Of Literature and Lattes, page 4
“The message didn’t say anything, just that they can interview me out of the Chicago office. They have all my emails. Heck, they have every keystroke ever made at XGC, so they have to know I knew nothing . . . But what if I really am to blame?”
“You’re not to blame.”
“You don’t know that. I don’t know that. Because no one will tell me anything. Even my lawyer doesn’t know what they’re up to . . . Do you know they’ve interviewed every other department? He told me that. Even members of my team. But not me. Nothing. Silence.”
“It might be clear you’re innocent.”
“But I’m not . . . My team created that code, made those predictive algorithms. If someone got told they were headed toward ALS, it’s because we told them so. Then all that data was sold. Did you hear that? That’s what they’re saying. Fox News and CNN reported it, and if they both agree, it must be true. Who knows what kind of marketing these people have gotten. Can you imagine? Your most horrid fears showing up as ads in the sidebars of your Google searches? I’m going—” Alyssa couldn’t pull in air. It felt as if her heart was thumping up and out of her chest and closing off her windpipe.
“Enough.” Seth leaned over and clamped a hand on her knee. His grip was so tight she gasped as the pain shifted her attention. He released her knee and sat back again. “My college soccer coach used to do that. Worked every time.”
“Oddly it does.” She rubbed her knee.
“Sweetheart.” He waited until she met his eyes. “Looking to the past, especially when you don’t know the whole story, won’t get you anywhere. Take it from me—and I don’t mean just about work. I mean life. You’ll make assumptions.”
He paused so long Alyssa sensed he was talking about more than XGC.
“You will make mistakes,” he continued without prompting. “Focus on here and now, and your next first step. Only that . . . And I’m glad you’re home.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Alyssa felt her pulse slow. She knew he was trying to encourage her, and no matter how hopeless it all felt, she appreciated it. But she also feared he was skirting close to talking about her mom. She didn’t want to—no, she couldn’t—go there, not today.
She looked around her dad’s small apartment, the most visible and tangible reminder of their divorce. While it wasn’t what she imagined for him, it did look like him. She envied the cozy, comfortable space he’d created for himself. Fly fishing photos from his trip to South America displayed on his bookshelves, Cubs tickets pinned to the small bulletin board outside his kitchen, the pillow she’d made for him in eighth-grade home economics class tucked behind him into the corner of his one armchair.
She looked toward the outer wall. Two French doors opened onto a tiny balcony. The eighteen inches didn’t even allow for a chair, but double doors gave the room a sense of space and filled it with clear morning light. It was an apartment she could envision for herself. She could rest here.
The realization that she could, in fact, rest instantly heightened her exhaustion. Her stomach started a slow burn, but she couldn’t bring herself to cross the living room for her handbag and Tums by the front door.
“Can I crash in your spare room while I find a job and build up some savings? I’ll be gone by Labor Day. I’m giving myself the summer to get a cushion under me. I’ll work anywhere. Maybe Lexi will let me wait tables at Mirabella.”
She mustered up bright expectation and was a little confused by his steady stare back.
Then it came . . .
“You can’t stay here.”
Four words and nothing more.
Alyssa blinked. Her dad now held her gaze—without blinking. She felt her mouth drop open, but no words came.
He leaned forward and tapped her knee. This time it was gentle. It was the kind of tap you give a five-year-old soccer player rather than one falling apart on the field in college. “It’s not that I don’t want to help, Alyssa, but it’s not what’s best. I have only that pullout chair in the other room and . . . You need to stay with Mom. She’s got that whole house and . . . That’s it. You need to stay at home.”
Alyssa smashed the heels of both hands into her eyes. If she rubbed hard enough, maybe the exhaustion, the conversation, or best yet, both, would disappear. When the stars dimmed in her dark blue inside-eyelid sky, she opened them. “It’s true then, isn’t it? Chase said you two are dating.”
Seth’s ears tipped red. “I never thought my children would gossip about my love life, but yes, and if you had been willing to talk about it, I’d have told you directly.”
“Mom tried.”
“You talked to your mother?” Seth’s voice lifted in approval.
Alyssa bit her lip and shook her head. “She left a couple messages.”
“I see. Then this will be good for you both.”
“How is this happening? She cheated on you. You divorced her. How can you just forget that?” Alyssa pressed her lips shut. She sounded like that five-year-old.
Seth moved his head in a slow nod. “While true, that’s too simplistic. Don’t make her the bad guy and let me off the hook. And I haven’t forgotten. I’ve forgiven her and she me.”
“What’d she have to forgive you for? You weren’t the one playing Hide the Paintbrush with the art teacher.” Alyssa gasped. Sharp, snarky comments usually resided in her head. If there was one thing her mom had drilled in deep, it was to never let them out, to never give less than a perfect impression of herself.
And besides all that—had she really just said that? To her dad? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. That was horrible.” She held up her hand, fully expecting her dad to deliver a well-deserved lecture on rudeness and respect to his thirty-one-year-old daughter.
Instead he chuckled. “I can see you and Mom are going to have a wonderful time together.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Seth stood, and that was lecture enough. Alyssa knew the conversation was over.
She looked up at him. “Can I have a day? Can you let me crash here, then I’ll head home tomorrow morning?” She offered a shaky smile. “Sometimes we don’t say things the right way when we’re tired, and Mom and me, we’re not . . .”
He raised a brow.
“Again, I am sorry I said that, Dad. I promise I will go tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Seth sighed and moved toward his front door. “Before you sleep, let’s get your bags inside and make up that pullout.”
“I’ve only got my purse . . . Everything else got stolen on the way back here.”
He turned around. “You have had it rough.”
Alyssa managed a weak nod. Anything more would have brought the tears again and the only four words she wanted to say.
Don’t make me go.
Chapter 5
Andante eased into an afternoon lull at one thirty. The morning wasn’t as busy as Jeremy had hoped, but it wasn’t dangerously quiet either. He consoled himself with the thought that Winsome was a slow burn kind of town and that any grand opening might naturally take on a more adagietto pace, and certainly never an allegro. It would all be okay . . . He was only a week in. There was no need to panic. More than that, he could make it great.
With that pep talk, he looked to the counter where his new hire, Brendon, stood chatting with a customer. Perhaps he was taking a little long, considering a few more waited to order, but wasn’t that what Jeremy wanted? An employee who knew the town? Brendon flicked his head, and his long bangs swept out of his eyes. Tall, clean-cut, and captain of the high school lacrosse team, he possessed an easy charm and confidence—and a hair flip—Jeremy envied.
Ryan had resisted hiring Brendon, but that felt like nothing new. Lately everything Jeremy suggested, Ryan protested.
“We don’t need more help. Give me more hours, more responsibility; I can handle it.”
“Forget it. There’s a lot riding on this, and I’m already working fourteen-hour days.”
“But I’m not.”
Jeremy turned away. He had not wanted to point out that Ryan cost twice what a high school kid cost and that he didn’t engage customers any better than Jeremy did. Neither of them gave off that “favorite son” vibe Brendon exuded.
On some level, after the shop was closed and Jeremy stood alone wiping down those multithousand-dollar wood counter tops, he feared that he was in over his head. And if he felt that way, surely Ryan must too. After all, Ryan had made amazing strides, but moving was stressful, starting a new job was stressful, life was stressful . . . Bottom line, Ryan was only a couple years out of rehab. And Jeremy, with so much on the line, not only couldn’t afford any mistakes, but felt like he was jumping out of his skin with the weight of each decision, each moment, and each sunk shot from those ancient machines.
He could feel the tension right then, making his skin heat and his words rush out faster than his brain could make them kind or polite or even cogent. He pushed them out of his mouth at a rapid-fire pace.
“Why don’t you take over the baking? It’s all mixes. Super-easy stuff and, if you add some variety, maybe we’ll sell more. Food has a higher margin.”
“Fine.” The younger man stared at him for a beat or two. “Also, why don’t you let me look at the books? Back in Seattle, you were prepping me to cover those. I’d like to take them on here. I think we’ve got some waste. Our first couple months we ordered so often I think we overpaid in shipping.”
“Let’s hold off on that. The goal is to keep things fresh, so there’s bound to be a little loss as I get the business dialed in.” He shrugged away Ryan’s request and his concerns.
Yet as each and every assurance raced past his tongue, questions, doubts, and fears grew behind them. “I’ll go over the ordering again . . . Besides, if you did all that, how would I spend my evenings?”
“With your daughter?”
Jeremy looked away again and busied himself wiping down one of the espresso machines. He didn’t have an easy answer for that one, or for why he was keeping work from Ryan. It was a strange feeling, to be so close to what he wanted and yet so afraid it was slipping away. It felt as though if he didn’t grab hard and fast, keep focused on the end prize, and crank that death grip tighter yet, it would all slide though his fingers.
He felt the same about Becca. Moving to Winsome, purchasing Andante—it had all started with his need to spend time with his seven-year-old daughter. And if he were to believe his ex-wife’s Instagram feed, that was happening. Daily Krista posted pictures of him with Becca, edited with sepia tones and soft lighting. Only if one looked carefully would one see their outfits were the same on three or four different “outings.” Heck, he almost believed Krista’s skilled storytelling himself—the idea of their “conscious uncoupling,” as she called it, their amicable agreement on every parenting decision, the “generous” time and effort they both put into their relationship and communication skills for their daughter’s sake. It sounded perfect. It looked perfect.
But it wasn’t perfect. Despite his moving across the country to be near Becca, Krista still kept him a good distance from their daughter and was wary of the time he spent with her.
Jeremy watched as Brendon handed a customer a blueberry muffin with a winning smile. Yes, hiring that boy was a smart decision, he told himself. A good coffee shop was an extension of your home, your own living room, of my living room, Jeremy thought, where everyone was welcome and felt comfortable. And who better to welcome the town than a treasured one of their own, a rising star? Jeremy felt his breath even out. All the pieces were dropping into place. The shop looked great, the staff now gave the right image, and soon his new state-of-the-art espresso machine would arrive and it’d be smooth sailing . . . And this was only week one.
He turned back to the two ancient machines he needed to nurse through another couple weeks. They might be old, impossible to calibrate, and on their way out the door, but they were still gorgeous. The previous owner, Georgia Pavlis, had treated them well over the years, and their stainless-steel casings shone like mirrors. Not a scratch on either one.
Wiping them down, he puzzled over the incongruence between the care Georgia had given these machines and the chaotic mayhem of her shop. There was a disconnect he couldn’t understand.
A breeze from the front door reached him, and he twisted toward it to call out a cheerful hello. He stopped upon seeing Janet. “Hey there . . . I don’t usually see you in the afternoons.”
“It’s quiet in here.” She smiled.
“Coffee shops often are in the early afternoon.” He cringed at his perky voice. He was certainly working hard to convince someone.
She flicked a finger behind him. “You can almost see your reflection in those.”
“They need to hold out another couple weeks until my new machine arrives. None of this came cheap.” He gestured into the shop.
“We’re facing the same issues. The bookshop’s remodel hit us hard. We’ll both hit our stride soon.”
“I hope so.” Jeremy clasped his hands behind his back and stretched his chest. “What can I get for you?”
“I came to invite you to the business collective meeting tonight. You said you were too busy a few months ago, and last month you closed to renovate, so tonight it is.” She winked.
“Is that the Chamber of Commerce thing?”
“No . . . Until they find a new executive director, that’s at a standstill. This is a group Claire started, and it’ll be good for you. We share what we’re up to, what help we need, chat, often gossip, and it builds friendships, promotes goodwill, and champions buying local.”
Jeremy opened his mouth to say yes and sighed instead. “I’ve got my daughter tonight.”
“Bring Becca along.”
Jeremy chuffed, but felt reluctant to miss an opportunity. Even accounting for an afternoon lull, Andante was too quiet. He needed customers. “That wouldn’t work, but I’m sure I can pick her up afterward. Count me in.”
“Excellent.” Janet clapped her hands together, and Jeremy noted purple paint on the tips of her fingers. “Come to Winsome Realty at seven and bring some coffee. Two of those cardboard carrying things should do it. Your coffee really is much better than anything around, and it’s time everyone knew it.”
Jeremy stalled outside the realty office. He stepped back, forward, and back again. He felt like the new kid once more, the one everyone knew had lost his parents and got thrown into foster care, but rather than say it to his face or even welcome him, they talked behind his back.
He placed the bags on the sidewalk, straightened his spine, tucked his shirt into his jeans, again, and steadied himself. Only his death grip on the bags as he picked them up, crinkling the paper handles, belied his calm façade as he pushed open the door.
The smell hit him first. Burnt coffee. Old, stale coffee. I can fix that, he thought.
Janet spotted him as he entered the back conference room and beelined his direction. “Am I glad to see you.” She led him to two tables pushed against the side wall and cleared him a space between flyers and an old stainless steel coffee urn.
A few heads turned to watch them.
“Set up right here. I was so afraid you weren’t going to come. When I asked, you looked like I was force-feeding you Folgers. Dry.”
“Hey—” Jeremy laughed. While he couldn’t tell her he’d been so nervous he’d changed his shirt three times, he was glad she made a joke about it. Somehow calling it out made it easier to handle.
Janet lifted one of the coffee containers from the bag. “I really appreciate this.” She stepped closer. “Hang around afterward and I’ll introduce you to everyone one-on-one. Claire’s already jumpy about running late, so I can’t now. You won’t run off, will you?”
Jeremy set a decanter of cream on the table. “I won’t.”
She nodded, crossed to the front of the room to where her co-worker, and one of the Printed Letter Bookshop’s owners, Claire Durand, sat, and clapped her hands. “Everyone, attention please. Before Claire begins, go grab a coffee if you want one, generously donated by Jeremy Miller of the Daily—excuse me, Andante.” Janet widened her eyes with her mistake, then gestured to the room, palms out. “Sorry about that. Andante provided tonight’s coffee.”
Jeremy sat as Claire stood to welcome everyone. At her first word, his cell phone rang, and all heads again turned his direction. “I’m sorry. I thought I silenced this.”
Noting his daughter’s smiling face on the screen, he swiped Accept and walked out of the room.
“Jeremy? Jeremy? Are you there?” Krista’s tiny voice squeaked at him from a distance.
He crossed through the real estate company’s outer office and hit the pavement outside. “Sorry. I was in a meeting. I left you a message about it.”
His ex-wife was silent a beat. “I got the message, but I also have plans tonight. I need you to get Becca when you agreed, as you agreed.”
“This is important. It’s for my business, Krista.”
“So is this, Jeremy. We’ve got an event tonight and we’re already short-staffed.”
“We?” he scoffed. “You’re an employee, Krista. I own this shop.”
“You did not just say that to me.”
Jeremy closed his eyes and leaned against the brick building. Despite the day’s warm sunshine, the bricks had cooled with the evening. “No. I didn’t. Can you get your parents to help? Just this once?”
“If they were in town. But they’re not.”
“Get a babysitter. I’ll cover the cost and get Becca first thing tomorrow, and keep her all weekend.”
“Forget it, Jeremy. I’ll talk to you later.”
“No, wait!” He pushed off the bricks.
“No. You wait. I didn’t ask you to move out here. I never asked you to be a part of Becca’s life. We had it all worked out, but you changed everything and now she believes you’re in her life, that you’re her dad—”
“I am her dad.”
“Then act like one. Be where you say you’ll be, when you say you’ll be there. I won’t play these games with you.”
