Page 5 of Red Hot Roaster

Rafe turned his back, unzipped his jeans partway, tucked the T-shirt in using quick jabbing motions, zipped and re-belted. All done. He stuffed his bloody clothes in the plastic liner and held it out to me. After a beat, I took it—time to get on with the orientation.

“Thank fuck,” Rafe muttered under his breath when we walked into the roastery space at the end of the hall.

“I’m pretty sure I have some pink paint left over from the café if you…” I trailed off when he shook his head.

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Well, if you change your mind,” I teased, seeing if I could get a rise out of him.

No-go. He ignored me and slapped his big paw on our spanking new Diedrich commercial coffee roaster—an upgrade from our first roaster in terms of size, output, noise, everything.

“What’s this monster doing in the back of a café?” He quirked an eyebrow my way.

And bya café, he meantyourlittle old dog-friendly hot-pink-painted neighborhood hangout spot.

Nope. Not me. Not defensive at all.

It raised my hackles when people—especially newbies to my life—questioned my ability to make decisions, run my business.

Yes, I’d upgraded to the big-girl roaster because I planned to grow my coffee-roasting business beyond the pink walls. I’d also just made a breathtaking investment in green coffee inventory, now stacked in burlap bags in the corner of the space.

To put coffee cupping on the same fancy level of wine tasting, I’d even found a vintage oak table that spun on its pedestal. Potential retail clients could sit around the table sipping our different signature blends—and clearing their palates with elegant water crackers—before making their choices.

Did I share any of this with Rafe? Uh, again, a big nope. No need for me to get all offended—he was just a short-timer.

Instead, I quipped, “We tried putting her out front, but she was so loud she started all the dogs barking.”

Rafe snorted and left it at that.

Last surprise on the roastery tour was the industrial sink or, really, the mirror above it. Jam-packed up and down, side to side, with my Post-it Notes—not one sliver of mirror showing through.

Those notes were my to-do list, my organization out of chaos, my security that I wouldn’t forget anything.If I kept busy, I’d be okay.

I’d been drowning, and my girl Jen had thrown me the Post-it Notes life preserver. She used them all the time in her business of organizing, downsizing and moving.

Each Post-it featured one “to-do” item—yellow for an errand, orange for a phone call, blue for an email, green for an action, purple for paperwork, and so on. I arranged them in columns, each headed by a topic, all written in black marker.

Like the “Temp Roaster” Post-it that Rafe was staring at right now.

I hadn’t planned for Rafe to see the crazy that was my business life here at the Chocolate Lab…quite yet. Of course, no need for him to catch a glimpse of my crazy at home, where mirrors in the bathrooms, front hall and utility room were crammed with Post-its of my personal “to-dos.”

“Sorry. Here, let me get those out of your way,” I said, pushing past Rafe to reach up and start peeling off the notes. A large, warm hand immediately engulfed—and stilled—my fingers.

“Whoa, Rose, slow down. I don’t need a mirror to powder my nose. Are those things we need to do to get me going and get the roastery running again?”

Wow, three complete sentences in a row.I nodded, momentarily speechless.

Rafe released my hand, and I pulled it back down. Luckily, he stepped back, too, since we were a little too close for my comfort, boss-employee-wise.

We spent twenty-five minutes going over each Post-it Note under “Temp Roaster,” starting with me explaining my color coding. Points to Rafe for being patient with my system, although he did grunt a time or two when I lingered over “to-dos” he likely already knew how to do.

Some we did right away and trashed the notes. Rafe signed his contract and filled out a 1099 tax form as an independent contractor. I walked him through my three-ring binder with recipes for blending different coffee beans for our signature coffees. I showed him how to log into our laptop and find the spreadsheet with the current coffee bean orders for our daily café needs, online sales and any catering jobs.

He cut me off when I tried to show him how to update the spreadsheet. “Already know Excel, Rose—thanks.” We were back to short and sweet.

Other Post-its we left on the mirror for later, at Rafe’s insistence.My biggest need—I’d been too busy to do it—was to set up formulas for calculating how many pounds per coffee bean origin to roast per day to fulfill our orders. Origin being where the beans came from, like Brazil, Ethiopia, Kenya and so on.

Then we could project when it was time to buy more green coffee so we’d always have enough on hand. Enough inventory would be super important when, not if, we snagged the grocery store and hospital accounts.

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