Michelle Moore - Enchanted Grounds.pdf

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Michelle Moore
Enchanted Grounds [2]
I T WASN ’ T that he hadn’t known about the weather. He just
hadn’t expected all the dire warnings to be so accurate . So
when the rain changed instantly from a cold drizzle to a
freezing downpour interspersed with sleet, he couldn’t even
pretend to be surprised, despite the fact that he was without
an umbrella. Again .
Squinting up the street, Max could just make out a dry
cleaner’s sign through the gray curtain, and beyond that,
what looked to be an art gallery of some sort. When he came
closer he could see one of those little clocks hanging on the
dry cleaner’s door with the hands pointing to eight o’clock. It
was now quarter past three, but the shop was dark. The art
gallery might have been more promising, except for the fact
that the windows were soaped and card-boarded over. It
managed to convey a “look,” he supposed. Urban, chic, and
out-of-business?
Head tucked down, resigned to a frigid trudge back to
his apartment, Max almost missed the tiny door set back a
good three or four feet from the rest of the buildings on the
street. It looked like a residence. He saw no display window,
no windows at all, just the dark green door set dead in the
middle of a narrow, brick front. There was a miniscule
courtyard as well, made narrower still by the profusion of
pots filled with evergreens covering everything except a path
of stepping stones that led in a roundabout way amongst the
pots to the door. The giveaway, however, was the wooden
Michelle Moore
Enchanted Grounds [3]
sign stuck in one of the larger planters that read “Enchanted
Grounds” in cheerful yellow letters.
Without a window, he found it impossible to tell if the
place was open or not, at least until he smelled the first whiff
of coffee on the damp air. Coffee and… Feet slowing almost
of their own accord, Max sniffed again. Something sweet .
Cake or cookies probably, since he wasn’t picking up any of
the tell-tale odor of frying that would indicate doughnuts. In
the end, the smells rather than the rain made up his mind.
Once inside, it took several seconds for the jumble of
impressions to sort out. The smell of baking, warm and
sweet and thick, the hum of a dozen conversations
interspersed with bursts of laughter, and the cozy islands of
light scattered throughout the room.
“Welcome to Enchanted Grounds.” The girl was dwarfed
by the massive bar that took up nearly half the room, her
elbows propped on the wooden surface, chin propped in her
hands. “You’re just in time.” She unfolded herself, grinning
cheerfully. “Here’s your cookies, fresh out of the oven so
they’re still warm, and there’s a table over by the fireplace.”
The room looked much deeper than it had seemed from
the outside. Sure enough, a fireplace stood on the far wall,
with real logs and real flames, instead of the usual gas heat.
“I… thank you?” Max said, bemused. He wanted to ask
if she’d mistaken him for someone else, someone she had
obviously been expecting, but then she pushed the plate
toward him and the words flew out of his head. If the cookies
were meant for someone else, they were going to have to take
him down for them because he wasn’t giving them up
willingly.
Michelle Moore
Enchanted Grounds [4]
“Go sit down. I’ll bring your coffee over in just a sec.”
She laughed, patting his hand as he picked up the plate.
“And don’t worry, there’s more coming up from the kitchen.
Most everyone else is already on their second helping.”
Sure enough, as he made his way between the tables,
arranged interestingly enough in a pattern that mirrored the
path through the plants on the terrace, there seemed to be
plates in front of everyone. Most were empty except for
crumbs.
Velvet club chairs in either moss green or brown were
grouped around the tables, and Max sank down in a brown
one facing the open hearth. He could easily have stepped
into the fireplace without stooping, the scarred oak
mantelpiece higher than his head. It was covered with what
looked to be antique daguerreotypes that he had every
intention of getting a closer look at, but it could wait. Right
now there were warm cookies.
While the whole visit so far had had its share of the
unexpected, it wasn’t until the girl from the counter set his
coffee on the table that he really started to feel otherworldly.
For one, it looked exactly the right color. Steve had accused
him of being positively phobic about the amount of cream
going into his coffee, and while Max had no trouble
admitting that he was picky about the coffee to cream ratio,
knowing what you liked could hardly be considered phobic.
Yet, here sat a mug that looked like he could have fixed it
himself. A cautious sip verified that not only were the dairy
proportions spot on, so was the sweetener. Sugar in the Raw,
three teaspoons.
Michelle Moore
Enchanted Grounds [5]
He gave the girl a tentative smile. “This is perfect. How
did you know?”
“Awesome! I was pretty sure, but it’s always satisfying to
have your genius verified.” She extended her hand, nails cut
straight across in a no-nonsense way. “I’m Kristie, by the
way.”
“Max. I’ve never had anyone fix my coffee for me before,
much less likely get it exactly right. So yeah, I’ll verify your
genius if anybody asks.” When he pulled his hand back, he
felt amused to find a dusting of coffee grounds on his fingers.
“Everybody has a look. I’m just good at reading them.
Enjoy, Max. And just wave when you’re ready for more
cookies.”
Three bites in, he felt ready to start waving. Sugar
cookies, soft and chewy, with pieces of real vanilla beans
throughout, and when he leaned close, he could actually
smell vanilla. Halfway through, Max slowed down, guiltily
glancing around to see if anyone else had observed him
shoveling the bites into his mouth like someone was going to
whisk the plate away before he was finished .
All of the tables (he counted eight including his) were
full. The one closest to him held three teenagers, two girls
and a boy, huddled over scattered pages of sheet music.
Something about the room muffled sound quite effectively,
but judging from the sweeping arm motions and the slashing
pencils, it was a lively discussion.
Just beyond them, an older couple shared a table. They
looked like his grandparents… if his grandparents had ever
stopped fighting long enough to be in the same room without
coming to blows. In direct contrast, these two read quietly,

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