Page 5 of Of Literature and Lattes
George didn’t shrug from the touch or snap back. Instead he gave an almost imperceptible sigh and looked up to the chalk menu board.
Jeremy tapped Ryan’s shoulder to bring his attention to their conversation. “While Ryan takes your order, let me go save the two armchairs by the fire for you. I’ll put magazines in them so you’ll know.”
George’s friend nodded thanks. George stared straight ahead.
The Daily Brew. Jeremy chewed on the name and the comment as he crossed the room. He had never considered the name in that light, or given it any thought at all. He’d only seen what the space could become, not what it was...
What it was was a mess, he reminded himself. It was, to use an expression favored by one foster mom, “used hard and hung up wet.” It was a worn linoleum floor, mismatched chairs, antique espresso machines that produced one good shot in three, and over a hundred shabby pillows strewn over every horizontal surface. And the smell—a mixture of lard, dust, burnt coffee, and Pledge.
Jeremy grabbed two of his precisely positioned cutting-edge magazines,CerealandMood, and dropped them into the chairs. Even these early days of June held a morning chill. He turned the knob on the fire to raise the blue flames another inch.
Without willing it, his gaze then landed on Ryan, who stood pulling shots from the temperamental espresso machines. He had been the one to voice caution. “Let’s get to know the town first, settle in. We should renovate after we understand the feel of it all and build up more capital.”
It was thewethat had chafed from the get-go. Ryan wasn’t a part owner, he was an employee. Ryan hadn’t imagined this shop or the ideal life that came with the dream since he was fifteen years old. Heck, Ryan had spent from fifteen to twenty-five in a drug-induced haze and was only just clear of that. Sure, he’d moved to Winsome from Seattle to help Jeremy out, but he’d needed a new start just as much as Jeremy had needed the help.
Jeremy checked himself. Stress was making him unfair, ungenerous, and just plain wrong. When Ryan had walked through the doors of Seattle Roasters two years ago, days after his release from a six-month residential program, he’d laid out his full story with hesitancy, yes, but with courage and honesty too. At that moment, sealed with a firm handshake across a counter, Jeremy had sensed that the younger man had character and would keep his word. Not only that, he’d given up a lot to follow Jeremy across the country.
But no one likes to be wrong...
Jeremy thought back to the day they’d both walked into the shop for the first time. He’d already agreed to the sale, but had not actually seen it or his new hometown. His eyes widened when he saw Winsome. He hadn’t expected the town, sitting just north of Chicago, to feel so small, even insular. As for the shop, his jaw dropped. He hated every threadbare inch of it. It was everything he wanted to leave behind, and nothing he ever wanted to come home to.
Ryan, however, had walked into the Daily Brew, dropped onto that same brown couch George mentioned and grieved, bounced on its squeaky springs, and declared, “This is it, man. It’s perfect.”
It chafed that his assistant might have been right after all, had known something instinctively that Jeremy failed to recognize.
“Jeremy?”
He shook himself into the present. Janet Harrison, one of the women from the bookshop three stores down, had materialized in front of him. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“I called your name twice.” She laughed. “You were daydreaming.” She shifted her gaze from him to the fireplace, then across the walls and back to the counter. “Stay awake today. This is really something.”
Jeremy pressed his lips together to savor her compliment and the note of wonder in her voice. That’s it, he thought. “It is, isn’t it? It cost a lot, but don’t you think it’ll be a hit?” He pressed his lips tight again, this time to keep himself from saying more. He hoped she hadn’t heard that last lift of eagerness, that plea for approval, in his voice. He cleared his throat, dropping his voice at least five notes. “I mean, all the elements are in place.”
“I feel like I’m in Streeterville or Bucktown, someplace far more hip than Winsome.”
“The coffee is as good too.” Jeremy glanced to the counter and landed on the two ancient machines. “Or it soon will be. I’ve got a replacement for those two on the way. But even until then, you won’t find a better cup.”
“I should go try it out then. Congratulations.”
He stepped in front of her. “Janet... can you tell me who the older man in the blue windbreaker is? The one waiting at the side counter?”
Janet leaned around him and narrowed her eyes to focus. “George Williams? You haven’t met him? You’ll love him. He’s got like six kids, some still live in town, and he used to be mayor back in the eighties. He’s standing with David Drummond, who helps us out at the bookshop.” She tugged at his elbow. “Come meet them both.”
Jeremy lifted a hand. “Not right now. Let me get your coffees. The usuals?”
“You remember?”
“We weren’t closed that long. Three lattes. One coconut milk, one almond, and one regular.”
“Please.” Janet smiled.
Jeremy circled the counter and moved to the second espresso machine. From the corner of his eye he watched George and David collect their drinks, vacillate a minute, then head to the two chairs. He sighed, sure that given another second they’d have left Andante—for good.
Ryan turned from the machine next to him and offered a cappuccino to a waiting customer.
Even with so few customers, he needed more help. The old machines took too long, and customers stood unattended. He needed to hire someone else... He had to check the tables... He hadn’t thought about the need to constantly wipe them down, clear them during the morning rush... And what about—
Jeremy pulled the basket from the grinder and felt his breath synchronize with his actions. The cacophony within his mind calmed. This was what worked. No matter where, when, or what was imploding in or around his life, he understood this movement and this rhythm—the science, and the art, behind a perfect shot. The rest would work itself out.
