The Perfect Blend (6 page)

All right people:

I slam my hands onto my hips. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“What an appalling thing to say. He's supposed to be serving you, not insulting you.”

Did he hear me at all? Testosterone-based hearing loss? Hello? “And who said you're supposed to be protecting me? I could have handled Mr. Tactful just fine on my own. You just said yourself how feisty I am.” I put my sunglasses back on.

“I'm not being protective. He was rude. You
could have been an army general and I would have responded the same way.”

I don't believe that for a minute. “You would not,” I counter in my best little-sister-fights-back tone. Suddenly all the overblown fussing I've received in the past week boils up inside my independent head. “You're coddling me because I'm a girl. Because I got
this,
” I say, pointing to my face, “turning in one of your assignments and because…because…because you've got all that genteel British stuff running around in your veins and you can't help it. And it's annoying. Got it? Annoying. This is America, where women kick butt on a regular basis and the guys can handle it.”

The power banker comes roaring out of his features. He jabs a finger at the server “You,” he commands, snapping the server to attention. “Coffee, black, two sugars,” He says pointing to my place setting. “Tea, with milk and one sugar, very hot,” he says, pointing to himself. “You,” he says, glaring at me so hard I gulp, “have thirty seconds to take those ludicrous glasses off and narrow your list down to ten words starting
now.
”

“You can't…”

“Twenty-eight, twenty-seven…”

Unfair, obnoxious, boorish, egotistical…

Two scarier thoughts

“H
e didn't!”

I'm sitting in my sister Cathy's kitchen after work Monday, looking at photos of Charlie in his toad costume and relating the events of my sandwich with Will. “He did. I swear I thought he was going to whip out a sword and defend my honor or something.”

“Guys like that still exist?”

“I know. You'd think the male species would have left the I-must-protect-the-fairer-sex mind-set behind a couple of decades ago. I told him this is America, where the women can hold their own, thank you very…”

I stop mid-sentence because of the look on Cathy's face. She's not sharing my distaste for Will Grey's overprotective tendencies. Rather, she has that
dreamy-eyed fairy-tale look she usually gets when talking about her husband. “No. No, Cathy, it's not a good thing. You're not hearing me. I don't like what he did.” I over-enunciate the last sentence because she doesn't seem to be registering my meaning.

“Well, it was a bit over the top. It's not like the waiter called you a hag or anything.”

“My point exactly. If a thug with a knife comes up to me demanding my jewelry, then I don't mind a little protection from someone bigger than me. But a tactless waiter? Please. I don't need anyone coming to my rescue over bad manners.”

“Oh, yes, we all know all about how Maggie Bootstraps gets by just fine on her own.”

I hate it when she calls me that. Dad calls me that when he wants to get all fatherly on me, when he doesn't like the way I do something and he thinks he should come in and save the day and I won't let him. Something about pulling myself up by my own bootstraps. Which, by the way, is a good thing. Independence is a good thing. The kind of concept strong enough, say, to found a country on. The United States, for example. No monarchs allowed here, mister, we value the self-sufficiency of every hardworking American. Opportunity. Enterprise. So stop trying to protect me and just give me my loan!

Cathy touches my forehead, conducting a maternal assessment. “Speaking of doing fine, did you have Diane check that out? You didn't need more stitches or anything?” Her eyebrows furrow
together as she stares at my remaining collection of bandages and Steri-Strips.

If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that question this week, I wouldn't need a small-business loan. “Yes,” I moan, “I'm fine. Will had them X-ray me twice, even, just to be sure.

“Sounds like a nice guy, this Will.” She smiles as she rearranges the photos on the table. “And you said he asked you to say grace over dinner? Sounds really nice.”

“Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Don't do that. I've had enough of it from Diane. He's…” I stumble, realizing I can't tell Cathy who he is. I'm not ready to tell my family I've gone out in search of a loan to open a business. Oh, great, Cathy's taking my pause as a sign of hidden emotion. Like Will's some kind of secret crush. “Look, I take a class with him, that's all. We were working on a paper together and I was bringing it to him when I got hit. He's just being nice because he's totally guilty.”

“Yep,” she says, looking like she didn't believe a word I just said. “Whatever you say.”

“Don't do that!”
Lord, could I have a different family please? Just for the next seven weeks? There are four other kids—no one would even miss me.

“Fine. Change of subject. Are you coming to the mission potluck Wednesday? Charlie's choir is singing.”

“Can't,” I say, happy for the first time in months to
have a reason to miss a family outing. “I've got a class.”

“What kind of class is this, anyway?”

I am not ready to talk about this. Even with Cathy. She may be the first to know when the time is right, but that's not now. “A class.” I reply, imbuing the words with all the and-we're-not-going-to-talk-about-it tone I can muster. “I've got to get going—it's Diane and my night at the Closet.” Every other Monday Diane and I volunteer at the church's clothing ministry, sorting used clothing to give to families who have hit hard times. It's a great deal: we catch up and do good at the same time. “Tell Charlie I think he was adorable and he can be the toad in my pond any day.”

As quickly as family courtesy will allow, I gather up my stuff and head for the door. As she's letting me out, Cathy drops the all-too-intuitive-big-sister bomb. “Mags,” she says, catching my elbow.

“Yes?”

“Don't pretend you hate it so much. It's nice having someone watch over you.”

I gape at her for a stunned moment, mumble goodbye and take her front stairs at a run.

I hate big families. Too many people who are way too familiar with you.

 

Later that night, Diane stares at me over a large purple sweatshirt. “You really told him off like that? Was that a smart idea? Given who he is and all?”

I tie a pair of knee socks together in a vigorous
knot. “I don't know what came over me. Suddenly, I was so…I don't know, agitated…that it just sort of jumped out of me. I hate it when people coddle me. He was just the last straw of coddling in a very suffocating week. I apologized…twice…but I don't know.”

“Well, mouthing off at your loan officer sounds like good business practice to me. And really, I just
hate
it when a man gets honorable and defends you. The
nerve.
”

I launch into a full five seconds of “You got it sister,” before I realize she is being totally sarcastic. I stare her down. “Fine, Diane,
you
go after him. People get hurt playing rugby all the time, I'm told. Go watch a game, catch something with your own face and I'm sure you'll have a serious relationship before your wound even scabs over.”

“I can't.”

Oh, I do not like the way she said that. “And why not?”

“Because
you
like him. And I'm too good a friend for that.”

“I do
not.
” Too much emphasis. We both instantly know it to be an outright lie. With one look, Diane reminds me that in the six years I've known her, I've never been able to keep anything from her. It's why she's the only person on the planet who knows my coffee-bar plans.

The only person except for Will, of course. Can I run away now, please? Be a missionary on a shade-grown organic coffee plantation somewhere in the southern hemisphere?

“Well,” I relent under Diane's truth-extracting stare. “I can't. Like him, that is.”

“And why can't you like him? He's got a list of very likeable qualities.”

Of course, if you're Diane,
single
and
male
is as long a list as you need. Let's just say that while Diane is a fine and compassionate Christian, she's way too fond of the male population. Being as cute as she is just feeds the impulse. Don't get me wrong: Diane's not promiscuous or anything, it's just that she seems to like
every single guy
she meets.
Every
guy. Any
single
guy. You get my drift.

“Oh, for starters, he's my loan officer. He's stuffy and formal and proper. He's rigid and foreign and…”

“And you like him and it's making you nuts.” Diane jabs a finger at me, her hair swinging with all that emphatic pointing. “What? You think the phrase
opposites attract
popped out of thin air?”

“It's a bad idea. A whopping bad idea. If I want to get this coffee bar open, he and I can't happen. And that's only one of about sixty reasons I can think of why not to get things started with Will Grey. He could have only asked me to say grace because he read about my Christianity on my loan application. Allowing grace over dinner doesn't make him a man of genuine faith. Why are we even discussing this anyway? It's not worth discussing.”

Diane puts a final sweatshirt into a box and closes the lid. “Okay, Maggie, why do you want to open this coffee bar, anyway?”

Start with the easy questions, why don't you? “Because I need to.” It's so much more complicated than that, but the words aren't coming. Coffee is one of the world's most powerful catalysts. Conversations happen over coffee. Hospitality happens over coffee. Let's face it:
life
happens over coffee. It's the perfect tool to reach people—especially here. Jesus met people where they were, as they were. I want to show people
that
Jesus. While we can't always show people that Jesus in a church, I believe we can show people that Jesus at Higher Grounds. Think about it: very few people might jump at the question, “Can I talk to you about Jesus?” but almost everyone will say yes to “Can I buy you a cup of coffee and talk?”

My life's passion is to set a warm, welcoming stage for conversations that lead people toward a deeper faith. If that sounds like a mission statement, it is. That's my company mission statement for Higher Grounds, and it fires me up faster than a triple shot of the world's best espresso.

“If you don't do this thing you think God wants you to do, do you think you can't be happy?”

Believe it or not, that about sums it up. “Well, yeah, I suppose that's it. I've been such a noncommittal basket case. I've held a dozen different jobs since college. I liked them all, but I didn't really care about the work. Now, I can't stop thinking about the work, everything up to now feels like it's led up to doing this. I
know
it's what God wants for me.”

Diane leans in. “What if what God wants for you is to meet Will? Have you ever considered that Higher Grounds might just be His way of introducing you?”

A scarier thought could not exist. “No, It's not like that. It can't be like that.”

“Why?”

I sit down on the stool and hold my head in my hands. Why indeed? “Because Higher Grounds is…is me. It's who I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to do. I know that. Finally. I won't ever stop knowing it. And it's nothing at all like who Will is and what Will does. He's in a whole other world over there. A world that doesn't mix with my world over here. I don't want to end up thinking ‘What if?' thirty years from now, wondering if I gave up my world to fit into his. I need to reach for this. I watched my dad come home from work at this ordinary job when he wanted to be a sculptor. He dreamed of being a sculptor, not an insurance agent. And he could have—that's the thing. He's so talented. He could have done such amazing things. But he fell in love with Mom and then
boom!
—married with five kids to support.” I throw the knee socks into a box and reach for a new pile of clothes to sort. “I know he's happy. He'd tell you he's happy. But…”

“But what?”

“But if he walks past a sculpture garden or if he looks at a statue, you just see it in his eyes. The ‘What if?' He settled. Not in a bad way, I suppose, but settled
just the same.” I look up at Diane. “I just don't think I can do that. Settle. I'd never really be happy.”

“What if, instead of settling, you got the best of both worlds? Will's some kind of business expert, right?”

“So he tells us every time he hands out new homework.”

“What if Will Grey is just what you need? Personally and professionally?”

I give Diane my best “mind your own business stare” and push a pile of unsorted clothes across the table at her. “I'm telling you, the last thing I need is another personal dose of William Grey in all this Thirdness.”

Attack of the “Anti”

T
his is all his fault, I tell you.

Don't think for a second that I had any other choice in the matter. It's his silly assignment that got us into this ridiculous argument and, honestly, I didn't think it'd turn out quite this bad.

Still, some guilty part of me enjoys watching William Grey III squirm though the most frilly, girlie-girl tea service Seattle has to offer. It shouldn't amuse me that his hand can't even fit through the teacup handle. This probably violates the Geneva Convention on the treatment of loan officers. He looks like he's going to tumble off that prissy little chair any minute now.

“Have you a slightly larger cup?” Will's making a heroic effort and getting through this with his dignity intact. The snickering pack of grandmoth
ers to our left aren't helping. And I did wince (if only inwardly) when the lace-covered eight-year-old pointed at Will and asked in a delightfully loud voice “Mommy, why is
he
here? He's a boy!” I planned on taking Will Grey to tea, not taking him down a peg with his own weapon…ahem…beverage of choice.

Okay, okay, I know you want to know how we got here. Believe it or not, it was Will's own class homework. The one he assigned after the infamous three-word list. He told us to come up with a list of things we'd
never
do with our business. Sort of the anti-Higher Grounds. Which, after class, got us into a discussion of whether or not my coffeehouse would serve tea. Which got us into a discussion of the merits of coffee vs. tea. Which, despite our calm and mature adult natures, regressed into an argument about how tea is for sissies (granted, my words, not his). He got under my skin—again. He was making it sound like grunting lowlifes go for coffee and the world's finer intellects understand the complex nature of tea. I can get into an argument with this guy at the drop of a hat.

He told us that we'd get extra points for using vivid descriptions in our assignments. Sign me up for that extra credit, because how much more vivid can you get than to actually take the teacher there? I looked for the highest high tea I could find a booked and table for two. Who knew I would find the fluffiest, stuffiest, girliest, lace-and-doily-coated high tea in town?

So, it's not completely my fault that he's sitting in a tiny chair, surrounded by chintz and ruffles, attempting to get his large hand around a teacup the size of a plum. His knees barely fit under the table. Still, it meets the assignment: there's nothing fun or funky or hip about this place. There's potpourri oozing out of every crevice. Harp music lilts out of a corner filled with stuffed cats and baby dolls. We're surrounded by violets and baby's breath. This is everything I don't want Higher Grounds to be. In dainty stereo sensaround. It looks like we stumbled into a nineteenth-century girl's dollhouse.

I'm not even sure the tea they serve here qualifies as caffeine. I can still see the china pattern at the bottom of my cup and I've let this brew steep for twice the normal time.

I was just starting to feel really guilty when the waitress started staring at him. Ogling, actually. It only took three words of his British accent to start the wait staff falling over him as though he were some kind of celebrity.

“Would this do?” A waitress appears with—and I don't know how they pulled this off—a masculine teacup. Not quite a mug, but a hefty cup with a hefty saucer.
Hey, if I have to endure this itty-bitty cup for my faint brown liquid, everybody does!

“Splendid!” he says, sounding like the king of England. Our waitress coos. “And might you have anything along the lines of roast beef? Something with meat in it.”

“Oh,” she says, “we've just the thing.” With a giggle, she darts off behind the kitchen curtains.

“Roast beef is not part of high tea,” I point out, trying to keep an upper hand on the situation. “We're supposed to be having high tea. We're on assignment.”

“I cannot believe I let you goad me into this,” Will says, taking great care to unfold one leg without knocking over the entire table. “Every ounce of testosterone in my body is working in overdrive to maintain the manly dignity currently under fire in my present surroundings.”

I'm pretty sure I've just been chastised.

Those steely eyes pin me to my chintz. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Miss Black, but men drink tea. Men
enjoy
tea. In the orient, men spend years studying and mastering the art of tea. I drink tea. I
like
tea. I do not like coffee. And no matter how many tiny cucumber sandwiches you subject me to, no matter how much lace you surround me with, I am a man—an Englishman. I drink tea. I'm fine with that. And those facts
will not change.
” His smile is gleaming and victorious. “Although, I'd have suggested a far less flattering frock if you were looking to do me in.” He takes a bite, “mmm”ing in such a way that our waitress erupts in more blushing giggles. “Against all odds, I find myself rather enjoying the afternoon.”

Flattering frock? Frock?
Did he just compliment my dress?

I have to give this guy serious credit. Any one of
my brothers would be frying like an ant under a magnifying glass if this happened to them. And he's “rather enjoying the afternoon.”

I have underestimated my opponent. It is battle we're in, isn't it?

“I'd be remiss if I didn't extend an invitation in return, wouldn't I?” Will says, taking another bite. How did he gain control of the conversation like that? “You do own a pair of trainers, don't you?” He pulls out a pen and begins to write something down on the back of a business card.

“A what?”

“Trainers.” He squints in thought for a moment. “Athletic shoes. Sneakers, I believe you call them?”

“Um, yes.”

“Splendid. And you're free tomorrow afternoon around three?”

“I get off work at two.”

Never, never underestimate your banker.

Or take him to tea.

 

“Oh, no.”

“No, really, Maggie, I think this is definitely what you need.”

I am suddenly aware of the near-foot Will Grey has over me. I'm not short, but he's tall. They're all tall. All of them have Will's height, but most of them are twice as heavy. I'm standing in a patch of grass staring at a line of enormous men. Human fortresses in striped shirts. “No sirree, what I need is to stay clear of rugby fields for the rest of my life.”

“Pitch, actually. Rugby
pitch.
And conversely, I think getting on a rugby pitch is exactly what you need. Back on the horse that threw you, as it were.”

“There will be no throwing of anything in my presence. Show a little mercy here, the bruises are finally fading.”

“Yeah,” says a man I instantly recognize as my assailant, Arthur Sumners. “Really sorry about that. And so,” Arthur grins, “show 'er, boys.”

With that the line of men steps aside to reveal a bench with six rugby balls on it. Each taped down—repeatedly—with multiple strips of duct tape. Half of them are snickering, the other half are staring at Will, who merely salutes me. “Precautionary measures,” he states. “You're the
only one
allowed to hold the ball today.”

Should I be flattered? Or frightened?

“Now,” says Will, not quite keeping the laugh out of his voice, “This is a rugby pitch. It's about the size of your football fields. Like football, you try to score points by getting your ball across the goal line, only we call it a ‘try' instead of a touchdown. Any of those three brothers teach you to throw?”

“Yes,” I reply, slowly and suspiciously, not liking at all where this is going. I believe I'm being subjected to the anti-high tea here. Will goes on about fly-somethings, backward throws (they throw backward?) and I've no idea what a scrum or a line out is, although he told me. What I did hear was the word
tackling.

There will be no tackling.

I heard the word
maul
somewhere in that description, too, and it didn't do much for my sense of calm.

“Sorry I could only get half the team here, but I think you'll get a feel for the game anyway.” Will says after introducing each of the giants by name.

That's only half of them?

“Ready?”

“No!”

“Brilliant. Now take the ball…”

 

When it is all over, Will points a muddy finger at me. “Admit it. You had fun.”

“I'm filthy.”

He picks up the sack of equipment and hoists it over one shoulder. “But unharmed. And you had fun.”

I adopt a poor mimic of Will's accent. “Despite all odds, I found myself rather enjoying the afternoon.”

Will laughs. I feel the sound in the pit of my stomach. He is muddier than I—which is saying something—and his hair hangs down playfully in his eyes. His chin boasts a reckless smudge of dirt. “You did.” After a moment, he adds with a quiet grin, “I did, too.”

Did I have fun? I had a wonderful time. I saw an energetic, lighthearted side of William Grey that tugged at me in ways I didn't expect.

I want to know more about this man. His past, what he thinks about God. About his politics and what his favorite music is. Where he got that scar above his right eye and what his family thinks of
him being so far from home. I find myself asking God to let me know he's a man of faith, because my attraction to him is growing faster than I can handle if he isn't.

Before I can stop myself, I reach out and pull a leaf from his hair. Our eyes lock, frozen by the moment.

“Maggie,” he says after what feels like an hour, his expression undecipherable.

“Mmm, hmm,” I'm too stunned to attempt an actual word.

“I find you—” he shifts the bag on his shoulder and shuffles a foot in the grass “—far more appealing than I should, given our situation.”

What does a girl say to that?

“I shouldn't even be seeing you outside of class, but…” he doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.

He feels it, just as I do. I'm suddenly dizzy and my stomach just left the county. “Will…”

“This is dangerous. Maggie, the consequences of this are enormous. For both of us. Whatever is…happening…between us…well…it's not a very good idea. You see that, don't you?”

“Yes,” I reply far too quickly, spooked by the fact that he feels this spark between us. “I mean, of
course
I see that. And there really is…nothing…happening…” my voice just trails off because that's ridiculous, we both know there is something happening. A very big, very scary something neither of us invited.

“It's not just the business side of things,
Maggie.” Will lets the bag of gear slide off his shoulders and looks straight into my eyes. Oh, those eyes. They could pull you right inside them if you weren't careful. “We are both people of faith. I know we haven't discussed it, but it is the case and it means that we need to be careful.” He shifts his weight and continues, “I hope it doesn't surprise you that I take my faith as seriously as you do. We shouldn't be casual about this. Not that I don't…” He pushes out a breath. “I'm speaking in rubbish here. What I'm trying to say is that…I think we need to be very cautious about how we spend any time with each other outside of class.”

Will Grey is a man of faith. Genuine, deep faith.

He's my banker. He's my teacher. Oh, Lord, how could You? How could You send someone into my life who's so right and so wrong all at once?