The first time she came in was on a Wednesday.
It was mid-afternoon on a warm spring day, the sun was busy drying the city from the morning rainfall and casting shadows in through the bakery's front windows, as it climbed higher yet in the sky. There was a breeze – not too much, but not little enough to feel the brunt of the Atlanta heat. It was almost the perfect day, one might say, and it was about to get even better.
Or so they both thought.
So far this was not a special Wednesday; the regular rush of customers began and ended at roughly the same times, a steady stream of people flowing in and out effortlessly without any incident. Lauren was keeping the front cases filled, while Marcos finished the last batch of mocha chocolate chip cookies in the back. No one had spilled any warm or cold beverages yet either. Everything was like a well-oiled machine.
Then it became the end of Lauren's shift, and it was on Marcos to see the last few hours of business through on his own. Clarice was out of town for a family event, but he and Lauren had done well handling things by themselves while she was away until Monday.
There was a lull soon after Lauren left. A small study group took refuge in a corner full of mismatched couches, and a man was enjoying a book with a warm cocada at a table on the other side of the room. The only new face to come in between that moment and closing time had been Lorna Dane.
And there was no way in hell Marcos Diaz would ever forget Lorna Dane.
The first time he sees her, she's walking in through the front door, emerald green hair tied half up in a messy bun, with hair slowly falling out of it. She had . . . something all over the front of her grey t-shirt, the same color coating her hands and trailing all the way up to her elbows in some places.
She came closer to the front counter, glanced at the chalkboard menu hanging above the register and ditching it to look in the pastry cases.
Paint.
She was covered in paint.
Bright metallic gold paint.
And she was leaving a trail of it.
"I'll take one of those raspberry scones and a . . . " she trails, looks to the menu again. "You have holiday coffee in May?" she raises her eyebrows, looks at him like he's lost his damn mind. "Doesn't that defeat the purpose of seasonal specials?"
"Or maybe our coffee is just so good, it's always in high demand," Marcos replies with a smile, discreetly eyeing the shine she was now leaving on the edge of the crisp clean dark marble counter top.
Lorna looked at him, eyebrows still raised. "Right . . . and a 32oz Dark Roast Eclipse to go."
He takes the cash she hands him and -
"Keep the change."
Marcos tosses it in the moderately empty tip jar, amazed to find no gold shine on his hands and sets to work on her order. He glances in her direction when he gets a spare second.
She's taken a step or two away from the counter, taking in the her setting by studying the architecture and artwork – or lack thereof – on the walls. A smooth charcoal grey paint hugs the walls end to end, black trim and a few framed accomplishments hang on the closest wall to the counter. A handful of those cheesy, flea market wooden wall hangings about coffee and sweets equating to happiness are spread out among the empty spaces on the walls and between window panes. Sheer black curtains were tied back from the windows. This place gave off a vibe; Lorna wasn't sure what kind of vibe, but she knew it needed help.
She turned her attention back to the counter when Marcos sets down her coffee. "This place could really use more artwork or something. This -" she gestured vaguely to the walls, "Is really kind of sad."
He came back from the pastry case with a raspberry scone wrapped in a small brown paper bag, set it beside the coffee cup and leaned on the counter. "And what kind of art do you think it needs?" he asked, expression crafted into neutrality. He wasn't about to let her know she just insulted his baby. His proudest achievement.
"I don't know, a mural at least," Lorna shrugged, and then under her breath: "Or some real art hung on the walls."
"What are you, an artist or something?" Marcos asked, amused when he saw her golden stained hands reach out to grab her order.
"Yes, actually, I am. You know that empty apartment above this lovely establishment?" he nodded. "Well lucky for you, it's my new studio."
"So – what," Marcos says, "You trying to talk your way into a job?"
"Hey man, I'm not saying you have to hire me but you should do something here," Lorna scoffed, turned around and headed for the door. "Thanks for the coffee."
It took Marcos Diaz twenty minutes to up clean the paint Lorna Dane left behind.
The next time they meet is Friday morning.
At 10:45 am, Lauren gets Lorna's raspberry scone and makes her 32oz Dark Mint Mocha while Marcos is making the second loaf of french onion bread for the day.
He stops when he's about to put the bread in the oven. Listens. Places the bread pan on the second shelf and closes the oven door. He grabs a hand towel on his way to the front counter.
"Well, well, if it isn't the walking paint can."
Lorna looks up from the cell phone she's holding, eyebrows furrowing slightly. "Jesus, do you live here or something?" she asks, slipping the phone in the back pocket of her jeans, which were not – yet, anyway – full of paint.
It was still early enough though. She had time.
"He might as well," Lauren cut in, placing Lorna's coffee next to the scone. "But I guess that's what he gets for insisting on baking everything himself."
"Hey, a lot of these are secret recipes!"
"Hold on a minute," Lorna interrupts."Are you saying you make all these?"
She looks from the pastries in the case to Marcos behind the counter.
"Every single one," Lauren answers.
"Wow," Lorna says, eyes widening slightly. "That's pretty impressive."
Marcos gives his head a shake, hangs the towel over his shoulder and shrugs. "I just like to bake. Always have."
Lorna nods. "Right, well, I guess I'll see you around then." She turns on her heels, and stops mid-step when she hears Marcos' voice.
"So do I get your name anytime soon, or do I get to come up with creative nicknames until you tell me what it is?"
Lorna smiles to herself, recovers, and turns back around with a neutral expression. "I'm Lorna," she answers, slowly backing away.
A small smile rises on Marcos' lips. "How enchanting . . . I'm Marcos."
"I'll see you around, Marcos. Let me know when you decide to hire me for that art job," the ghost of a smile is on her lips when Lorna Dane pushes open the door to Underground Bakery and disappears into the morning rush.
She wasn't sure if next time she should tell Marcos she was becoming addicted to those damn scones.
He wasn't sure if he should tell Lorna that she's the reason he hasn't taken the raspberry scones off the seasonal menu yet.
Later that evening, Lorna is sitting on a window sill observing her latest in-progress creation from across the room. She's taking in how it looks in the dwindling light, how long it'll take for some of the acrylic paint to shift to it's glow in the dark altar-ego, how the grated shards of glass and black sand shimmer in the natural lighting distorted by the pink and orange of the setting sun behind her. She tilts her head, liking it better from farther away, mentally jots down what she needs to fix, what she needs to expand on, and what she still needs to do to fill the limited negative space.
She stood up from the window sill – hands immediately going to her hips – and blew out a breath.
She looked at it.
And looked at it.
And looked at it.
The more she looked at it, the more she just wanted this fucking painting out of her goddamn apartment.
Her head shook, muttering about why she chose to use her "creativity" as her livelihood, how anyone ever wanted any of her work anyway, she didn't always know. She was about to move it to a far away corner to let it dry for the night – far far away from her line of vision – when there was a knock pounding down her door.
Honestly.
She is in an art-induced mood and doesn't need to be bothered when she's busy picking apart her livelihood.
Lorna makes it across the room to the door before the second set of knocks, pulls it open – and stops.
She freezes.
She definitely did not expect to see Underground's very own on the other side of the door.
"Hi," he says, like it's the most normal thing in the world for him to be here.
She tries not to stare, not to look too surprised or overly agitated when she responds with, "Hey," then a slower, skeptical: "What are you doing here?"
Marcos holds up a brown paper bag, then offers it to Lorna. She frowns.
"I thought you might want the rest of these," he says, voice oozing amusement and confidence. A faint smile appears for their third meeting. "Since you seem to like them so much. And I like to bake fresh every day."
She takes the bag, and she can smell the glorious pastries before she even looks inside. Lorna can't hide the hungry smile when she realizes the bag is full of the leftover raspberry scones from the day.
Oh, thank god.
"Holy shit," she says, thrill thick in her voice. Her stomach rumbles at the thought of food, reminding her she still hasn't eaten tonight. That's her favorite downfall in this line of work – she always gets so immersed in painting that everything else fades into the background. Problems, bathroom breaks, time, food . . .
She meets his eyes for the very first time, her stomach flaring up with an unexpected case of butterflies. "Looks like you just brought me dinner."
She tries to smother the fluttering growing in her stomach and thanks him.
He doesn't break eye contact. He tells her it's no problem, and then he feels it. It's sudden, it's fast. He feels the flicker of something growing, thoughts suddenly whispering around his mind and he's about to give one of them a voice when he catches himself - looks out the window at the end of the small hallway overlooking the alley and says what he was going to in the first place. "I figured this would be a good down payment on your fabulous artistic services you said I was in dire need of."
Lorna's smile turned mischievous. "Are you offering me a job, Pillsbury?"
"Maybe," he teased. "If I like any of your ideas."
"None of my clients are ever disappointed, let me assure you," Lorna counters, a wicked glint shining in her eyes.
This time, Marcos is the one to back away from her. He never takes his eyes away from her standing in her doorway until he pushes out the door leading into the muggy Atlanta air. "Don't let me down, O'Keeffe."
"I don't paint fucking flowers!" she calls after him, the door already well on it's way to slamming shut. She heard his boots on the stairs and rolled her eyes.
With a fresh pot of dark roast brewed, dim desk lamps illuminating clean sketchbook pages and freshly sharpened pencils, Lorna Dane sat down with a plate full of raspberry scones and began brainstorming.
This definitely wasn't her normal kind of gig, but if Marcos wanted to bribe her with the leftover scones of the day, who was she to turn down the opportunity? It's not like being a freelance artist gave her a steady paycheck or any stability. She had nothing to lose. And she would get to see more of him, not just in the off-chance he was up front at the same time she was.
Not that she wanted to, or anything. She just thought she could try and sway him into adding coffee to her paycheck. Or something.