Broken Souls (Broken Realms, #2)

CHAPTER 13-3

The jangle of the bells over the door caused Mara to look up from the nail gun she was reassembling. Her eyes widened when she saw Ping standing in the open doorway with a smear of flour on his face and what looked like a dusting of nutmeg or cinnamon across the white shirt that stretched across his belly. Behind him the day had already turned to night, and streetlights were visible across the road. He closed the door and walked up to the counter.

“What a long day. I can’t believe how busy the bakery has gotten all of a sudden. I had assumed that the holidays might mean a slow down because people would be taking time off from work and doing some of their own baking at home.” He leaned against the counter. “Not at all. With company parties and family gatherings, I’m quickly getting booked up through New Year’s. Nobody does their own cooking anymore.”

Mara put aside the nail gun. “You know, I think Mom’s going to want me to get some stuff from you for Thanksgiving. You going to have anything left? She wants to have lots of different stuff for Sam to try out, since this will be his first Thanksgiving.”

“Getting something from me isn’t going to be a new experience for Sam. He eats half of what I bake before it can cool. Why isn’t he fat?”

“He’s a kid. Where is he anyway?”

“Next door, closing up. He’s got clean-up detail until I can hire some more help.”

Mara walked to the front door, flipped the dead bolt and turned inward the Open sign hanging in the window. Returning to the counter, she hit a few keys on the register, and the drawer popped out. She pulled out the cash tray and motioned for Ping to follow her to the back of the shop. Glancing up at the grandfather clock, she said, “We’ve got a few minutes before Bohannon arrives. Let’s sit back there and talk for a bit.”

Ping followed her to the back room where a wheelless bicycle sat upside down in front of a garage door surrounded by various parts. To the right of it, a cluttered long workbench displayed an array of tools, rags and bicycle parts. Ping moved to the left to sit at a cheap resin table surrounded by mismatched resin chairs in a little alcove next to the tiny office where Mara puttered with the money tray.

“Looks like Bruce is keeping busy,” Ping said.

Mara called out from the office, “I think his bicycle repair work is the key to keeping this business going. Mr. Mason’s older customers have been coming in for years with their gadgets, but Bruce brings in the younger, hipper crowd, who more than likely would throw away their old gadgets and buy something new. A lot of the bicyclists like the idea of recycling and repairing stuff, and they get hooked on bringing in their stuff.”

“Sam said there was something you wanted to talk about?”

Mara stepped from the office, pulled out a chair with a loud skittering sound and sat down. “About this static I’m hearing from the radio . . .”

Ping raised a hand. “Sam told me that you wanted to talk before you called me about the Philco 90. What was on your mind then?”

“Oh! That’s right. Life has become such an endless string of issues that one thing keeps pushing out the other. I can’t keep up with everything.” Mara pulled her hair over her shoulders and leaned onto the table as if she needed the support. “I’m sure Sam mentioned to you that he found out about my dad, right?”

“You mean he found out about his father. The fact that he’s yours as well is incidental at the moment. It was all he spoke about when he got in this morning.”

“Whatever. Look, my father is a doctor. He’s the complete opposite of my mother. I don’t see being able to convince him that he has a son from an alternate reality. There’s no way that is going to happen.”

“Never say never, Mara. Two months ago there was no way you would ever believe that you have the ability to alter reality, that you are a progenitor.”

“That’s different. There was a way for me to demonstrate the truth of that.”

“And I’m sure you and your mother can come up with a way of demonstrating to your father that Sam is his son. Give it some time and consideration. I’m sure it will come to you.”

“Time is the problem. Sam is so eager to meet his dad, I’m afraid he might do something impulsive, like send Dad an email or call him up.”

“I don’t think Sam will do that. We had a talk this morning, and I think he understands the challenges that are involved. He’s a boy excited about the prospect of having a father for the first time in his life. Let him enjoy the notion of it while you and your mother work out how to go about introducing them.”

“I can’t even imagine it. You don’t know my father.”

“I bet your mother will figure it out. She’s a very smart, sensitive lady. Give her time. This isn’t something you have to fix right now.” Ping leaned back and tried to brush away the brown dust on his belly. “I’ve got pumpkin pie ingredients all over me.”

“You’ve got a smear of flour on your face too.” Mara smiled and wiped his cheek with her thumb.

“Thanks. That’s one item on your list of issues. What’s next?”

“I can’t seem to fix anything anymore.”

“What do you mean? I see satisfied customers coming out of here all the time. A lot of them stop by the bakery for coffee or a snack, carrying all manner of gadgets.”

“Oh, things are getting repaired, but it has more to do with metaphysics than mechanics. Everything I touch seems to repair itself.” She pointed to the front of the shop. “That big grandfather clock out there? I called Mr. Mickleson and asked him what he thought was wrong with it, and he told me that his grandson had been playing inside the waist—where the weights and pendulum hang— and several pieces had been knocked out of the mechanism. He said he had forgotten to send along the broken parts and would stop by in the morning.”

“Yes, and?”

Mara’s eyes widened. “Ping, it’s already fixed. It’s working. All I did was wind it and look at it with a flashlight. Missing parts replaced themselves out of thin air.”

“I’m not sure I’m seeing the problem. I told you that I thought your technical ability was tied into your metaphysical powers.”

“How would you like to spend all day having pies and cakes pop out of your oven without you having to first mix the ingredients and put them in to bake?”

“With business the way it is lately, that might not be such a bad thing.”

“Ping, I want to take things apart, figure out what’s wrong and fix them, with my hands and tools, not with this ability. I don’t want things to just fix themselves. Where’s the challenge in that?”

“As I see it, there are two ways you can approach this. One would be to accept that your metaphysical ability is another tool in your tool kit that you use to repair gadgets. Things aren’t just repairing themselves. You are repairing them through this extraordinary gift.” Mara opened her mouth to protest, but Ping silenced her with a raised finger. “Or you could work on better mastering your ability so that you can control when these things happen. You should be able to control what you do and when you do it.”

“How do I do that?”

“Practice, Mara. Practice. You’ve got to work with your abilities. Learn to use them, how to turn them on and turn them off. That will take practice and patience.”

“Patience seems to be a theme with you this evening.”

There was a loud pounding coming from the front door of the shop. Mara jumped up to answer it. “That must be Bohannon.”

“What about the radio?” Ping asked.

Mara stopped and turned. “We’ll have to talk later. And I want to get into this dragon business of yours too.”