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.
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 read See Attendant because it was 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.