Monday arrived with a bitter, dry cold that felt more like late November than early spring.
The wind coming off the bay was strong enough to rattle the glass panes in the record shop's front display, making a low thrum-thrum sound that kept Ethan on edge all morning.
Around ten-thirty, Ethan was trying to close the small transom window above the front entrance because the cold draft was blowing directly down his neck while he worked at the register.
He was standing on a rickety wooden three-step stool, holding an old brass hook pole, trying to catch the small metal latch near the top frame.
"Reach higher," Leo said from below, holding his mug of tea with both hands.
"I am reaching higher," Ethan grunted, straining his arm up. "The latch is stuck. The paint fused it shut."
"Hit it with the pole," Leo suggested.
"If I hit it with the pole, the glass is gonna crack, Leo."
Ethan gave the pole a hard jerk downward. The metal hook caught the latch, but instead of swinging open smoothly, the entire brass handle mechanism snapped off with a sharp PING, sending a small rusty screw flying through the air.
The screw hit Leo straight on the forehead with a tiny flick sound before dropping into his tea mug with a small plop.
"Ow!" Leo yelled, dropping his mug slightly and spilling hot tea over his thumb. "Bro! You shot me!"
Ethan stared down from the stool, holding the brass pole in one hand and the broken handle in the other. "It was an accident."
"You put a screw in my tea!" Leo complained, fishing the tiny metal piece out with his fingers and wiping his thumb on his pants. "That tea was brand new!"
"It's clean screw," Ethan said, stepping down from the stool. "It's just old paint."
Before Leo could launch into a long speech about tetanus and personal safety, the front door scraped open.
Maya walked in, wearing a oversized wool coat that was way too big for her—it looked like something she'd borrowed from her dad—and carrying a rolled-up poster under her arm.
"Why is Leo screaming?" she asked, setting her rolled-up poster on the counter.
"Ethan tried to assassinate me with hardware," Leo said dramatically, holding up the tiny rusty screw like evidence in a murder trial.
Maya looked at the screw, then at Ethan holding the brass pole. "Nice shot, grease monkey."
"It snapped off," Ethan said, setting the pole against the wall with a heavy sigh. "Now the top window is stuck open three inches, and cold air is blowing straight into the shop."
"Use duck tape," Maya said, pulling her gloves off and shoving them into her coat pockets. "That's what Sarah does when our back door doesn't latch."
"Mr. Henderson hates duct tape on the woodwork," Ethan said, rubbing his cold ears. "What's the poster?"
Maya unrolled the paper on the glass case. It was a brightly colored flyer for an upcoming neighborhood block festival on 4th Street, featuring local food vendors, small craft tables, and live acoustic music.
"Sarah wants to set up a table for the bakery," Maya explained, flattening the corners of the paper with her palms. "She asked if you guys wanted to put a flyer up in your window."
Leo leaned over the counter to look. "Is there gonna be beer?"
"It's a neighborhood street fair, Leo, not a frat party," Maya said dryly. "There's a cider vendor, though."
"Good enough," Leo said. "I'll tape it to the window."
Ethan looked at the flyer. "When is it?"
"Next Saturday," Maya said. She looked at Ethan, her eyes steady. "Sarah wants to do a breakfast pastries booth, but we need someone to help load the folding tables and supply crates at six in the morning."
Ethan narrowed his eyes slightly. "Maya... are you asking me to move more heavy stuff?"
"I'm not asking," she corrected, a tiny smirk tugging at her lips. "I'm offering you free breakfast pastries for a month if you help us setup at six AM."
Ethan stared at her for three long seconds. His back still felt slightly stiff from the sleeper sofa, but the thought of free bakery stuff for four weeks was undeniably tempting.
"What kind of folding tables?" Ethan asked cautiously.
"Plastic ones," she said. "Lightweight. Not metal monsters."
"And the truck?"
"We need the truck to haul the flour bags and the portable oven," she said.
Ethan let out a long, dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "I'm becoming a professional moving service."
"You're a guy with a truck, Ethan," Maya said, patting his shoulder gently with her gloved hand. "It's your destiny."
"Fine," Ethan grumbled, grabbing a piece of scotch tape from the register drawer to hang the festival flyer on the front glass. "Six AM. But if there are any sleeper sofas involved, I'm driving away."
"Deal," she smiled, her dark eyes bright in the cold light of the shop.
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