Page 9 of Pictures in Blue
“Flip me around, I want to see! I need to take my mind off work stuff and live vicariously through you.”
I flip the screen again and scan my surroundings with her. The shop is filled with chatter of nearby customers, some sitting and reading with half full cups of coffee or half eaten pastries in front of them. A few people are sitting by themselves with their laptops on and headphones in to block out their surroundings. The display case in front of me is filled with an assortment of pastries, muffins, pies, cookies, a few cakes, and some scattered cupcakes. I think I found my new favorite place.
An older woman behind the counter greets me with a warm smile. Her silver hair is tied up into a knot on top of her head reminding me of Dame Maggie Smith inDownton Abbey. She adjusts her glasses, a simple gold chain hanging from the frames that snakes around her neck. A crocheted shawl that looks to be handmade, probably by her, hangs loosely around her shoulders with a floral-patterned button-up underneath.
“How can I help you, dear?” she asks in a voice smooth as butter.
“Do you have peppermint lattes?”
“It’s actually one of the things this little shop is famous for. That and our blueberry scones. And my cinnamon bread.”
I give her a genuine smile. One that hasn’t been present on my face in a long time. Most of my smiles are there to just get me through the day.
“I’ll take a peppermint latte for now with an extra shot of espresso and skim milk if you have it, please. Maybe I’ll come back for some cinnamon bread tomorrow.”
“I’ll add it to my list to make later and set it aside for you, honey.”
Stunned by her kindness, I look up from my wallet where I am fishing out some cash I stuffed in there before I left my place and give her the warmest smile I have ever given anyone.
“That’s so sweet of you—”
“Fran,” she says.
“Fran. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Avery. I’m visiting for a few weeks. Staying at the inn a few blocks down.”
“Cordie is my roommate, so I kind of already knew who you were before you came in here. I didn’t want to scare you off though. I’m glad you came in so I could see what you looked like. ‘Stunning’ is how Cordie described you and I’d have to say I agree.”
I hear Charlotte let out a whistle, cat-calling me from the phone.
Before I can thank her or say anything for that matter, she gets to work making my drink. It seems all second nature to her. Pouring the syrup in one of those metal cups I see baristas use all the time. Pulling the shot, except hers is an automatic and all she has to do is press a button and let the espresso trickle down into the cup. While she waits for the shots to finish, she pours the milk into the cup not bothering to look at the measurements like she’s done it a million times before and can tell how much milk she pours from the weight of the cup alone. Once the milk is steamed, she pours that into a paper cup wrapped in a sleeve with the sign on the front pictured, and adds the espresso on top, careful to not disrupt the foam too much.
“Thank you,” I say as I place the money I grabbed on the counter, but she waves it off with a wrinkled hand.
“It’s on the house, sweetheart. First time customer and new to town. Enjoy.”
Sweetheart.The third endearment since I’ve walked in. It’s been a long time since anyone has called me anything other than my name. I like it, I decide. I likeher.
Fran embodies everything a grandmother should be. Warm smiles, long hugs and by the looks of the pastries and other baked goods in the display case, baking skills that would give Paul Hollywood from theGreat British Bake Offgood competition. I instantly feel better in her presence, her warm glow infectious, invading my senses like the smell of fresh apple pie right out of the oven.
“Well, she’s the cutest. Can you ask her to adopt me, please?” Charlotte says.
I take a sip of my latte… nope. I don’t like Fran. I love her. This coffee is the best thing I have ever tasted. Angels have broken out into the hallelujah chorus. I used to worship the coffee gods, but now I worship Fran. She’s secretly a coffee goddess sent down to create the one thing that keeps the world going. Grandmotherly love and the world’s best latte.
I go to take another sip, completely lost in my new obsession with Fran when a man stands up from where he must have been crouching behind the counter. The coffee cup stalls halfway to my lips.
Grease coats his palms, and he repositions the other espresso machine next to the one Fran used to make my latte. “There yah go, Fran,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag hanging from his back pocket.
A red flannel covers his broad shoulders and I find myself wondering what muscles it hides underneath. Strands of dark hair fall from the bun perched on top of his head and into his eyes. He casually brushes it back with his hand, leaving a single smudge of grease behind on his forehead.
“Thank you, Hudson. These frail bones can’t fix much anymore. Especially when I have to move it like that. I can never get the damn thing working.”
“No worries,” he responds. “That’ll at least hold it over until Elias gets back in town.”
“God willing,” she muses. She bends down and grabs a scone out of the display case and hands it to him. “For your trouble.”
“Ah, Fran, you know the way to my heart,” he places a kiss on her cheek, and I suddenly wish I was Fran. Are his lips as soft as they look? Does his short beard feel scruffy? How long is his hair when it’s down? What would it look like with my fingers tangled in it? A soft laugh escapes Fran’s lips.
“And your stomach. Is there anything else I can get you, darlin’?”
