It means more hours, but I don’t mind in the slightest, and my preference is to work later rather than coming in earlier. I’ve always been a night owl by nature.
I’ve come to deeply love this place in the past six years, and I have a very personal stake in it now. Its success is important to me, just as Rich has become important to me over the years.
It’s been eleven years since my father died, and he can never be replaced in my heart. But Rich has managed to settle himself into a small corner of mine. In addition to the respect I have for him as my employer, I’ve come to love the man since I started working for him.
My day here is almost over and I want to say goodbye, so I go to Rich’s office. After giving a short rap of my knuckles on the door casing, I walk in without waiting for his bidding.
Rich Cardello would never be considered a handsome man. He has a heavily wrinkled face, bulbous nose, and receding hairline. He’s a big man, but his barrel chest is starting to migrate a little south.
Still, he’s not an ugly man. He has this charisma about him—an energetic charm—that makes people take a second look. With his warm brown eyes, genuine smile, and mellow laugh, he makes people feel like they’ve known him forever.
He lifts his head, his smile welcoming. “Getting ready to head out?”
Nodding, I lean against the doorjamb, glancing at the receipts he’s going through. “You didn’t have to come in to do that. I was going to come in early tomorrow to finish it up.”
Rich waves an impatient hand, scoffing as his attention goes back down to the stack of papers before him. “Nonsense. You work too hard as it is.”
As I worked my way up the ranks of One Bean over the years, Rich entrusted me with more of the high-level stuff. He taught me how to balance the books, handle payroll, and manage people. I learned inventory, how to negotiate with vendors, and even took trips with him to trade shows where we’d sample roasted arabica for our regular brews and robust for our espressos, choosing new brands to showcase.
As Rich taught me more about the coffee shop business, he started to spend more time away. It was gradual and at first, I didn’t notice it. One day, though, I realized he hadn’t come in for almost a solid week. I had a minor freak out, thought the worst—that he was dying—and showed up at his house, banging on the door to demand answers.
He’d laughed, a big and boisterous sound from deep within that burgeoning belly, and told me he was in fine health but was just enjoying what he called “the Finley Porter early retirement program”. He’d sat me down in his living room, explaining I was doing such a great job of running the business that he was enjoying the time off.
“Hell,” he said with a big cheesy grin. “I’ve actually developed a hobby. Woodworking.”
That afternoon, I spent an hour at Rich’s house while he showed me the new woodshop he set up in the garage and several pieces of furniture he’d made. It was good stuff—not like what my dad used to make—and I was quite impressed. The important thing was that he was fine and healthy, and he valued what I was doing for him.
It was then I’d known I was on some sort of path that may have been fated. I’d realized I really loved doing what I was doing. I had found my passion.
“You should get going,” Rich says, pointedly looking at the wall clock. It’s four-thirty. “You know Fallon won’t be happy if you’re late.”
Sighing, I push off the doorjamb and move into his office. It’s cluttered and disorganized, but it’s always been that way. The one time I tried to clean up, he scolded me for messing with his system. Since then, I’ve left things alone.
Flopping down in the only chair across from his desk, I stare longingly at the work he’s doing. “I have plenty of time to get over there. It’s just I’d rather be here going through receipts than at a fancy art showing.”
Rich chuckles. “You and me… like peas in a pod. I never did like fancy stuff either.” His eyes turn a bit misty with memory. “But my Joyce did. She loved to get dressed up and hit the town at night. I indulged her always, of course.”
I smile, my gaze dropping to my lap as he reminisces. His wife Joyce died almost fifteen years ago, and I’ve heard so many stories about her that I feel as if I know her. When he talks about her, the love in his voice sometimes makes my heart hurt. It’s the painful squeeze of loss I feel when I think about my father, which has never lessened over time. I’ve merely learned to accept it.
“Listen,” he says, getting up from the chair. My head snaps up, and I watch as he moves over to close his office door. “Seeing as how you have a few minutes I want to run something by you.”
I sit up straighter in the chair because he sounds businesslike, and I want him to see I can be professional, too. “Sure. What’s up?”
Rich settles his frame deeper into the chair, which groans slightly from the weight. His hands settle onto the plastic armrests, and he drums his fingers while staring at me appraisingly. “You know I’ve come to rely heavily on you to run this business, right?”
Yes, I do. Rich praises me often, validates my skills, and pays me pretty damn well for a manager of a coffee shop, although it’s not enough to retire on. “I love what I do, Rich.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, something in his face relaxing. “Which is why I want to make you an offer.”
I tip my head to the side. “An offer?”
“I’d like to sell One Bean to you,” he says.
I merely gape, eyes slightly flared, left eyebrow arched a fraction higher than the right.
He stares back at me.
I burst out laughing. “Sell the shop to me? Rich… are you going daft or something?”
I get no laugh in return. His kind eyes don’t even crinkle. He holds my gaze until I start to feel hot in the face and neck, and I realize I’ve misjudged this.
My smile slides off my face. “Are you serious?”
Rich sighs, rubbing a hand covered in age spots across the nape of his neck. It’s a sign of annoyance that I’m not taking him at face value, and he just gazes at me from under bushy graying eyebrows.
“Are you sick?” I demand, leaning forward in my chair. My voice turns shrill. “Dying?”
“No,” he declares with enough force and zeal that I instantly believe him. “Of course not.”
Putting my hand to my heart, I slump down in the chair. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, Rich.”
“Wasn’t my intention,” he mutters. “I get I’m dropping a bomb on you, but the offer is real if you’re interested.
Pulse back to normal, I perk up, straightening in my seat. “Why do you want to sell?”
“My son needs the money,” he replies.
“Richie?” I ask curiously. That’s his oldest, his namesake, and the one who can’t seem to keep himself out of trouble.
Rich shakes his head. “Daniel needs it. He’s going to go into marijuana production.”
A feather could knock me over at this news. Daniel is Rich’s other son, younger than Richie by three years, but a million times more mature, responsible, and successful. He’s a freaking CPA with his own firm.
“Marijuana production?” I can’t wrap my head around strait-laced Daniel doing this.