The Perfect Blend (17 page)

Ain't that always the way?

I
didn't bounce back right away.

I didn't expect to, but it still seemed to surprise a few people. It's not like I wanted to crawl inside a gallon of chocolate sauce and be alone with my misery, but I wasn't really in a social kind of mood. Will and I took a few long walks, but mostly I kept to myself, prayed and filled half a journal trying to figure out what to make of the whole thing.

I quit Carter's, too. Without a new job lined up.

My manager looked utterly shocked. I can't even remember the reason I made up for leaving. Why did I really leave? Good question. There seem to be a dozen answers. It hurt, actually, to be slinging someone else's coffee when it didn't feel like a stepping stone on the way to slinging my own. And
I knew, somehow, that I'd learned all I could from that place.

So I took a few weeks off. Spent time with my family. Made lots of hot chocolate for Charlie and helped his family paint a room for the new baby. It was nice being around all that newness and possibility when it felt like so many doors were shutting tight for me.

I don't know how to wait. I don't even know if I'm supposed to be waiting. I know who I was before Higher Grounds, but I can't go back to being her. And I can't have Higher Grounds—at least not yet.

So who am I in between?

 

“I thought I'd find you here,” Will comes scrambling up the path to where I'm sitting on the back of the Fremont troll's concrete VW Beetle. I've spent quite a few afternoons with the troll lately. I feel an odd solidarity with him, stuck here in his concrete corner with his concrete car, waiting for a second car that will never come his way. All the cars are far above his head, far out of his reach. And yet, he's right where trolls ought to be—under a bridge. That's how I feel: right where I ought to be, but with what I really want far out of my reach.

Will hoists himself up beside me, sliding off his tie and kissing the top of my head. “Come up with anything yet?” You guessed it, Will's given me the assignment of making a list of what I'd like to do now. It's not working any better than the other lists he had me do.

“I just keep coming up with
wait.
And I hate waiting. I don't want to wait. I can't afford to wait long. Nancy Chang's flower shop is looking pretty good right now if she'll take me back.” I show him my decidedly blank journal page.

“Would you go back?”

“I don't think I can go back. It was easy to work there when I didn't know what I wanted to do with myself. Now, it just feels like a substitute. But so would Carter's.” I heave a sigh. “So would anything. Anything that isn't Higher Grounds isn't anything.”

Will smirks. “And I always read being in love made people more optimistic. Well, looks like I picked the right day for my present to you.” He pulls an envelope out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me. “Actually it's not much of a present. Or it's a present to both of us.” He groans, “I still make no sense around you. But here you are anyway. I think you'll like it. It's your doing.”

I have no idea what to expect. I open the envelope to find a bill. A telephone bill, to be exact. Someone needs to work on his gift-giving skills. Bills I have enough of—I'm unemployed, remember? There's one international call, highlighted in yellow. It's a forty-seven minute call to Italy from Will's apartment. Calling to see if they'll hire me as the spokes-model for La Marzocco espresso machines, maybe? Who says I've lost my optimism?

“That,” Will says, pointing to the highlighted item, “is a phone call to none other than William Grey Jr.”

It takes me a moment to catch his meaning. When I do, Will smiles a shaky, almost impish grin. “Will,” I say softly, “you spoke to your dad?”

“For forty-seven whole minutes.”

I'm stunned. He's right on two counts: 1) it's an odd present and 2) I like it very much. “What did you say to him?”

Will pulls one knee up and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I told him,” he says softly, laying his head on top of mine, “that I met someone. That I'm in love with her and that part of the reason I love her is the great big dreams she has. I told him you would probably like each other very much and that I would call him again sometime soon.”

I twist around to catch his eye. “It took you forty-seven minutes to say all that?”

“We are British. Not very direct, you know.”

I kiss his hand and settle further into his embrace. “How do you feel? About it and all?”

Will thinks for a moment. “Odd. A bit sad, a bit hopeful, a bit of everything. But better all the same. It's like the rose thorns I used to prick myself on in Mom's garden. It hurts a bit, but the thorn's gone.” He laughs softly, “When did I start talking like you? Silly metaphors and all?”

“Whazza matter, sunshine?” I say, adopting Art's cockney with less-than-perfect results. “You in love or somethin'?”

“Very much so,” Will says, pulling me closer. “Very much so.”

 

Mom, Dad and I are okay. It was awkward there for a week or two, but they did what they always have done; they kept on loving me until it worked itself out. But some things are different now. Mom keeps trying to get Will to eat more—that's entertaining. And Charlie keeps making Will say
ginger hair
and read his Dr. Seuss books—
Green Eggs and Ham
is hilariously ironic with a British accent.

One benefit to quitting Carter's—besides not having four loads of white laundry every week—is not seeing so much of Nate. I get enough gooey happiness from Diane. And now the two are head-over-heels about each other. Granted, Diane falls in love faster than soldiers fall in line, but this time it looks like it might stick. I'm happy for her. It's a sickening, oh-will-you-two-cut-it-out sort of happy, but I'm happy for her just the same. I did ask God to send her a boyfriend pronto, after all.

Tonight's the night we all knew was inevitable: the double date. Actually, I'm amazed it hasn't happened until now. Will and I are meeting Diane and Nate for dinner.

It sounded like a good idea at the time, but I'm regretting it already. They're awfully lovey-dovey—as Will puts it—and I'm feeling stuck in sulk-mode today.

“It won't be all that bad,” Will consoles me as we get out of his car. “You'll enjoy yourself.”

I look down the street to see Diane and Nate running—actually running—down the street hand
in hand. Looking nearly giddy. “Yikes,” I mutter. Oh, this was a bad idea, even if she is my best friend.

“Nonsense,” Will says, attempting a wave. “They're cute in a sugary, excessive kind of way.” He's trying very hard to put a good spin on things. “It'll be lovely, really.” Now even Will sounds unconvinced.

He should be. If you could see the wall of supreme joy barreling down Broadway at us this very moment, you might have the same urge to run for your life I'm currently stifling. They just came from Nate's Bible study, for crying out loud, no one should be that bubbly.

Diane skids to a halt in front of us, her eyes wide. She makes a quick, breathless set of introductions between Will and Nate, who shake hands even though they've already met twice. “Mags,” she says, taking my shoulders, “you have to come with us. Now.”

“What?”

“Now. You have to come with me, with us.”

“Where?”

“Nate's Bible study is just over and if you don't hurry he'll be gone. Just come, we'll explain it all when we get there.” With that, the two lovebirds grab hands and start back up the block the way they came.

Will looks at me. I look at Will. Suddenly, Diane doubles back and yanks my hand. “I mean NOW!”

Broadway's a pretty creative street. You'll likely see all kinds of things walking down the block. But
two pairs of grown adults sprinting? That's gotta draw stares.

Nate and Diane push through the doors of a church, pulling us through a maze of corridors to a pretty little study where the aforementioned Bible study seems to be just breaking up.

“Dawson! You're still here! Excellent.” Nate pulls a snazzy looking older gentleman to his feet, planting him in front of Will and me.

“Maggie Black, this is Dawson Bentley.” Nate says it like I should know the name. It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't quite place it. Nor can I imagine why it is so urgent I make his acquaintance.

“Pleased to meet you Maggie,” Dawson says, his voice dripping in a broad southern drawl. “Nate here's been goin' on about you.”

“Good, I hope?” I say, staring at Nate, who's currently doubled over in an attempt to catch his breath.

“Mighty fine.”

Diane chimes in, looking like she's about to burst. “Dawson owns the Bent's Brew coffeehouse in Queen Anne, Maggie.”

Now I know why the name seemed familiar. It's a very nice coffee joint. But I'm really not in the market for mentors right now.

“More importantly,” Nate gasps, straightening up, “Dawson just told us that he's thinking of selling the place. He's retiring.”

“I'm done with retail for now. Gonna go spend
some time in China doing mission work with my two nephews. Ain't got no kids of my own and neither one of those two rascals seems interested in brewin' coffee for a living.”

Things just got interesting. Wouldn't you agree?

“Maggie, would you believe Dawson was just sitting here offering up a prayer request for the right person to come and take over his shop?”

Okay, things just got really,
really
interesting.

“Let me rephrase that—the right Christian person? One who would turn that location into a Christian coffeehouse?”

My pulse has halted. I feel Will grab my hand.

“This town needs another java joint like it needs a hole in the head. What it don't have, near as I can tell, is a coffee place with
soul.
With faith. Nate here tells me you've got it in your head to pull something like that off.”

I open my mouth, but don't seem to be able to string any words together.

“Indeed she does,” Will pipes in with his banker voice suddenly on. “I've read her five-year business plan. But, well, financing has been…an issue.”

“Ain't that always the way. Which is why I was just mentioning how I'd be willing to turn the place over on a lease-to-own basis. To the right person with the right plan, of course.”

Nate grins.

Diane beams.

I pounce. “Oh, I've got plans all right.”

“They're sound,” Will adds.

“If you can scrape together enough of a down payment, little lady, I might even be interested in offerin' private financing myself. Kids are expensive enterprises, so not havin' 'em makes it easy to set aside a little cash over the years.”

Now would be a very poor time to faint. Breathing, however, is becoming a bit of a challenge. Nate and Diane have just become the most adorable couple on the planet. Will's eyes are saucers and his hand is so tight on mine I think it's the only thing holding me upright.

Will clears his throat. “Just out of curiosity, Mr. Bentley, what type of espresso machines are in the shop?”

“La Marzoccos, young man. I believe in having the best equipment you can get your hands on. Got two of 'em, as a matter of fact—one for the drive-through and one for the counter business.”

“Their own advertisement, those machines are,” Will says, smirking at me.

“Hey, you know your stuff, mister.”

I put out my hand, feeling like I am reaching into my future. “Mr. Bentley, are you free for dinner?”

Three little words

“I
love you” are the three most precious words in the English language. On either side of the Atlantic.

“Open for business,” however, come in a very close second.

I can hardly believe I'm standing behind my coffee counter, running my machines, brewing up my coffee.

In my shop.

It's been six weeks and I haven't stopped grinning yet. I may never stop grinning. There isn't a joy more complete in the entire world than doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing, in exactly the right place with exactly the right people. I feel God smiling down on me every minute of every day.

Cathy and the new baby come in every Tuesday for story hour. You haven't lived until you've heard
Nate read
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
. Yep, I hired Nate. I think some of the moms may come in just to hear his accent, but you'll never hear me admit that out loud.

We hosted a fundraiser for our church clothing ministry the other night, put on by the women's Bible study that meets here Thursday evenings. My brother's band didn't do too badly with the music. They might make it after all, even though Mom says she can't understand a word they're singing.

The back sink broke last week, but it wasn't enough to throw off my repair and maintenance budget for the quarter. I can almost do my own computerized bookkeeping without Will looking over my shoulder now.

Remember Bea Haversham? Grandma Biscuits from Will's office? She came in shortly after we opened. We had a delightful lunch together while we planned a retirement brunch for someone at the bank. They've never done it off-site before, but Bea is one persuasive lady when she sets her mind to something. I think she takes personal credit for Will and I—and I can't say I really mind. You could do a lot worse than having Bea Haversham in your corner.

We had a class reunion of sorts here two weeks ago and Will was practically bragging about my cash-flow projections to Josh, Jerry, Linda and all the people from entrepreneur school. Well, at least I think he was bragging. It's hard to tell under all that adorable British reserve.

 

Speaking of British reserve, I forgot to mention the secret specialty of the house: the Limey Latte.

Don't get your hopes up—it's an ordinary cup of Earl Grey tea. Done to perfection, of course.

Will comes in for one every day on his way to work.