My laptop bag acts as a makeshift umbrella as I scan the street, looking for a place to get a coffee and something to eat.
One of the things I dislike about traveling for work is that it takes me out of my usual daily routine, the routine Jefferson loves to tease me about. For me, without it, the world feels chaotic. Uncontrollable. Going to bed at the same time every night, getting up at the same time every day, going to the gym. The things I do every day of my life help me feel in control, and when life throws a curveball as it often does, I’ve got my structure to keep me sane.
The sooner I establish a routine in Hunter’s Creek, the better.
I spy a sign that reads Second Chance Café. My hope is they serve some decent coffee there, so I pass a stationery shop and a butcher and make my way through the open door of the coffee shop, being careful to shake the water from my laptop bag onto the sidewalk outside.
The aroma of scones, coffee, and cinnamon waft through the air.
I glance around. With its pale green and white paisley wallpaper, white painted wooden seating, exposed brick fireplace with inviting warmth, and large bookcase stuffed to the gills with books, I’m not in the least surprised when the woman behind the counter is north of sixty, with a kindly smile, gray hair in a bun, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses balanced on her nose.
Sappy Hallmark movie, remember? No NYC cool baristas with funky music and achingly hip vibes here.
Seriously, all this place needs is for a cute local girl to bump into me and spill her coffee on my shoes, and we have a classic romantic movie situation on our hands.
And yes, as a guy, I know I shouldn’t know about that kind of thing.
Totally blame Kelly.
Lucky for me, there’s no cute girl with coffee in sight.
I certainly don’t need that kind of distraction while I’m here to do my job. And anyway, the kinds of women who hang out at coffee shops called “Second Chance” in small towns like this are probably not my kind of women.
No offense to the small-town coffee shop-attending women out there.
In fact, the only patrons in the place are a couple a few years younger than me seated at a table in the window, and an older gentleman with a bald head and wire glasses, chatting to the proprietress.
They turn to look at me as I close the door behind me, the entry bell chiming.
I offer them a tight smile, aware that people are generally polite in small towns.
If I want to get along in this town and make my job easier for the next couple months, I need to at least be polite. Getting them to like me would be the next level goal, although experience tells me I shouldn’t hold my breath on that front.
I’m a boring, grumpy ogre, according to some.
The proprietress nods as I approach the counter and smiles at me. “Hello, and welcome,” she says with a cheery smile. “What will you have today?”
She doesn’t wait for my reply.
“We’ve got scones and cakes and muffins if you’re looking for a snack, or meatloaf and burgers and fries, as well as the best pies this side of Seattle. We’ve got cherry and blueberry and apple and my favorite, strawberry rhubarb.”
None of that sounds like a healthy lunch to me.
“Do you do eggs? I’d ideally like an omelet with a side order of steamed vegetables or a green salad.”
The balding man with the wire glasses looks me up and down.
“Only the best omelet this side of Seattle,” the woman replies with a grin and I wonder if this is the only café this side of Seattle. She offers me a menu the size of an antiquated fold-out map, and I scan the list until I land at the omelet section.
“I’ll take the ham and cheese omelet with a side salad, but hold the ham and cheese, please.”
“You want me to hold the ham and cheese from a ham and cheese omelet?” she asks, giving me a look that questions my sanity.
“I certainly do,” I confirm.
“Doesn’t that make it just a plain old egg omelet?” the man beside me asks.
“It does,” I confirm.
The two share a look.
“Sure thing,” the woman replies brightly, the smile she was sporting earlier firmly back in place. “My name is Sheila Cole, by the way. I own this coffeehouse and this is Alfred Whitlow. He’s the lawyer in town.”
“The lawyer? Hunter’s Creek only has one?” I ask.
“That’s right. The one and only,” Alfred replies with obvious pride.
“It’s great to meet you both,” I say.
Sheila watches me in expectation.
“My name is Christopher Young,” I tell her when it becomes obvious what she wants me to say. “You have a nice place here,” I say as I look around. It’s no lie. It’s homey, welcoming, and the kind of place you could while away a Sunday afternoon, chatting with friends or reading one of the books stacked in the bookcase on the far wall. Not that I have time for any of those activities.
One day, perhaps.
“That is so kind of you to say. It’s real nice to meet you, Christopher. Do you want a shake or a coffee to go with that omelet? We do the best milkshakes this side of—”
“Seattle?” I ask.
See? I can be friendly. Take that, Wyatt Smug Jefferson.
“You got it!” she exclaims in excitement, as though I’ve discovered something important, like the existence of gravity. “I take great pride in what I serve our customers here at the Second Chance Café. Don’t I, Alfred.”
“You sure do,” Alfred confirms.
“As your most recent customer, I am very pleased to hear that.”
She breaks into a hearty laugh. “Oh, Christopher, honey, I can tell we’re going to be real good friends.”
She can?
I refocus the conversation. “An espresso, please.”
Sheila snort-laughs, her shoulders bouncing up and down. “Did you hear that, Alfred? Christopher Fancy Suit here wants an espresso.”
She’s mocking me.
“A fancy coffee for a fancy man,” Alfred replies. “I thought I was the fancy one, what with being the only lawyer in town.” He lets out a laugh that ends on a cough.
I sweep my gaze over his subtle check shirt, polyester tie, and tweed jacket. He looks a little more like a TV professor than the lawyers from my office, but this is Hunter’s Creek.
And more to the point, they consider an espresso “fancy” in this town.
I’m definitely not in New York anymore.
“I think you look real handsome, Alfred,” Sheila replies with a wink, which seems to please Alfred to no end. “We have drip coffee and that’s it, honey. You can add cream and sugar or leave it black. It’s totally up to you.” She gestures at a coffee pot behind her.
“I guess I’ll have a black coffee then, please, as strong as you can make it.”
“Great choice.”
As far as coffee is concerned, it seems it was the only choice.
“Where are you from, Christopher?” Sheila asks.
“New York City,” I tell her.
“New York City, huh? What do you think of that, Alfred?”
“I think it’s mighty interesting. Mighty interesting indeed,” he replies. “It makes me wonder what a guy from all the way over there is doing all the way over here in Hunter’s Creek?”