A Good Measure, page 2
“What happened to the Calico Cat?” she’d asked Ames that evening when they’d been sitting on her front porch, having a glass of wine.
Ames sipped her chardonnay. “Callie moved it up to the Tractor Supply Plaza. She says it’s a better location.”
Payton frowned, wondering how she hadn’t heard this news since Callie was in their group, and she wondered if maybe her epiphany wasn’t such a great idea after all—if a fabric store didn’t do well downtown, how would a coffee shop do?
She shouldn’t have worried, though. Unable to shake the feeling that it was meant to be, she’d contacted a real estate agent, and with some of Lonny’s life insurance, she purchased the little brick storefront for a song and put Cash to work. After consulting a contractor to make sure the wall dividing the store into two rooms wasn’t weight-bearing—or hiding any wiring or plumbing, she handed her son a pair of Lon’s old mechanic’s goggles and a sledgehammer and said, “Have at it!” Cash had grinned gleefully as he lifted the heavy hammer and began swinging away, crushing the plaster and transforming the two rooms into a bright, airy space with a hidden fireplace at one end. After clearing the debris, they pulled up the sun-faded linoleum and discovered there was wide-board oak flooring underneath. Within a week, she hired Ron Carlson, a friend of Lonny’s and semiretired handyman, to sand and refinish the floor. Ron also installed wainscoting along the bottom half of the newly Sheetrocked walls; and then, after she and Cash sanded, primed, and painted the walls slate blue and the wainscoting and trim around the windows linen white, she asked Ron to come back and install commercial-grade kitchen appliances, including two refrigerators, a dishwasher, three coffee machines, two cappuccino makers, and a long glass case for baked goods. Finally, she bought a retro-style cash register, set it on her new slate-gray granite countertop, and on the wall behind it, painted the inspirational quote:
BE STRONG
BE BRAVE
BE FEARLESS
DRINK COFFEE!
Payton’s vision had been seeded by prayer, and she’d loved every minute they’d spent bringing it to life; and Cashen, for his part, had seemed to embrace his mom’s dream and make it his own, too. Together, they filled dumpsters, sanded, painted, and found all the physical labor and planning cathartic. They worked from dawn to dusk, and then sat on milk crates in the middle of the debris and devoured pizza or Chinese food. Finally, exhausted, they headed home, collapsed into their respective beds, and didn’t hear a sound till morning. It was a wonderful memory they both cherished.
As construction progressed, they pored over equipment and furniture catalogs—Cashen insisting on putting two cozy chairs and a couch and table in front of the fireplace—and Payton choosing small country farm tables and chairs for the rest of the space, along with sets of colorful ceramic Fiestaware plates and old-fashioned white diner mugs. The final touch had been hanging the beautiful sign Dan McGee had painted with a steaming mug of coffee and two coffee beans on it, encircled by the shop’s name: The Coffee Bean—a name that was ten times better than her original idea, Rocky Bottom Coffee—which Ames said sounded like the coffee would be full of grounds!
On the day of the grand opening, Payton enlisted Ames’s help, not only for moral support, but also to help keep an eye on her three new employees—Cashen, and his two best friends, Rylee and Jessie, who were also on the spectrum. Despite a few minor hiccups and a few mugs of spilled coffee, the day had been a huge success, and now, three years later, the Bean—as it was affectionately known in town—was a bustling (and mandatory) stop for all the local farmers, picking up supplies, moms who’d dropped their kids off at school, and bleary-eyed college students recovering from a late night of studying . . . or partying, and their busiest time of day was between six and ten.
Payton yawned as she dropped premeasured filter packs into coffee machines and hit their start buttons. This was Cashen’s job, but he was still in the truck, and it was getting late. She looked through the boxes on the shelf, trying to decide on a flavor of the day. Finally, she settled on Smoky Mountain Coffee’s Organic Fogbuster—a rich dark roast that could perk up the sleepiest brain—dropped in the packet and pushed the start button, but just as she did, the back door banged open and Cashen came in and immediately saw all the green lights. “I said I’d be right in,” he said, frowning.
“I know you did, but it couldn’t wait. You always say, ‘Coffee doesn’t brew itself,’ and besides, I had a hankering for a nice hot cup of Fogbuster.”
“You made Fogbuster?!” he asked, his voice rising. “We just had that on Monday.”
“Well, we’re having it again,” she said, holding out the whiteboard marker. “Are you writing it in, or am I?”
Cashen pushed her hand away. “YOU write it in! I was planning to make Black Bear today—we haven’t had it since March third.”
Payton blinked. How the heck did he remember the date of the last time they’d had the sweet berry-chocolate-flavored coffee? She frowned, suddenly wondering if he remembered every flavor they’d served over the last month? The last year?! She knew he had a good memory—he could listen to a song someone played on the piano and replay it perfectly without music, but she’d had no idea he kept a mental inventory of the flavors they brewed every day. “I’m sorry, Cash,” she said, trying to diffuse his frustration, “but you should’ve come in.”
“I said I’d be right in,” he growled, his boyish face aflame.
Payton was all too familiar with her son’s temper—and mood swings, but she was also well-versed at calming him down. “How ’bout I get a cup of Fogbuster to clear the cobwebs from my brain, and we use the rest for iced coffee?” she suggested. “It’s supposed to be nice today and people might like to have iced coffee for a change, especially with the weekend almost here.”
Cash’s frown faded as he considered the idea, and then nodded.
“All right, when it’s finished brewing, transfer the Fogbuster to pitchers and put it in the fridge,” she said, handing him the marker, “and write Black Bear in as the flavor of the day.”
“Okay,” he said, “but, in the future, remember I have it all planned.”
“Got it,” she said, kissing his cheek and turning to fill a mug with steaming black coffee. “I will absolutely try to remember.”
3
AMES FINLEY DROPPED A HANDFUL OF SPINACH INTO HER NEW SMOOTHIE MAKER, checked the recipe again, added one apple, sliced and cored, a banana, a half a cup of blueberries, two dollops of yogurt, several frozen chunks of mango, peach, and pineapple, and a cup of unsweetened cranberry juice. “This is gonna make a lot,” she murmured, checking the recipe one more time. “Okay, here goes.” She put the top on—or, as it turned out, the bottom, flipped it over, and set it in the base. It immediately began to buzz and whir and in no time at all the chunks of fruits were transformed into a thick swirling purple liquid. Ames eyed it skeptically, took a tentative sip, and licked her lips. “Wow, that’s really good—you’d never know it has spinach in it!” She slurped down half of it. “Now,” she said triumphantly, “the next time Payton asks me if I tried it, I can say yes!”
She knew her friend had her best interests in mind when she gave her the smoothie maker for her sixty-third birthday—which was now nearly two years ago, but then, when she’d proceeded to ask her at least once a week if she’d tried it, Ames had grown weary of hearing the question. Even Cash—who she loved with all her heart—had taken up the cause, repeatedly asking her: Mrs. Finley, did you try your new smoothie maker yet? and she was about ready to bop him!
“That’s what I get for telling her I wanted to start taking better care of myself,” she mused, recalling how, after Frank died, she’d taken a long hard look at the way they’d been living and blamed herself for not insisting he take better care of himself. The doctor had repeatedly told her husband he needed to lose weight, drink less beer, eat fewer doughnuts . . . and less bacon . . . and steak, and try to force down an occasional vegetable—and make it something green, not just corn on the cob slathered in butter and salt. If he didn’t, the doctor warned, he wouldn’t live to see his sixty-fifth birthday, and although Ames had tried to get Frank to listen, he always waved her off like a pesky fly, and every time she put a spear of broccoli on his plate, he slipped it to their black Lab, Ned, who’d eat just about anything!
And then it happened. The memory of that morning was etched in her mind like the brand on an old steer. She’d made lunch at 11:30—just as she always did, but when Frank—who was famous for saying: You can call me anything, but don’t call me late to dinner—hadn’t appeared, she’d gone to investigate . . . and found him in the field behind the barn, slumped over the steering wheel of his still-running tractor. She’d called—and then shouted, but he hadn’t responded—hadn’t even stirred, and with an anxious heart, she’d shaken his knee, but the movement had only made his hand fall to his side. “Frank!” she’d cried. “Wake up!” She’d turned off the tractor, and even though he was twice her weight, she’d managed to pull him down without bumping his head and begun frantically pumping his chest and breathing into his lungs. But it was too late.
In the months that followed, she’d been stunned—shocked, really—unable to wrap her mind around the idea that her husband would never track mud through their kitchen again. Frank Finley was gone from this earth. He’d never sit in the threadbare recliner that was molded in the shape of his short stout body; he’d never snore the night away in the bed they’d shared for forty years. He was gone from the drudgery of daily life around their run-down farm, and it left her . . . well, numb . . . and empty. Their now twenty-eight-year-old daughter, Quinn—who’d always locked horns with him—tried to console her, but, from a distance, her daughter’s words had little effect. Until one Sunday afternoon, Quinn said, “Mom, I know you miss him, but think about it—now you can do whatever you want. You can live your life on your terms without him telling you what to do . . . without having to do everything his way.
“You can go hiking with Ned. You can join the church choir. You can even play softball again—I still remember Mrs. Childs talking about how you two used to play on the same team, but how Dad always made a face when you said you had a game and wouldn’t be home for supper. You couldn’t even come visit me . . . but now you can travel anywhere in the world. Every time you talked about going on a cruise or on a bus tour, Dad put the kibosh on it, but now you can do all those things. Think about it, Mom . . . for the first time in your life, you are free.”
Ames had listened to her daughter’s words, and they’d washed over her like a gentle wave, soothing her weary body. At the same time, it seemed as if a heavy curtain was being pulled away from a long-shrouded window, and the golden light streaming in was full of promise. “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” she’d answered quietly. “I’m so used to him being here . . . so used to our life together.”
“Forty years is a long time,” Quinn had said. “It’s a big change. Why don’t you think about coming for a visit? We can drive along the coast or hike in the mountains—we can even go to Yosemite—you always said the national parks are on your bucket list.”
“Maybe,” Ames had replied uncertainly.
“Promise me you’ll think about it,” Quinn had urged, and Ames had promised.
“I love you, Mom. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart,” she’d replied, and when she’d hung up, she’d looked out at the setting sun, her daughter’s words echoing in her mind: Mom, for the first time in your life, you are free. “Free,” she’d whispered. What an odd feeling!
She poured the last of the purple liquid into her glass and took another sip. So much had changed since that day. For starters, she’d realized she had no interest in running the farm by herself and she’d sold the land and barns to a young farmer who talked about building a house on the land and restoring the farm to its original glory—something Frank had never had the energy or gumption to do. Ames had known Quinn had no interest in moving back to Tennessee, so what was the point of keeping it? The only thing she had kept was the little ranch-style house in which she and Frank had lived and ten acres of the rich dark earth next to the house, which she’d turned into a community garden.
Finley Farm had been an instant hit with the organically minded young families who lived in town—the ones who wanted to buy local, live off the land, and eat what they grew—all concepts they seemed to think they’d come up with on their own. They were a friendly bunch, though, and Ames loved stopping by to check on them. She usually found them hard at work, weeding and cultivating—it was like having a garden, but not having to care for it (not that she minded weeding), but these youngsters and their rosy-cheeked kids showed up at all times of day and did the work, leaving Ames to prune and dig in her flower and herb gardens—a chore she’d once loved, but for which she’d eventually had no time.
She also latched on to some of Quinn’s suggestions. She took Ned on long walks or on hikes in the nearby mountains. The fresh air, blue sky, and lovely colors soothed her spirit like a gentle balm, and they both lost ten pounds! And although she hadn’t joined the choir (yet!), she had let it be known that she was interested in playing softball again, and when word got out that Amesy O’Connor Finley—who’d been star catcher in high school—was interested in playing again, an argument ensued between the teams. Finally, her former team, Benny’s Bomberettes—a rowdy, beer-drinking group of old-timers that included Payton—insisted that they—with two injured players—had the greatest need, and Ames happily donned her old number—17—and trotted into left field (because her knees were too stiff to play catcher). That first season had ended with the Bomberettes coming back from a 4–1 deficit—thanks to a grand slam by Payton—to defeat their archrival, Jimmy’s Ace Hardware Nuts & Bolts, and take home the league trophy.
Ames set her glass in the sink, filled it with sudsy water, and gazed out the window, thinking about the conversation she’d had with Quinn the evening before. They’d been talking about the coffee shop and she’d mentioned how she and Payton hadn’t yet been able to convince Libby—who lived just down the road—to come on Thursday night, and Quinn had stopped her. “Wait, I thought the Guild was for widows . . .”
“It is . . .” Ames said, frowning and trying to remember if she’d ever told her daughter about Libby’s husband. “I told you . . . um . . . didn’t I tell you about Jack?”
“Um, no . . .” Quinn had replied.
“He had cancer—inoperable. Didn’t last six months.”
“Oh, no!”
“Libby’s already been through so much,” Ames continued, “losing Cale, and then, four months after Jack, her dad died.”
“Wait, Dutch died, too?!” Quinn had sounded stunned.
Ames knew her daughter had loved Chase’s grandfather and had always thought of him as a sweetheart who loved teasing the kids. And although she’d only been nine when Cale was killed in a farming accident, she’d been just as shocked and dismayed as everyone else, shedding tears of her own when she saw tears streaming down her best friend’s face at his big brother’s funeral.
Ames nodded. “I’m sorry, I thought I told you this . . .” She paused. “I didn’t tell you about the funerals? And seeing Chase? He gave such a lovely eulogy at Jack’s funeral . . .” She paused. “My memory must be going, hon. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mom, but if I’d known, I would’ve sent Chase a card. I might’ve even come home for the funerals.”
“Well, now I really wish I’d told you. It would’ve been nice to have you come home, even if it was for a sad reason. I know you’re busy with the restaurant, but I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, Mom . . . and don’t forget, you promised you’d come visit me.”
“I know,” Ames replied. “And one of these days I’m going to surprise you.”
“That’s what you keep saying.”
“I just don’t know what I’d do with Ned.”
“You can leave him with Mrs. Childs—I’m sure he’d be fine.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “Anyway, we’ve been trying to get Libby to come on Thursday nights,” she continued, remembering the beginning of their conversation.
“She will . . . when she’s ready,” Quinn assured her. “It takes time.” She paused. “Do you happen to know what Chase-me is up to now?” she asked using her old nickname for him. “Or where he’s living?”
“Payton said he and a friend from college have their own travel agency in DC, but they’re moving—or they’ve moved—to Savannah—near Gage.”
