Chapter 7

A generous donation permitted the community kitchen to operate in late July, whereas normally, only major holidays might benefit from the activity. The only stipulation of the donor: she help serve.

Psyche stood, her feet and back aching, her apron soiled, a ladle rhythmically stirring an enormous cauldron of hot noodle soup. The aroma of chicken broth, carrots, celery and onions drifted to fill her nostrils, steam assaulting her limp hair beneath a baseball cap.

The clientele ranged from ragged homeless folks to financially struggling families. As Psyche doled portions to each extended bowl, she flashed a smile and accepted murmured thank you’s. In her former life, she failed to realize the number of otherwise normal folks needing a boost, or simply a hot meal. Other volunteers stretching down the long table uncomplainingly distributed donated meals to needy patrons.

Both Buttercup and Benny had wandered through the queue earlier, surprised to see Psyche’s memorable features present behind the tables. Neither betrayed her identity, although Psyche suspected a few amongst the crowd recognized her independently.

As she doled each ladleful of soup into an outstretched bowl, she asked a hopeful question.

Do you know Cupid? Have you seen Cupid?

Most simply cast their eyes downward and mournfully shook their heads. None answered affirmatively.

She continued to serve soup, discouraged and sighing.

Where are you, Cupid?

At least she found some solace in helping.

The dog days of August descended on the streets like the hammer of the gods, driving breath from her lungs as Psyche stepped from the air-conditioned interior of The Lonely Heart Café. In her hand, an iced cappuccino seeped a welcome frigidity into her fingers.

“You all right, Benny?” she inquired.

Benny looked up from the stoop and smiled, the gaps in his teeth endearing and kindly.

“Right as rain,” Benny replied, straightening on the steps. A bead of perspiration dotted his receding hairline.

Psyche crouched and handed Benny the iced coffee. He accepted the cup with a nod of thanks, immediately sipping with an attendant sigh.

“Thank you,” he said as he sipped again. “You’re an angel.”

Psyche laughed. If she were a paragon of virtue, her angel should have returned. She hadn’t. Perhaps her former life’s balance sheet remained firmly in the red.

“Seen Cupid?”

The question rolled off her tongue as a ritual. She asked every single morning, without fail. Benny remained the only person to even remember the woman, beyond a tease of an allusion from Buttercup a month ago. Otherwise, not a whisper. Cupid might only exist as a figment of her imagination?

Benny shook his head dejectedly.

“I miss her,” he mumbled.

I miss her, too.

“Benny?” Psyche said. “I might go home, too. She’s never coming back.”

Perhaps her quest of atonement simply failed to meet the god’s expectations. Perhaps the deacon’s god had forsaken her, despite her efforts.

“I’d miss you, pretty lady.”

Psyche patted his arm and straightened.

“I’d miss you, too, Benny.” And she would. “I better get back in there,” Psyche said with a sigh.

Benny offered her a wave as she returned to the café.

“One venti iced caramel macchiato, quad shot, oat milk, four pumps sugar free vanilla, light caramel drizzle, upside down.”

Psyche blinked at the complex order, but she’d improved over the last month in visualizing orders and creating customization without fumbling. In the early days, Benny had received many oopses, not that he seemed to mind.

The woman wore a beautiful, genuine smile. Her shoulder-length brunette hair cascaded in feathered waves from her delicate face. A fierce intelligence burned behind her almost black irises. What she lacked in height, she returned in a sunny disposition to match the rays illuminating the sidewalk outside the plate-glass windows.

“Name?”

The woman hesitated a moment, as if she were choosing one of a number of names.

“Nora.”

Behind the striking woman, a mother and daughter waited their turn.

“Mommy? Can I get a chocolate milk? Please?”

Mommy crouched, her eyes level with her daughter. She rummaged through her purse, but shook her head regretfully.

“Mommy doesn’t get paid until Friday, Amber. I know you’re thirsty. We’ll get a cup of water. For both of us? Okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

The little girl cast her eyes to the floor, crestfallen.

Psyche, overhearing that whispered conversation, her heart breaking, decided to make both Mommy a latte, and the girl a chocolate milk, tucking her own money in the register.

Nora leaned on the counter conspiratorially.

“I’ve got their order,” she whispered. “Whatever they order, or if they order water, you make them coffee and chocolate milk.” Nora passed a few extra bills across the counter. “And keep the change.”

Psyche nearly protested. Her original intent might have tipped the scales of atonement, but in the end, she nodded. Perhaps others wanted to atone, too.

Nora stepped to the side, extracting a cell phone and tapping at the surface, her smile never leaving her face.

The mother and daughter approached the counter.

“Would it be possible to only get two waters?” she asked timidly, as if expecting Psyche to throw her from the café for daring to order only water. The little girl shuffled her feet, gazing at the floor, holding her mother’s hand.

“Of course,” Psyche replied kindly. “If you take a seat, I’ll bring them out to you.”

The mother appeared grateful. Pulling Amber along with a gentle tug, they retreated to a table. Nora cast a meaningful glance at Psyche, who nodded.

Psyche busied herself assembling the three orders.

Psyche set a venti latte and a large chocolate milk on the table. Mommy looked up sharply in surprise.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” she said, indicating the cups. “I only ordered water.” Beside her, the child’s eyes lit up, seeing the cup of milk.

“I know,” Psyche said. “Enjoy them.” She smiled at the expression of joy on the child’s face.

“I don’t understand.”

Psyche pointed to the woman at the counter with the stunning eyes and gorgeous hair.

“She wanted you to have them. Her treat.”

“Really? I didn’t think...” A hint of tears threatened in the woman’s eyes.

“Kindness still exists,” Psyche murmured.

Despite my former life. Kindness still exists. Sometimes.

Amber stared at the cup of chocolate milk.

“Can I, Mommy? Please?”

Mommy hesitated for a moment, then nodded. She caught Nora’s eye at the counter and mouthed, “Thank you.” Nora merely smiled in return.

As soon as Mommy nodded, the little girl grasped the cup in both hands and tilted it to her lips. She glowed.

“Can I ask you a quick question?”

Mommy nodded again.

“Have you ever heard of a woman named Cupid?”

For a moment, Mommy looked confused. Then, like everyone else, she shook her head.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone with that name.”

Nora settled with her complicated iced macchiato in the far corner of the café, her back against the wall, sipping contentedly at her fuel. She drew a MacBook Air from her shoulder bag and opened it on the table. Studiously, she typed, totally engrossed in her screen. Psyche wondered what might rivet anyone so deeply.

Psyche observed as Amber shyly approached Nora’s corner table, Mommy watching like a hawk.

Nora looked up from her computer, offering a welcoming smile.

“Well, hello there,” Nora said.

“Hi,” the girl said uncertainly. She glanced back at her mother, who mouthed something indiscernible but clearly encouraging. “Um. Thank you for my chocolate milk. It was really, really good!”

Nora chuckled kindly. “Sweetie, you are totally welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

The girl squealed, turned tail, and scampered back to her mother.

Laughing to herself, Nora turned back to her screen and continued to type.

The girl and her mother departed, braving the heat of the street again. Holding her mother’s hand, the girl turned at the door and waved to Psyche. Psyche smiled and returned the wave with her fingers.

As the door closed against the heat, Psyche heard the little girl exclaim, “She’s so pretty, Mommy.”

After a few minutes, Psyche wandered into the table area and paused near the back corner where the exotic woman sat, still captivated by her computer screen.

“That was a really nice thing to do,” Psyche said.

Nora shrugged, lifting her eyes from the screen. Those eyes glittered.

“Anyone would have done it.”

I wouldn’t have three months ago. Walter wouldn’t have let me.

“Not anyone.”

True enough.

Nora bit at her lip and leaned back into her chair. Clearly uncertain if she ought to intrude, she nevertheless arrived at a conclusion.

“Did I overhear you were looking for someone?”

Psyche realized she had neglected to ask Nora if she knew Cupid. She nodded forlornly.

“Cupid. Do you know her?”

Nora shook her head apologetically.

“I don’t, I’m afraid,” she said. She paused. “But I know who might.”

For a moment, Psyche dared to hope.

“You do?”

Nora sighed and pointed at the computer screen. “This sometimes doesn’t pay the bills.” Psyche lost Nora’s meaning, but she remained attentive. “I pick up some part-time shifts at The Portal to make ends meet. Bartending. The owner there, she once saved my life. And she knows things. I could ask, if you like.”

“You’d do that?”

Nora laughed warmly. “Of course, I would. Come by tonight. Ask for Tequila.”

“I don’t drink Tequila.”

Tequila.

Never. Again.

Evil.

“Tequila is my bartending handle,” Nora replied seriously.

The woman on stage possessed a powerful rock voice, penetrating beyond the solid brick walls of the building. As Psyche entered the nightclub, a driving bass rattled her lungs as the singer’s voice assaulted her ears with crystalline notes, with no hint of auto-tune. Backing her, three boys played bass, guitar and drums. The dance floor thrummed with neon whirling couples, pulsing lasers, and glittering pixie lights.

As she pushed her way through the crowd of patrons, a tall man with close-cropped blonde hair stopped her with a tap to her shoulder. When she halted, he leaned to her ear so she could hear.

“Aren’t you Psyche? The model everyone is looking for?”

She shook her head. “Looking for?”

“Disappeared in Stockholm? Poured Louis XIII over some dude’s head?”

Psyche raised her voice over the band. “I get that a lot,” she said. “I’m not her.” And don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.

The guy looked skeptical, but eventually nodded. “I’d still take you home,” he said, his eyes raking her body from her hair, over her tight blouse and Lauren jeans. “My name is Kyle.”

Psyche rolled her eyes and turned from Kyle, pushing between two muscled guys who looked more interested in each other than her, leaving Kyle to locate another less discerning woman.

As Psyche approached the crowded teak bar, she noted exotic skin and hair bobbing behind the polished surface, dancing to the music and pouring shots. Eventually, a gap opened enough for Psyche to sneak to the edge and place her hands on the wood. She rested one Adidas on the rail and waited. Soon, Nora worked her way to Psyche’s locale.

“What can I get you?” Nora shouted above the music. Her body swayed to the rock beat issuing from the stage. Her eyes focused on Psyche and recognition flooded into them. “Hey! It’s you! Coffee girl!” And former supermodel, she of pouring cognac showers.

“Maybe a club soda and lemon?” Psyche yelled back.

Nora nodded and danced off to the right, grabbing a clean glass and soda spritzer. As Psyche watched, Nora approached a striking and imposing woman standing behind the bar, her eyes scanning the crowd, as if she were watching for the first sign of trouble. Judging by her fiery hair and intense gaze, Psyche suspected she wouldn’t want to cause trouble in this establishment. Not with that woman on watch, anyway.

After a brief conversation, Nora returned to Psyche, smiling. She handed Psyche a glass dewy with condensation. Nora leaned on the bar, motioning Psyche closer. Psyche pushed herself up and nearer, enough that Nora’s breath tickled her ear.