Page 6 of Of Literature and Lattes
He counted the seconds as the shot pulled. Too few. He huffed. The beans were fresh, the tamp felt firm but not tight, yet the machine pulled forty-four grams in twenty-five seconds. While some baristas believed in a one gram to one second ratio, Jeremy was a devotee of forty grams to twenty-five seconds. It produced, in his mind, an optimally balanced shot. A slow pull goes bitter. A fast one sours. Most palates couldn’t taste a four-gram deviation from ideal, but Jeremy refused to serve it. He sank the shot, tapping it out into the knock box, and began again.
Three drinks in hand, Jeremy circled the counter to find Janet. “Sorry. Perfection took a little time this morning.”
“No worries.” Janet stood scrolling through pictures on her phone. “Look how cute she is.” She tilted the phone to Jeremy and sped through well over twenty pictures of her granddaughter dressed in varying shades of pink.
“Krista used to do that too—dress our daughter in so much pink she looked more like a puff of cotton candy than a kid. She basically grew up, in pink, on Instagram.”
“This one will too. My daughter-in-law set up a dedicated account for Rosie.” She pressed the phone to her chest. “She’s pretty perfect, isn’t she?”
Jeremy banked his chuckle too late. “Absolutely.”
Janet snatched the carrying tray of coffees from him, laughing at herself now. “I’m fully aware I’ve become a total cliché.”
“You could pick worse clichés.”
“So true.” Janet rolled her eyes. “Doting grandmother is an upgrade from bitter divorcée.”
“Always.”
Janet left with a wave and Jeremy followed her departure with a lingering smile. He’d heard rumors about her. Something about that bitter divorcée she spoke of and a wicked temper to go with it, though he’d never witnessed it. From what he’d also heard, he had arrived a month too late and might not ever meet that Janet. Something had happened in February to turn the lion to a lamb.
All Jeremy could say for certain was that from day one she’d supported his shop and welcomed him to Winsome. And today she’d given him his first congratulations and had been the only person to show genuine enthusiasm for Andante.
Turning back into the store, he noted the line had grown a few customers longer. It wasn’t the grand party he had expected, but it wasn’t nothing. And a steady stream of customers kept filing in. Some clearly pleased. Some discomfited. But customers nonetheless.
He glanced around the shop and considered every aspect of his venture. This could work. He knew coffee, he knew what he wanted, and he knew the way forward.
It would just take a little time.
Chapter 3
“This card’s been refused. Do you have another?”
Alyssa thought the pump’s screen readSee Attendantbecauseitwas faulty—not because she was. Her eyes stung and she blinked, unsure if it was actually tears or exhaustion. She suspected exhaustion, as Wyoming and Nebraska had absorbed all the tears.
She dug in her wallet and flipped past her Saks Fifth Avenue card, a priority black card for Marriott, and her platinum XGC American Express. A derisive chuckle escaped. No need, or money, for any of those anymore. She pulled out an old Capital One Visa—the first card she got when she left home for college.
Back to the beginning. Thirteen years later.
“Try this one.”
The gas attendant swiped it. “Forty on pump three?”
Alyssa shook her head. “Better make it twenty.”
He raised a brow but didn’t comment, only offering a “Have a nice day” as he passed back the card.
She nodded and turned away, sure the tears were about to start. Again.
After filling the tank with twenty dollars, Alyssa dropped into her car and tossed her purse onto the passenger seat. The police report crinkled under the pressure.
It was hour forty and she was wrecked.
Hour one had been consumed with recriminations. How did I not see? Was I stupid? Gullible? Greedy?
She had asked herself the same questions every interviewer either asked or implied and, in doing so over six months, could admit to a few answers. She recognized that, at the start, she’d been runningfromsomething rather than running toward—and hadn’t asked nearly enough questions or done a fraction of the due diligence she should have. She groaned at how cliché that answer sounded. Blame someone else. But she knew exactly who, and that was another problem.
There was no way to avoid her mom in Winsome.
