Teresa Milbrodt, Fictioneer

Dianne is another one of my protagonist’s friends who didn’t make it into the novel but deserves a mention anyway.  Part candy store owner and part oracle, she probably has the coolest job in the world.  Read on:

Sweet Truth is three blocks from our coffee shop. Dianne owns the candy store. She was two years ahead of me in school and often I’ll bring her a vanilla latte in exchange for candy. I’ve probably gained a couple pounds because of all those sour balls and gummy bears, but I’m on my feet all day so it doesn’t matter much.

The candy store is what you’d expect – rows of clear plastic bins filled with jelly beans and chocolates and gummy everything, rolls of plastic bags and cups of twist ties. Dianne’s office is also pretty normal, but she’s impeccably neat, has everything in piles and folders and trays. The only thing weird thing about Dianne is that whenever anyone drops candy, she runs over and examines where the pieces fell before she cleans them up. Some people read palms. Some people read tea leaves. Some people cast stones and read the pattern. Dianne reads jellybeans.

“Got another latte for me?” she asks when I walk in the door. “I have some malted milk balls and orange slices for you.”

“Sugar sounds good,” I say, “but could you take a raincheck on the latte? I don’t want to back to the shop right now. My parents are having difficulties.”

Dianne frowns. “Marital?”

“And economic,” I say.

“They usually go together,” she says. “How are sales?”

I shrug. We hear the familiar clattering of jellybeans or sour balls or candy-coated chocolate bits on the tile floor.

“Don’t move,” Dianne yells. She almost vaults over the counter, skittering to where a woman who smells of lilac is staring down at a scattering of green jellybeans.

“I’m sorry,” the lilac woman says, “I’m so clumsy. I thought I had a good grip on the bag but then–”

“It’s okay,” says Dianne. “Couldn’t have happened at a better time.”

She studies the pattern of green jellybeans for several moments.

“Well,” she sighs, “there may be some rough times ahead.”

I say, “There are rough times now.”

“I don’t know how things will end,” she says, “but you’re survivor. I’m pretty sure things will be fine.”

“Pretty sure?” I say.

“That’s all the beans will tell me,” she says.

“Can I help clean them up?” says the lady. “I feel so bad about this.”

Dianne waves her hand and says not to worry. I walk back to the coffee shop with my malted milk balls and orange slices and a deep-set sense of dread.