CoffeeHouse Angel

by Suzanne Sellars

"That was nice of you to see her."

  "I wanted to say good-bye."

  I held my breath. Was it going to end right then and there?

  "Now that the message is delivered, I can't keep coming back. I've broken all the rules by getting to know you, by meeting your friends and family. I've got to give you that reward and then be on my way." He pulled me closer. "But I don't want to go."

  Don't cry, don't cry. You knew this was going to happen.

  Of all the things that had happened that week--almost losing the coffeehouse, almost losing my grandmother, the fight with Vincent, facing Mr. Darling, learning the truth about Irmgaard, and risking everything on the Emporium-- Malcolm had been a bright spot. He'd been...an angel.

  I looked into his eyes. "I guess we have to say good-bye."

  And that's when it happened. He leaned forward and kissed me. It was the last thing I had expected to happen. And it was my first kiss. And first kisses, from what I've been told, are usually awkward. You have to figure out which way to tilt your head, how not to smack your teeth together, and what to do with your tongue. It's a lot to think about.

  But there wasn't time to think about any of that because the moment his lips touched mine, an electric jolt ran all the way down to my toes, as if I had stuck my lips into a socket.

  This is not a metaphor. I'm being literal. It was an actual electric jolt. We both jumped. "Ouch," I said, pulling away.

  A little thread of smoke rose off his lower lip. He frowned and rubbed it. "I guess I'm not supposed to do that."

  "I guess not." I rubbed my lower lip too. "That really hurt."

  As the other couples danced around us, we stood there, smelling like singed flesh. My first kiss had nearly liquefied my face. What would happen next? Would the floor open up and swallow us in another sinkhole?

  "Katrina," he said sadly.

  "I know. You have to go."

  We left the hall. Snow was still falling, casting its silent charm on everything it touched. Even the fire hydrants looked magical with their snow hats. St. Nicholas handed us each a candy cane as we walked by the blue spruce, its branches heavy with pinecones and lights. A circle of shoes wound beneath to bring harmony to the town. Malcolm took my hand and we walked to the waterfront park. A caroling group sang in the gazebo. We sat on a bench and looked out over the bay. Snow fell on my shoulders and clung to Malcolm's hair.

  "I've got a confession to make." His satchel appeared on the bench, the golden letters glittering once again. He pulled out the little black law book. "There's actually nothing in here. I made it all up."

  "Made it all up?"

  "The bit about rewarding the good deed. You see, I was sent here to deliver Irmgaard's message. I'm not authorized to grant wishes. But I wanted to get to know the one girl who had noticed me. I wanted to spend a wee bit of time with you, to see what your life was like, and then maybe I'd understand why you, of all people, had noticed me. So I made you that promise, to reward your good deed. It's got me in a lot of trouble. I'll be getting--"

  "Let me guess," I said. "You won't be getting that promotion."

  He smiled. "You've been paying attention."

  "So all of this, the fortune, the fame, was just to get to know me?"

  "Yes."

  A gust of wind whooshed over us, sending our hair into a flying spin. Malcolm reached into his satchel again and pulled out the packet of chocolate-covered coffee beans I had given him, then tipped the last bean into his palm. "An angel never breaks a promise. What you most desire, Katrina. It's yours." He handed me the bean.

  "I already got what I most desired," I said. "I found out that I was good at something."

  "But you did that on your own. I still need to grant you a wish. Surely you have a new desire?" The wind came again, stronger this time. It nearly knocked me off the bench.

  The ends of Malcolm's hair whipped against his face.

  "Can I wish for you to stay?" I asked loudly, wind roaring in my ears.

  "Messengers can't stay," he said. The bench began to tremble. The wind came stronger. Malcolm grabbed my waist to keep me from being swept off. "I've got to be going. Hurry, Katrina. Make your wish now."

  I closed both hands around the bean. "What do I do?" I yelled.

  "Just wish it. But remember, it will only work if it's what you most desire. Do it now.

  We're running out of time."

  What I most desire. What I most desire.

  I looked right into his electric eyes and made my wish. Then I popped the bean into my mouth and swallowed it whole.

  For a moment, the world stood still. We sat in a silent bubble, just us two, insulated from the snow and the wind. His eyes widened. "But, Katrina, that wish was supposed to be for you."

  "It's what I most desire."

  And it was.

  The bubble burst. Another gust of wind came, picking up fallen snow as it swept its way toward our bench. It blew over us and before I could say anything else, Malcolm's hand tightened on my waist, and then he dissolved into a swirl of glittering snowflakes.

  He was gone.

  I reached into the empty space. Cold pierced my blue velvet dress. I'd never see him again.

  That's when a voice called out my name.

  Thirty-four

  Vincent's dad, dressed in his security uniform, walked toward me. "What are you doing out here alone?" he asked. "Hey, you're shivering." He took off his gray coat with its silver badge and wrapped it around my shoulders. Then he sat in the place where an angel had sat only moments before. "Katrina? What's the matter?"

  I didn't want to explain. Losing someone is the worst feeling. Loss carves out a deep, hollow pocket. There's no magical way to fill it, no medicine or Band-Aid or surgery to cure it. I suppose that over time you get used to it, the way I had gotten used to not having my parents around. But the feeling never totally goes away. And the more time you spend on earth, the more pockets you'll collect. But it's part of living. It's life.

  Some of us are lucky enough to be alive.

  "Where's Vincent?" I asked through chattering teeth.

  "He's on the deck behind the booth, watching the Solstice ships." Mr. Hawk buttoned the top button so the coat wouldn't slip off my shoulders. "How come you're not with him? He's been moping around lately. You two been fighting?"

  Moping around? Did Vincent feel as bad as I felt?

  "Thanks for the coat, Mr. Hawk," I said, jumping to my feet. Then I ran past the gazebo as carolers sang "Frosty the Snowman." The snowfall had eased. Soft little flakes floated from the sky, glittering like sequins. I ran to the dock. The Solstice ships had lined up in the marina. Colored lights wound around masts and along deck rails. Canned holiday music drifted from the lead boat.

  Vincent sat on the bench behind the security booth, looking out over the water. I didn't worry about rejection or embarrassment or pride. I wiped snow off the bench and sat right down. "I didn't want to break our tradition," I said.

  He pushed back his knit hat, his eyes widening with surprise. "Uh, me neither."

  I took a big breath and looked into his brown eyes. "I'm sorry I got so mad. I went a little crazy. I had no right to tell you not to go into Java Heaven. And it's stupid of me to be mad just because you're dating Heidi. I think I got so used to having you all to myself, I wasn't ready to share you. Which is ridiculous, when you think about it." I blew on my fingertips.

  "It's not ridiculous." He took off his gloves and gave them to me. They were toasty warm inside. "I felt the same way. When I saw you with that guy, it made me feel kind of sad." He fidgeted. "Look, Katrina, I never went inside Java Heaven. I want you to know that. Heidi lied at the assembly. I never agreed to help with those snowflakes. And when Mr. Darling put my name on that billboard, I should have complained. I guess I kind of liked seeing my name on a billboard. Weird, huh?"

  The bad feelings felt like a snakeskin that I just wanted to shed and leave behind.

  "You were helping the swim team. And Heidi's your gi
rlfriend. I'm fine with it.

  Really. I don't care about Java Heaven anymore."

  "Heidi's not my girlfriend. She just wanted to be featured in all those interviews I was doing." He sighed and slumped forward, resting his arms on his knees. "She wanted to go out with Vincent the hero."

  "I'm sorry it didn't work out." I was. Truly sorry. My best friend had gotten his heart broken and I could feel his hurt almost as deeply as I could feel my own. "Really, really sorry."

  He sat back. "It's okay. I'll get over it. She would have killed me, anyway, with all her extra activities. Her dad makes her do all that stuff. He really pushes her hard. I feel sorry for her. What about you? Are you still going out with that guy?"

  "No. He left town."

  "Oh. I'm sorry it didn't work out."

  "Me too." My jaw trembled, partly from the cold, but mostly because sadness was creeping all over me.

  Vincent reached under the bench and pulled out a blanket, then draped it over our legs. People gathered along the docks to watch as the ships slowly motored out of the harbor. St. Nicholas waved from the lead boat. For one magical night, all the people of Nordby gathered to pay homage to the season, to remember times past and to dance to the old music. To eat weird Old World food, drink New World coffee, and to pet a giant mutant stuffed rat. The two of us, as it had been for so long, sat on that bench, knowing that it would never be quite the same again. We'd go our separate ways, pulled by our desires like ships sailing out of the harbor. But for that moment, as the festival swirled around us, we could pretend that it would always be the same.

  Vincent stretched out his long lean legs. "You know, we're going to have to get used to this."

  "To what?"

  "To us going out with other people."

  "I know."

  "It can't always be us two."

  "I know." I looked up at the winter sky. "Do you think it's weird that we're not in love with each other?"

  "No. I think it's perfect."

  "Me too." I scooted closer and rested my head on his chlorine-scented shoulder.

  Thirty-five

  Well, the story's not quite over. Here's what happened after the Winter Solstice Festival.

  A Nordby News reporter broke the story about Mr. Darling's generic coffee, calling it a "scandal." Turned out that when the crane driver pulled the Buick out of the sinkhole, a certain crumpled piece of paper fell out the window and landed at the reporter's feet. Yes, indeed. The uproar was huge. The town council voted Mr.

  Darling off all committees and the police department looked into possible charges of consumer fraud. The Organic Coffee Coalition threatened to sue on behalf of consumers everywhere.

  Mr. Darling packed up and left town, abandoning his coffeehouse and his offer to buy the building. Heidi and her mother stayed, however, which was great because Heidi became a changed person overnight. Her father had been the one pushing all those extra activities. She stopped doing all that school spirit stuff and focused all her energy on the swim team. She and Vincent ended up getting back together and I got used to having her around. We solved the whole movie theater thing by having him sit in the middle. You can get used to anything, if you put your mind to it.

  Ratcatcher's fame grew. Thanks to Elizabeth's marketing genius and Web connections, Nordby became the Loch Ness of Washington State, with "rumored sightings" of a giant mutant rat that lived in the bay. Some thought it was the dead rat's mourning mate. The Emporium sold tons of custom-made stuffed black-and-white cats and stuffed rats. Elizabeth created a coloring book and Elliott worked an afternoon a week as our accountant. They started going out. Elliott put on ten pounds right away, which is really easy to do if you hang out with Elizabeth.

  What about Anna's Old World Scandinavian Coffeehouse? Well, we moved right into Java Heaven's space. We bought some of the equipment from Mrs. Darling, who was happy to get rid of it. Along with fancy organic coffee drinks, we continued to serve the old-fashioned stuff. The laptop crowd shared the space with the retired crowd, and those sardine sandwiches became one of our most popular items.

  Irmgaard became the manager and kept making soup and krumkakes. She let her hair grow and though she remained a woman of few words, the words she chose were worthy of a place in this world.

  Grandma Anna recovered, but she cut way back on her hours and started some new hobbies. She learned how to play Hnefatafl. She went on a Mexican Riviera cruise with the ladies from the shoe shop. She raised money for the cardiac wing of the hospital by hosting a neighborhood garage sale, which included all the junk from my Closet of Failure. Her heart beat steady and strong.

  Me? Well, I focused on my grades at school, because my new goal was to get an MBA, which is a master's degree in business administration. I decided to become a venture capitalist. That's a fancy title for someone who risks their money by helping other people start up businesses. Seemed I had a knack for something, after all.

  But that's still not the end of the story. There was a little something to do with that third coffee bean.

  What I had desired on that night as the winter wind whipped past, was for Malcolm to get his promotion. But I had no way of knowing if my wish had come.

  Until I took out the recycling one Saturday morning in March.

  I had a bin of papers from the Emporium that I needed to leave beside the Dumpster.

  In my part of the world, mornings are still dark in March, so I turned on the yellow alley light. And there he was, sitting on a pile of crates, wearing a khaki kilt and my grandfather's white sweater. His satchel was slung over his shoulder and he grinned like a kid. I dropped the bin. "Malcolm?" I couldn't believe that he was sitting there. I hadn't stopped missing him, had hoped every day that maybe he'd have another message to deliver in Nordby. That maybe he'd show up in the alley again.

  He didn't say a word. Just walked right up to me and this is what he did. He slid his arms around my waist and kissed me. My face didn't liquefy. No singed flesh, no smoke. The kiss still felt electric, but in a non-life-threatening way. Then I pulled away. "What...?"

  "I got that promotion," he said with a blinding smile.

  "You did?" Something had changed. I sniffed. Where was that Highland smell?

  Where was that cloud of tropical air? I put my hand to his cheek. It felt cool.

  He held out his satchel. The words Messenger Service were gone.

  "You got that promotion." I said the words slowly, the truth filling me with fear. "Oh no, this is my fault. I did this to you with my wish. I'm so sorry, Malcolm." I stepped away.

  "Why are you sorry?"

  He was mortal. I had made him mortal. "I didn't realize that the promotion meant you'd become...Oh God, Malcolm, will you ever forgive me? Because of me you're going to--"

  "Live. Because of you I'm going to live." He smiled again and held out his arms. "It's exactly what I longed for, Katrina. It's everything I always wanted. It's the highest honor an angel can achieve."

  "It is?"

  He pulled me close. "Do you know where I can get one of those photo albums? So I can start a record of my life?"

  "We have some in the Emporium, if you don't mind one with a giant rat on the cover."

  We went into the coffeehouse, and as the busy morning flew around us, customers finding seats, engaging in conversation, clicking on laptops, milk being steamed, coffee being ground, people starting their day, Malcolm and I shared a krumkake at the corner table as if the world had actually stopped. He stared into my eyes and just like before, that feather duster feeling swept over my entire body.

  So go ahead and take a picture of that and stick it on a postcard.

  Acknowledgments

  Nordby is based on the quaint town of Poulsbo, Washington, not far from my home. If you get the chance to visit Poulsbo, you won't be disappointed. It's a delight. I wrote much of this book there, while sitting in one of my favorite coffeehouses, Hot Shots Java. I'd like to thank its staff for supplying me with great coffee and the perf
ect place to write. And those little dark chocolate sticks are always appreciated.

  And again, I'd like to thank my writers' group for their fastidious attention to the first draft: Anjali Banerjee, Carol Cassella, Sheila Rabe, Elsa Watson, and Susan Wiggs.

  I'm still blessed to have my agent, Michael Bourret, and my editor, Emily Easton.

  Thanks to the entire staff at Walker Books for Young Readers.

  I always love to hear from my readers, so please write to me. You can visit my Web site at www.suzanneselfors.com.

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