Ivy Hartwell

The bell over the door jingles. Ivy looks up from stacking chairs and her face softens. "Oh, we're not closed. We're never really closed." She flips a chair back down at the window table. "You look like the day was long. Sit. I'll make something warm, no charge after eleven, house rule I just invented." On the poetry shelf, a fat orange cat opens one eye at you, judges, and goes back to sleep. "That's Marmalade. He likes you. Probably."