The Perfect Blend (9 page)

Just one more shot

“Y
ou should open your own place.”

Those words echoed in my head the entire afternoon, like a blessed affirmation. As the sun went down, though, doubts crept in with the shadows. Am I really doing what God wants? Or just seeing what I want to see through the filter of my own ambition? I think of David, loading his slingshot to take down the giant. He trusted God to help him beat the monumental odds against him. I feel the same way.

Then I remember David didn't exactly play it squeaky clean once he grew up. Would I ever let my success drown out my ability to hear God?
If You told me to abandon Higher Grounds, Lord, would I even listen?
What separates single-minded devotion from self-serving obsession?

As if feeding on its own doubts, my mind turns to Will.
Why send me a highly attractive yet out-of-bounds Englishman with serious family baggage? Why am I always wondering what Will Grey is doing? I thought I was on my way to my ministry, but instead everything is feeling so out of place.

And a tea drinker? Is this Your idea of a joke?

I don't know if I was expecting the answer to appear on the bottom of my prayer journal page, but my pen stays still, my page doesn't fill and I am still confused. Maybe I need to go on retreat or something. Climb a mountain with only a thermos of coffee, my journal and a Bible.

My contemplation is cut short by the phone ringing.

“You free Saturday morning?” Diane often thinks of herself as my social secretary. Most women might find that annoying but, sadly, I need her. Outside of family stuff, I'm never busy. Diane always whips up something for me to do.

“What's up?”

“I'm taking photos for this guy's CD cover. Christian acoustic Folk. Deep, faith-filled…”

“And exceedingly handsome?” I finish for her. Diane's loyal and fun-loving, but a little predictable.

“Adorable. I need someone to hold the lights if it's windy.”

“Sure. I actually don't have to work Saturday.” I dump the basket of white laundry—this job has me wearing every white shirt I own—onto my bed
and start folding with the phone wedged between my shoulder and my ear.

“I'll pick you up at nine. Oh, and wear sensible shoes. We're shooting out at Sand Point on the Art Walk.”

Let's just hope I can get through a trip to Sand Point without a visit to the emergency room this time.

 

“Turn a little toward me. Drop the guitar about six inches. There we go. That's it.” Diane's camera whirs through half a dozen shots. This was fun for about twenty minutes. Now, it's tedious. I'm essentially a human lamp, holding something that looks like a cross between a lightbulb and an umbrella, watching Mr. Deep and Faithful's hair blow compellingly in the breeze.

Sure, I'll buy his CD.

If it means I can stop holding all this hardware.

“Di,” I murmur out of Mr. Deep and Faithful's earshot, “are you going for perfection or just seeing how much time you can stare at him through the camera lens?” Sometimes, I question why Diane took up photography in the first place. Was it really for the art? Or just for the ogling?

“Just one more shot,” Diane pleads with squinted eyes. “Maybe two.”

“It was ‘maybe two' half an hour ago. I know patience is a virtue, but can I stop playing light fixture now?”

Diane tries to glare at me. It can't work, though, because she realizes I'm already onto her attempts
to play this little scenario out as long as possible. Now she can't stare me down. “Fine,” she concedes. “We won't need the light if I just do ambient-light close-ups anyhow. Go take a walk or something and I'll ring your cell when we're ready to go.”

When she's ready to go? I can probably find a coffee bar, drink three cups and read the morning paper by the time she's “ready to go.” Ambient-light close-ups.
Please.
I hear her cooing to the guy to turn toward the sun as I wander out past the large-scale outdoor art that adorns Sand Point's Magnuson Park. The morning is cool and clear; people are already on the Kite Hill flying colorful masterpieces. I keep walking down the Art Walk, no particular destination in mind, just glad not to be holding something upright for minutes on end.

I must have been meandering for twenty minutes or so, my thoughts directed more inward than on the scenery. “Whazza matter, sunshine, leave your game face at home today?” A growling Aussie accent pierces the morning air—and my thoughts.

Oh, no.

A chorus of grunts and the sound of general male mayhem echoes from up over the hill.

Magnuson Park. Sand Point. The athletic fields.

Rugby practice. Will.

I make a Lord, You're-not-serious? face toward heaven and scramble my way up the hill just in time to see Arthur Sumners thrust himself into what looks like a pile of grizzly humanity. I look at the locked circle of arms and legs, twitching and
moving down the field like some kind of multi-legged ambulatory wrestling amoeba. Whoever called it a
maul
had a good gift for description.

Oh, no, you don't. My stomach is absolutely
not
allowed to do that little flippy thing because
he's
here.

But he
is
here. He stands out from the other guys, mud and all, as he runs down the field or pitch or whatever it is they call it. You know, when women get dirty, we look…well…dirty. How come when men get dirty, they look all rugged and handsome? We don't look like that when our hair gets mussed up. We look mussed up. He looks…oh, let's not go there.

“Will you look at that? I'm bleeding again. Why am I always bleeding?” Arthur moans to his teammates.

“Must be all that time you spend grinding your face into the ground.” Will fishes a handkerchief out of his shorts pocket and hands it to Art. A handkerchief. Come on, when's the last time you saw anyone use one of those? Okay, anyone under fifty?

It's no big deal. I'll just slip back down the hill before anyone sees me. We all know what happened the last time I got anywhere near…

He saw me. Did you see that? His whole body went still the minute he saw me. He's fifty yards away and I still feel it under my skin. Great. If I walk away now, I'll look like I'm running. If I stand still, I'll look stupid. I've got to walk toward him. Oh, closer is not exactly where I want to be right now.

Couldn't they start the game up now or something? Urgent rugby business and all?

Will jogs up the hill toward me. “I can't seem to stop running into you. Fancy that,” he pants breathlessly, bending over a bit and wiping the grime off his face.

“Yeah. Fancy that.” Oh, stunning Maggie. Just stunning.

“Well, I know you're not turning in a paper. Out for a walk?” He flicks some grass out of his hair.

“I'm helping my friend Diane take some photographs.” I can't remember what I threw on for clothes this morning. Do I have earrings in? No, you fool, don't reach up and check. Look casual. Cas-u-al. “I got tired of holding her equipment. Are you winning or losing?”

Will cocks his head back toward the team. “The lads? We haven't started playing yet. The game's in half an hour or so. We're just warming up.”

“By inflicting injury? Aren't you supposed to stay clean until the starting pitch or whatever?”

Will cracks a disarming smile. “Funny. Starting
kick,
by the way. Besides, there's no clean in rugby.”

“So I see.”

“Hey Romeo, we've got a match in twenty. Think you can save the flirting for afterwards?” Art's baritone booms across the grass.

“I've…well…you know.”

I wave him off. “What ho the lads and all. Go beat each other up and have fun.”

Will starts down the hill. Three steps into it, he turns back. “You could stay and watch…that is…if you'd like.” It's as if he's almost embarrassed to ask.

“Hey, we all know how it turned out the last time. I'm just all healed. Wouldn't want to risk it. Besides, I gotta get back to Diane.”
Liar.

“Of course.”

“Grey!” Another teammate calls out impatiently.

“Have fun,” I say as Will waves and jogs off down the hill.

That.
That hum in my stomach. Why does that have to happen with Will Grey of all people?

The trouble with brilliant theories

“S
o,” Will says, writing two words on the classroom whiteboard, “the biggest question facing most of you is where to spend and where to save.” He underlines
spend
and
save
where he's written them in crisp, precise capital letters. “I'm going to tell you a story.”

Will Grey? Spinning tales? This is a new one.

“A real-estate broker was unimpressed with his success. He'd furnished a posh office for his high-end clientele, had brochures and business cards printed up, hired a secretary to answer his calls and focused his considerable talents on finding new business. He did well, but not as well as he wanted. After three months of pondering the problem, our hero sacked his secretary, closed his office, bought a powerful laptop computer, launched a Web site
and leased a top-of-the-line Mercedes Benz with every luxury option made. For the next month he ran his businesses essentially from that car, without the benefit of desk or secretary. He tripled his business by the end of the year.” Will sits on the desk. “Why?”

“Internet,” replies Josh Mason. “It's the marketplace of the future for everything, I'm telling you.” Did anyone really expect cyber-guy to have any other answer?

“Correct, in part. But I'm looking for a bigger answer here.”

Jerry Davis hoists a chunky little hand. I think Will's told him five times that he doesn't have to raise his hand; this isn't eighth grade. He still raises his hand and waits for Will to call on him. Will does. “He lowered his overhead. No rent, no employees, higher profits.”

Will nods at Jerry. “You're getting closer. But you're all still just looking at parts of the picture and missing the whole. Think, ladies and gentlemen, think bigger.”

It dawns on me. A light bulb just lit up over my head. “He put his money in the right places,” I offer. “Real-estate brokers are always driving people around in their cars. A fancy car connotes success. No one cares about a broker's office, because by the time they're in there to sign the papers he's already hooked them as a customer anyway. Plus, now he's constantly mobile, so he's always out in the field where the business—and the customers—are.” I
get it. I finally get it! I've always been passionate about reaching people, but this is the first time I'm catching the craving for building a strong
business.
I think this is what Will was aiming for all along—to match business skills with my desire to fulfill my mission. That “doing it as unto the Lord” also means getting the business end—that numbers element—right, because a strong business can reach further, last longer and do more. What do you know? The William Grey numbers fever is actually contagious.

“Yes!” Will shouts. I've never heard him shout in class before. There's this moment, this stop-the-clocks moment, where the room hums. Our eyes lock onto each other and…I don't know how else to put this: he knows I know. He gets that I get it. I feel like I just downed a quintuple-shot Americano with extra sugar.

“It's not always about economy or efficiency.” He continues after what seems like a huge pause. Did anyone else notice what just happened? They all look pretty normal to me. Josh is typing at blinding speed, Jerry just looks confused. Every one else in the class seems oblivious to the connection I just felt. Will and I are staring at each other, while trying not to stare at each other. “It's not always about where to cut your costs.” Okay, that's the first time I've ever heard Will repeat himself in class. He clears his throat. I find something interesting on my shoe. “We often think of spending only what we need. There are places in every
business where spending more than what you need—splurging, if you will—may mean the difference between a mediocre business and a successful one. Excellence. Don't just meet your customer's expectations,
exceed
them. And you must know where the money should go to make that happen.”

Will points to another class member. “Miss Rockhurst,” he says as he moves to stand right in front of her. “Where's a place to splurge in your store?”

Linda Rockhurst, who wants to open a house-wares boutique, thinks for a moment. “Bed sheets.” She says, her meek voice gaining a bit of confidence. “If they feel absolutely fabulous, some people will pay anything for them.”

Will spins to face Jerry. “What's the single most important ingredient in your pasta sauce?”

“That's easy,” Jerry replies, almost chuckling. “Tomatoes.”

“Then job number one for you is finding the absolute best tomatoes in Seattle. On the whole West Coast, for that matter. Are they expensive?”

“You'd better believe it,” quips Jerry. It's the closest thing to a joke he's made all class.

“And, people, is that a good place for Mr. Davis to put a lot of money?”

“Yes.” We all reply in chorus.

Will beams. Positively beams.

“Maggie, will your customers care what's on your cups?”

Of course. I certainly care. It's tantamount to
traveling advertising. And traveling advertising means more people get to experience Higher Grounds. “Yes, that's where my logo goes.”

“Mr. Mason,” Will spins toward Josh again. “Think about the last time you had a cup of coffee at somewhere other than a chain. What was on the cup?”

Josh thinks for a moment. “I have no idea.”

Will snaps both fingers. “Classic. Absolutely classic.” His excitement could light the room. “That's not saying there isn't a time to invest in custom-printed cups for Higher Grounds, but it isn't now. Now is all about the…the what? What matters most to your coffeehouse?”

I open my mouth to answer.

“Besides the beans,” he interrupts, his voice nearly playful.

It's not even the beans—although they're important. I don't even have to think for a second. “The espresso machine.” I can see that baby in my mind right now. The gleaming metal. The perfectly aligned levers and cups. The sound of steam so sweet it's like a melody.

“And a top-of-the-line machine runs you…? He stands at the whiteboard, having already written the dollar sign, waiting to fill in the number.

“Um…more than my current car, that's for sure.”

He looks mildly surprised. He probably has a ten-dollar coffeemaker—if that—in his home. Maybe just a six-dollar teakettle. “Specifically?”

“Fourteen thousand dollars. For the absolute
finest, you'd pay fourteen thousand. And you might have to buy two to keep up with rush hour.”

You can tell that's absolutely not the answer he was looking for. It's a huge percentage of my start-up costs. He hesitates before writing down the number I just gave him. It's too much. He'd never condone my spending that kind of money, even though he just spent the last half an hour telling us to spend that kind of money. I told you I'm always breaking the rules. I just blew a hole in his theory, in his whole lesson. I can see his gears turning, trying to figure out how to cope with the exception—my exception—to his brilliant theory. He can't just turn around and say “Except if we're talking about espresso machines, in which case frugal mediocrity will just have to do.”

He turns around to face the class. “Well, it certainly does give one food for thought, doesn't it?” All the passion, all the energy of the last twenty minutes has evaporated, replaced by the crisp, reserved banker we've had all along.

Want to tell me what just happened? Because I have no idea.

We just had this amazing connection—Will and I—followed by a bucket of ice water. I'm reeling, and I think he is, too. I've messed up his math, and I'm feeling bad about it even though it's no fault of my own. Not because I don't like being the exception to every rule—actually, I find that role lots of fun. It's the palpable lack of excitement that now fills the room. The deflated moment. A huge case of unspoken, psychological oh, well, never mind.

I hate it. Why do I hate it?

Because I caused it. Or, at least, I
feel
like I caused it. Because money just got in the way of mission.

Again.