picture. “Lock it behind you then,” she mutters.

“What’s next?” Shelby asks.

“Do you want to help me make honey sticks? We’ll use your flame method to seal the straws.”

“Fine, as long as I can pick the music. This crap you have playing right now is awful – Lilith Fair called and they want their lesbians back.”

Tossing Shelby the iPod, Thessaly says, “Go for it.” Heading toward the kitchen, she looks over her shoulder and adds, “Grab my coffee, will ya?”

Inside the kitchen, Thessaly pours raspberry honey into a plastic bottle normally used for mustard. She bought it at a restaurant supply store because the tip is narrow enough to fill a straw. She then removes a box of clear plastic straws from a nearby shelf and two sets of disposable gloves.

“Ah, nature’s Pixie Sticks.” Leaning against the work station and throwing back the last of his coffee, Shelby asks, “Do you remember that Halloween when Mama gave out honey sticks instead of candy?”

“Yes! Didn’t the house get egged?”

“Oh shit, you’re right.”

Handing Shelby a pair of gloves, Thessaly advises, “Trust me, you’ll want to wear them.”

Shelby tosses his coffee in the trashcan and slides on the gloves. “So what’s up with your friends? Are they together?”

“They’re together as far as you’re concerned,” Thessaly warns.

“All right!” Shelby throws his hands up in defense and adds, “I was just asking.”

“Pass me the pliers,” Thessaly says as her phone buzzes. Glancing at Meg’s name, Thessaly removes her gloves and answers the call. “Hey, Meg.”

“Tess – I got a really interesting email.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s from a lady that runs the Pennsylvania chapter of historic inns and bed and breakfasts.”

“Okay?” Thessaly sips her coffee and watches as Shelby spills the straws onto the workstation.

“They want you to submit a vendor proposal. Tess, this is huge!”

“That’s incredible, Meg!”

“I’m forwarding the email to you now.”

“Thanks, Meg.” Thessaly smiles at her brother as he ties a floral apron around his waist. Ending the call and opening the email, Thessaly mutters, “No way.”

Silently reading the closing salutation from Dani Jones-Rockford a third time, Thessaly finally connects the dots. Laughing as she opens the text thread with Levi, Thessaly types as quickly as her fingers will allow.

Tess: Rooftop @ 7?

“My parents died in a bus crash when I was a young boy. I was raised by my Polish grandparents in Brooklyn. They tried to give me a normal life, but they also thought McDonald’s was an Irish pub.”

Chapter Eleven

“Regular coffee and a knish, Tommy.” Frank Kazlow tucks his oxford shirt into his polyester dress pants and then swipes two packets of mustard from the counter. “You see that Yankees game today?”

“Nah, man. I work all day on Saturdays,” Tommy replies. “Extra napkins?”

“Toss a few in the bag.” Taking his brown paper sack and the small cup of coffee, Frank slaps three dollars, a quarter, and four pennies on the counter. “Same time tomorrow,” he chimes.

“Take care, man,” Tommy replies.

Frank Kazlow isn’t lazy, he’s just not particularly interested in a job opening doors and signing for packages. And his new evening shift that started this month is cutting into his real passion – polka music.

In fact, Frank Kazlow and his band, the Polka Dots, have revitalized the genre by shredding the instruments to an Eastern-style Polka. The band consists of a drummer and a bass guitarist, a female lead singer, a trumpeter with a mohawk, and two trained boxmen. Consistently booking shows and birthday parties all over New Jersey, the Polka Dots are on their way to the big time – the Fortieth Annual Chicago Box Festival. And Frank Kazlow, middle-aged doorman with a beer gut and wispy orange hair, is determined to get laid by a buxom boxwoman.

Sneaking in the delivery entrance and grabbing his gray sport coat, Frank meanders through the supply closet and approaches the lobby desk. He unfolds the wrapper to his knish and slathers on a packet of yellow mustard. Tucking a napkin in the collar of his shirt and sipping his coffee, Frank powers on a small radio beneath the podium. He takes a huge bite of the gushy potato just as Thessaly exits the elevator.

He nods politely, always intrigued by her fashion choices. Not bad, he thinks, running his eyes up her long legs. She’s not his type though, too thin and tall for his taste, but he can’t deny that her sweet disposition is a complete turn on.

“You look nice, Ms. Sinclair,” Frank compliments.

“Thank you, Frank. Can you find me a cab to Brooklyn?” Thessaly asks while checking for a text from Levi.

“No problem, Ms. Sinclair.” He slides his snack to the side and removes the napkin from his shirt. “I just remembered – a dapper-looking fella dropped something off for you earlier.”

“Oh?”

Stepping behind the marble podium, Frank removes a picnic basket. “Yeah, I was confused at first. He insisted it was for Tess Santiago, but there’s no one in the building with that last name.”

Smiling, she takes the basket from Frank and nods. “It’s sorta a joke, but thank you for accepting it for me.”

“That’s my job. Oh, let me get you that cab,” Frank says, plodding in his patent loafers toward the street.

Thessaly reaches in her basket to find her thermos, and an envelope addressed to Tess. She flips it over and traces the wax stamp with the initials, L.P. Opening the letter, a peacock feather floats to the ground. Surprised, she bends down to retrieve the feather, and then unfolds the linen stationery and begins to read.

Dear Tess Santiago,

Thank you for reminding me that love is compassion.

All the best,

Lucas

P.S.

Don’t try to find me. I’m a loner, Tess. A rebel.

Folding the letter and tucking it back into the envelope, Thessaly returns it to the picnic basket. Snickering at the Pee-Wee reference, she opens her gold clutch and drops the delicate feather inside.

“Ms. Sinclair, I got you a borough cab waiting outside,” Frank pants, clearly exhausted from working harder than most days.

“Great, Frank. Can I leave the basket here until I get back?” asks Thessaly.

“Sure, sure. I’ll put it under the desk.”

Walking toward the exit, she looks back over her shoulder and says, “Night, Frank.”

Idling on the corner, the driver of a guacamole green outer-borough cab honks the horn. She gives the cabbie a small wave while shouting, “Give me a second?”

He nods in understanding as she moves toward the alcove once occupied by Lucas. Thessaly bends to read the only indication that he even exists beyond her own interactions. She studies the cardboard sign, wondering if Lucas was conducting an odd social experiment.

Love is fuckin’ yo mama.

Love is 4G on the F train.

Love is an illusion.

Love is free Wi-Fi.

Grabbing the marker and removing the cap, Thessaly thinks, Love is pure. Love is organic. Love is raw. Love is sweet. Love is non-perishable?