As they turned onto Larchmont Boulevard, it was immediately clear something was wrong. Pedestrians on both sides were looking south, toward the bookstore, and Nina began to get what Han Solo might have called a Bad Feeling. She was still nauseous from the car ride, but this was something more.
There was a crowd of maybe twenty people in front of the store, plus two cops, all of whom were watching an argument between a middle-aged woman who Nina recognized from the store (historical fiction) and a younger woman who was wearing a long, fringed skirt, a top made of birds’ wings and macaroni, and a large felt hat with a brim the size of Poughkeepsie. Birds could have perched comfortably on it, if they were able to forgive the bird wing corset.
“I question your assumption that makeup is less culturally valid than literature,” the young woman was saying, as Nina and Lydia got close. Ah, thought Nina, it’s a Larchmont Liberal Street Fight.
The older woman frowned. “I am not in any way questioning the validity of your products, culturally or otherwise, and far be it from me to cast aspersions on the career goals of a fellow woman, but this bookstore has been here for nearly eight decades and is a cornerstone of our community.”
“Progress is inevitable,” replied the woman.
“That is both true and irrelevant to our discussion,” said the older woman, whom Nina was mentally referring to as the Reader. “We don’t need another beauty products store on Larchmont, and we certainly don’t need a pot shop.”
“We’re not a dispensary,” replied the other woman, whom Nina had internally named Bird Wing Betty. “We create makeup infused with potent botanicals that make you feel as good as you look. We are one hundred percent organic, local, and legal.”
There was murmuring in the crowd. Clearly, Bird Wing Betty had some supporters. As if to prove it, a group of about a dozen similarly dressed young people suddenly appeared.
“We saw your post on Instagram,” said one, coming up to Betty and touching her upper arm. “I’m so sorry the boomers are harshing your vibe.”
“Total drag,” said another. “I brought you some royal jelly and an apple cider vinegar shot to alkalinize you.” She handed over a tiny bottle that reminded Nina of Alice in Wonderland.
The cops sensed an opening. “Ladies,” said one of them, an officer who looked like this was a pleasant change from moving homeless people off the streets, “I’m afraid you don’t have a permit to protest, so you need to break this up and go home.”
“No,” said the Reader. “We’re staying here to show our support for reading.”
“Dude, we’re all about reading,” said one of the new young people, “but bookstores are so nineties. Stories live in the cloud now, free like birds. Don’t tie them down in the physical realm.”
The Reader snorted at her. “You’re stoned.”
The girl snorted back at her. “You’re old, but at least I’ll sober up.”
Another guy in the crowd said, “Go back to Santa Monica, you wannabe hippie counterculturalists.” Which, let’s face it, are fighting words, albeit unnecessarily long fighting words.
And then it happened. Someone—no one was ever sure who it was—threw a ball of cardamom, fig, and Brie ice cream, which hit Bird Wing Betty right in the . . . bird wings. Finally, thought Nina, they got that ice cream trebuchet working.
One of Betty’s friends turned and tossed a shot of cayenne and lemon juice in the face of a bookstore supporter, who cried, “My eyes,” and staggered backward. Another ball of ice cream arced overhead and nailed one of the cops, who didn’t take it very well. Nina turned to see who was throwing the frosty artillery just as another scoop glanced off her head and hit Betty, this time in the face. Betty stomped her foot.
“I. Am. Lactose. Intolerant!” she cried.
“No, you’re just completely intolerable,” replied the Reader, and pushed her.
Nina reached up and felt her head, which was sticky. She heard giggling. Lydia was amused.
“You’ve got a little . . . something something . . .” Lydia wiped a little drip from Nina’s forehead and tasted it.
“Huh,” she said. “Mint chip. Surprising.” She opened her mouth to continue and took a gluten-free cupcake right in the cake hole, which was also surprising. She sputtered.
Nina grinned. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Lydia.” A mini cupcake—or it might have been a brownie; it was moving too fast to tell—whizzed by and knocked off the Reader’s glasses.
The cops, who had been well trained (though, admittedly, not for a food fight), started pushing through the crowd, looking for the troublemakers. This made the people on the outside of the crowd, who couldn’t see very well, assume something more serious was going on. They started to run or, at least, move swiftly away. This was Larchmont, after all; no need for unseemly panic.
The ice cream bandit sent a last volley over the heads of the thinning crowd, and both Nina and Lydia were in the line of fire. Professional hit, double scoop.
Lydia, who had decided to see the funny side of it, clutched her arm, which was covered in sprinkles. “I’m hit,” she cried, and staggered backward.
“Cold . . . so cold . . .” said Nina, channeling the heroic death of so many matinee idols. She made it to the bookstore front door and did a creditable death slide down it. Then she remembered why she was there.
“Come on,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “We’ll go around the back.”
“Really?” whined Lydia. “But this is so fun.”
“Quit it,” said Nina. “Let’s go.”
They darted across the melee and ran down the narrow lane behind the stores of Larchmont Boulevard. Nina pulled out her keys and once inside the store discovered Liz and Mr. Meffo hiding out in the back room. Even though the ice cream had been outside, the atmosphere in the room was decidedly frosty.
“Are they gone?” asked Liz.
“The crowd is dispersing, yes.”
Liz turned to Mr. Meffo. “Well then, sir, you are free to leave.”
Mr. Meffo got stiffly to his feet. “Thank you for the brief sanctuary, Elizabeth.”
Liz shrugged. Wow, thought Nina, I bet it was fun in here for the last hour or so. Mr. Meffo looked at Liz and seemed as though he was about to say something, but simply turned and left the store.
Liz sighed. “I wanted to ask him to give me more time, but I couldn’t find the right words. It’s always so easy in books and so hard in real life.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Lydia. Then she turned to Nina. “However, that is no excuse for not at least trying to go talk to your boyfriend.” She held up her finger. “You may have hoped I had forgotten what we were talking about, but I haven’t. You need to gird your loins, screw your courage to the sticking place, and remember a turtle only travels when it sticks its neck out.”
Liz and Nina looked at her. “It’s a Korean saying,” explained Lydia, shrugging.
“You’re right,” said Nina, suddenly feeling bolder than she’d ever felt before. Lydia was a woman of action, and she was related to Nina, so Nina must have woman-of-action genes somewhere. Besides, now Nina had a family. She had friends. She had money. She had a bitching car. She’d survived a terrifying drive in that bitching car, and there was nothing she couldn’t do, or at least try to do. “Let’s go.”