COOL BEANS (9 page)

Friday morning. 6:14 a.m.

Darkness.

Actually, make that fog-ridden darkness. The air is so dense that water droplets are clinging to my car. I squint to see out of my windshield.

I moan and bang my forehead on my steering wheel. “Why am I here?” I say to an empty car.

Foggy, chilly days are best enjoyed in front of my fireplace. Coffee in one hand, remote in the other. Movie in DVD player. Preferably something lighthearted and whimsical. Like
Penelope.
You can’t get more whimsical than Reese Witherspoon in that movie. Adorable.

I get out of my car, grumbling to myself, yanking my jacket tighter around my body. I march to the door, unlock it, open it, and stomp into the cold, clammy coffee shop. I throw my purse and jacket in the cabinet and gripe to myself as I turn on all the lights.

“Well, good morning to you, too, Nutcase.”

“Mmpgh.”

“What’s eating you?” Jack pulls on his apron and joins me behind the counter, sorting through the coffee we’re making today.

“It’s foggy,” I growl.

“It’s not carnivorous fog, so what’s really eating you?” Jack laughs at his own joke.

Zookeepers have a weird sense of humor.

“It’s foggy; it’s cold; and it’s wet; and I’m not at home drinking a caramel macchiato in front of my fireplace with my sweatpants and socks on.”

Jack nods. “You can drink a caramel macchiato here instead! We even have a fireplace and a never-ending supply of caramel syrup.”

Ever the cheerful optimist. I hate him.

Must find another reason to be mad. I point to my toes. “I am wearing work shoes that hurt my feet.”

“Maya, I’m wearing an
apron.
Tell me when the last time was that you saw a straight guy wearing an apron.”

“Emeril Live,”
I answer smugly, folding my arms.

“Emeril wears a chef coat,” Jack corrects. He flicks me on the side of the head. “If any of us get to complain, it’s me.”

“Mmpgh.”

He raises a coffee mug in victory.

I flip the switch on the coffeemaker holding the dark roast, and it starts gurgling.

“Why are you so grouchy?” he asks.

“I’m not grouchy.”

“You are, too. It’s like working with that little green guy from
Sesame Street.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Liar.”

I glare at him. “It’s 6:34 in the morning!”

“And come two thirty, you’ll be singing praises that you got the morning shift,” he calmly replies, putting the grounds
in coffeemaker number two.

Have I mentioned I don’t like him right now?

“How was your day off?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say. After I had looked through and put away all my old Travis stuff, Jen blew in the door, changed from her professional bun hairstyle to a down-curly-and-romantic look; kept the skirt, silky top, and heels; and flew back out of the house in fifteen minutes, yelling, “I’m late to meet him for dinner!”

Meet
him for dinner? I thought guys were supposed to pick you up.

“Jack,” I say abruptly, “when you take a girl out on a date, do you pick her up or have her meet you?”

He gives me a weird look. “Why?”

“Travis made Jen
meet
him at the restaurant.”

“Did he do that to you, too?”

I shake my head. “Not usually. I always drove myself to his football games, but other than that …”

“Huh. Well, no. Whenever I go out, I always pick the girl up. Except for once, and that was a blind date.”

“That’s nice of you to pick her up.”

“Nice?” Jack gives me another look. “Picking up a girl is more informational than nice, Nutkin.”

I pull a sheet of unbaked cinnamon rolls from the fridge. “What are you talking about?”

“Is she a neat person? Does she still live at home? Have a roommate? Dog?” He shrugs. “You can find all of that out when you pick up a girl.” He rubs the back of his neck ruefully, picking up a bright cherry red mug. “I went out with this girl once. She had to dart out of the house like a hamster so her living room wouldn’t overflow onto the porch.”

I grin, morning fog broken. “Yuck.”

He hands me the mug, filled with the macchiato he’d been making. “And good morning, Maya.”

I cup my hands around the cup, inhaling. “Mmm. Thanks, Jack.”

He grins and starts mixing the frosting while I pop the rolls in the oven.

“You’ve been on a blind date?” I ask, trying to keep the incredulity from my tone. The idea of Jack dating, especially blind dating, is a little weird to me — not because he’s not dating material but because I’ve never actually witnessed it. I mean, he’s attractive in a preppy/outdoorsy sort of way, but I don’t remember him ever talking about dates or anything like that.

He sighs. “I didn’t tell you that story?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, first off, my aunt is one of the sweetest, most innocent ladies on the planet.”

“You had a blind date with your aunt? That is a little disturbing.”

He shushes me. “Listen to my story. So, my aunt tells me there’s this really cute girl at her church and asks if she can set us up on a date. I said, ‘Sure, why not?’ and we decide to meet at the restaurant.”

He suddenly gets this sad beagle look — I know the look because Calvin always looks like that whenever I’m out of ice cream.

“That bad?” I giggle.

He grimaces. “Let’s just say my aunt does not have good taste in girls.”

I gape at him. “That’s mean! What was wrong with her?”

“What
wasn’t?’

“Jack!”

“What? She was three inches taller than me, and unlike Tom Cruise, I’m just not comfortable with that. Especially when I’m six one to begin with. And she talked with her mouth open all through dinner.”

“Poor girl.”

“She didn’t like me either. When Aunt Cathy said I was tall, I think the girl thought she meant I was taller than her.”

“Poor girl,” I say again. “Yet another perk of being short, I guess.”

Jack shakes his head. “Asparagus isn’t pretty when it’s being gnawed on.”

“Gross.” I make a wide circle around Jack while he stirs the frosting.

“Oh good night, Pattertwig, I only dumped it on you once.”

I point once again to my feet. “I still haven’t broken in these shoes.”

“Whine, whine, whine.”

“Cheese, cheese, cheese.”

He starts laughing.

It’s one thirty, and I just got back to Cool Beans from my lunch break. The day is still chilly; several college students are gathered around the crackling fireplace; and I’m reading the ad on the back of my Subway cup.

“Hey, did you know that Jared is more recognizable than Ronald McDonald?” I tell Jack, setting my stuff in the back and pulling on my cherry red apron.

He hands a customer an americano and starts working on a mocha. “Who’s Jared?”

“Maybe that statistic isn’t true,” I say.

One of our regulars, Jane, comes up to the counter. She’s only a few years older than me and comes in every week to do her Bible study for a class at her church.

“Hi, Jack. Hi, Maya,” she says, smiling.

“Hey, Jane.” Jack waves over the whir of the espresso machine.

“Hi.” I grin. “How’s it going?”

“Good.” She pulls her wallet out and looks at the menu. “I just love days like this. Can I get an English Breakfast tea?”

“Sure.” I ring up her total. “Anything new happening?”

“My brother’s moving back to town,” she says.

“No way! Mine is too!” I yelp. Jane jumps.

“She’s had four mochas and a macchiato,” Jack explains to Jane.

I shrug. “They were nonfat.”

Jane grins. “That doesn’t cancel out the caffeine, Maya.”

“But I feel better about myself.”

She laughs.

I attach the little strainer sack and scoop the heavily scented tea into it, pouring the hot water on top. “Why’s your brother coming back to town?” I ask, handing her the steaming mug.

“Mom finally talked him into it. He’s been looking for a job in San Diego and decided to move here to work as a marketing consultant with that computer place on Fir Street,” she says, adding honey to her tea. “Why’s your brother coming back?”

“He got a job, too. At the hospital. He’s a doctor.”

“Really? I’ll have to bring my brother by to meet you guys.”

“Yeah, I’d like to meet him. Have a good Bible study, Jane.”

“Thanks!” She goes to her usual seat by the window.

Jack comes over, wiping off his hands on the cleaning rag.

“You didn’t tell me Zach was moving back.” He smiles at me sympathetically. “Yet another reason for Maya the Grouch this morning?”

I hold up my hands apologetically. “I’m sorry. Mom called a few days ago. He was in town for an interview at the hospital. He just failed to mention that.”

“So he got the job?”

“Well, of course. He starts in a week and a half.” I’m still trying to decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand, he’s not a bad brother. On the other hand, he’s kind of an intimidating brother.

So maybe it’s good
and
bad.

“Well, that’s good, right?” Jack asks.

I hate it when he reads my mind.

“Not sure yet,” I answer, smiling at the next customer, a nice-looking guy probably in his thirties.

“Hi there,” he says. “I’m meeting my new girlfriend here. You haven’t seen a short, curly haired, cute brunette around, have you?” He leans on the counter, grinning flirtatiously at me.

Ew.

Jack rolls his eyes and goes in the back. The support he offers me in times like these is just devastating.

How do you answer a question like that? I’m not sure, so I stay quiet.

The man keeps on grinning. “How are you today?”

I’m doing my best to hold back the loud exclamation of
eiegh!
“Uh. Good. You?”

“I’m great. Can I get a small black coffee?”

I’d like to put a note on the counter to future men:
If you are trying to flirt with the barista, please buy more than the least expensive thing on the menu.

I hand the guy his coffee.

“Thanks, sugar,” he says. Then he just looks at me, eyebrows raised. I squirm, feeling under the microscope.

“Did you want something else?” I ask.

“Sugar?” he repeats.

“Oh!” Sigh of relief here. “Over there.” I point to the drink-doctoring table.

“Thanks.”

He sugars his coffee and leaves with a wink but no tip.

Maybe I should add another sentence to that note:
And always, always, always tip!

Jack comes back and just shakes his head at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You know, I seriously feel ignored sometimes.”

“Oh please, Jack,” I say, wiping down the counter. “You get flirted with all the time.”

“By lonely old ladies.” He winces. “And loud nocturnal birds.” Then he grins. “Polly is going home tomorrow.”

I watch him for a minute. “Please refrain from dancing behind the counter.”

“That was a jig, Nutkin.”

Jen’s car is in her spot when I get home at three thirty. There’s a box of triple-butter movie-theater popcorn and a rental copy of
Runaway Bride
next to me on the passenger seat.

I guess I won’t be watching by myself. Good thing I bought the extra-large bags of popcorn.

What’s Jen doing home so early?

I climb the stairs and open the door. “Jenny?”

She’s splayed out on the living-room floor, dressed in black yoga pants and a powder-blue stretchy top, and a peppy blond Pilates instructor is piping orders to move to the Proud Warrior position.

And where is my beloved beagle?

Yup. Right next to Jen.

“Hi, Maya,” Jen pants, mimicking the Pilates lady and spreading her arms over her head.

“What are you doing?” I ask. Calvin’s stretching his back legs out, lying flat on the carpet.

“What’s it look like?” Jen huffs, moving to a sitting forward bend. “I’m working out.” She squints at me. Her face has a healthy flush to it. “Your dog is really odd, by the way.”

“He likes Pilates. You took off work to work out?” I set the popcorn on the kitchen counter, speechless.

“Uh-huh,” she breathes.

Weird.

Last year, Jen came down with the worst case of the flu I’ve ever seen in my life. She was throwing up about every eleven minutes and had a 102-degree fever, but she still dragged her snow-white face out of bed for three days, pushed past me blocking the door, and drove to work until her tightfisted boss finally told her to go home early that Friday. She spent the next two and a half days in bed.

That’s the last time I can remember her taking off work.

“Did Wayne give you the afternoon off?”

“Nope.”

“Then why — ?”

“Look, Maya, I’m seriously trying to work out here!” she barks from the Down Dog position.

Sheesh. Touchy.

Calvin’s glaring at me too, but that’s probably because I bought popcorn instead of ice cream.

And I thought Pilates made you calmer?

I go into my room and toss the movie on my bed.
Uncomfortable work shoes are coming off ASAP. Honestly, you’d think the manufacturers of black ugly shoes would realize that people only buy their product when they absolutely have to. If they made them comfy, maybe they’d be more popular. Comfy ugly shoes. They’d be like the new Crocs or something.

I change into my gray velour pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt. Today is one of the few days in Hudson when I can wear my favorite wool socks without sweating, so on they go!

I hear someone exhale, and I guess if my life were scarier, I would have jumped. I look up at Jen, who’s sucking down a water bottle as if the bad guys in
Batman Begins
actually succeeded in poisoning the water source.

“There’s more where that came from,” I say.

She looks at me quizzically. “What?”

“Nothing.” I let down my now elastic-creased hair from its ponytail and run my fingers through the tangled, curly mess.

“What are you doing tonight?” Jen asks, backhanding her glistening forehead.

“Well, I have a very exciting evening planned. I’m going to watch a man with a really cutely named cat try not to fall in love with a girl who works at a hardware store.”