The Perfect Blend

by Allie Pleiter

  “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.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The obvious under pressure

  Will wrapped up class in an efficient six minutes and is presently stomping back to his office. Oh, no, you don’t. You don’t get to do that to my insides and then stomp away mad. I didn’t set the price for fine espresso hardware. You can’t take this out on me. Not now. Not after what I just figured out.

  “Will!” I run down the hall after him, not caring that I’ve just used his first name in public. He doesn’t even turn around. I’m not letting him get away. I hurl myself around the corner and catch his elbow. “Just slow down a minute, will you?”

  He turns, his face unreadable.

  “You’re mad at me.” Yes, folks, I can usually be counted on to state the obvious when under pressure. Pressure is what makes good espresso, but it’s not what makes good Maggie Black.

  “I most certainly am not.” He starts walking again. Give me a break; a more obvious statement of untruth has never existed.

  “It’s not my fault espresso machines are so expensive, you know.” I start after him, almost running to keep up with his agitated strides. “Why is it okay for everyone else to splurge but not me? Jerry’s tomatoes are worth their weight in gold but I have to make do with a mediocre espresso machine?”

  “I never said that.” Will turns the corner into his office.

  “You didn’t have to. It was all over your face.” I follow right behind.

  He plants his books on his credenza. “Why must you be so aggravating?”

  “I’m not. You started it.” Juvenile as that sounds, it’s absolutely true. “You posed the theory about when it makes sense to buy the very best. You asked me how much the machines cost. I told you. Then you got mad. How is that my fault?”

  Will whips his tie off. “It’s not. You, standing in my office, picking a fight about it—that’s entirely your doing.”

  “Because you got mad.”

  “I did not get mad,” he growls. “I reacted. I expressed my…surprise.”

  “If that’s how Englishmen show their surprise, then remind me never to throw you a surprise party.”

  “I highly doubt that’s an issue.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  He stares at me. I am not leaving.

  Will crosses his arms and leans against his desk. I lean against the door. I push out a huge breath and put my handbag and books down. “Round two,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “Why was the price such a problem?”

  I see him force the same calm into his voice. “A coffeemaker really costs fourteen thousand dollars? And you need two of them?”

  “It’s not a coffeemaker. That twelve dollar hardware-store purchase on your kitchen counter? That’s a coffeemaker. This is a precision industrial instrument. It’s practically a work of art. Handmade. By world-famous guys in Italy. I could get by with one, but not if the location has a drive-through. I’m not crazy about drive-throughs, but if that’s what the research says people want, then I guess I need to have one.”

  He’s impressed I’m actually doing research. For that matter, I’m impressed I’m actually doing research. Still, his expression holds solid doubt. “It’s a huge percentage of your loan request.”

  I slide into his guest chair. “Actually, the way I see it, my loan request will be larger after this class. There’s a lot I didn’t take into consideration.”

  “I’ve been trying to make you see that all along,” he groans.

  “So why is an expensive machine a problem if you say it’ll lead to excellence in my coffee shop?”

  “Because your coffee shop is already a huge risk. Pinning so much capital on one piece of equipment doesn’t make sense for you.”

  I don’t buy that one. “But it does for everyone else?”

  “Everyone else is not facing the same odds you are.”

  I don’t buy that one, either. “God specializes in the tough cases. I’m not worried. How can I make you see that I’m not worried about that kind of stuff?”

  I suddenly see it. Partly satisfying, partly sickening, and completely clear: “You’re protecting me.”

  Yep. Did you see that look? I’m on to him. He probably didn’t even realize it himself. His features darken. No doubt about it; that’s the last thing he wanted to hear.

  Will has no answer for that. He makes an exasperated sound, pushes himself up off the side of the desk and sits down behind it. As if he needs something solid between us.

  I’m not backing down now. This isn’t about coffee or machines or math or money. This is about something far more important and if I don’t ask the real question, we’re never going to get to the real discussion. “Why are you protecting me? Why am I the exception to the rule?”

  “You’re not.”

  “I am,” I blast back, coming up on the edge of my seat.

  “You most certainly are not.”

  “I am and you know I am.”

  Will throws his hands up in the air. “Fine. Fine. You win. You are.”

  I sit back.

  “I can’t look at your case objectively,” Will blurts out. “I’m worried about you and I want to protect you. There. I said it. Are you satisfied?”

  “We need to talk about this.” Unoriginal, granted, but my brain’s going a hundred miles an hour right now.

  “Aren’t we doing that?”

  The sort of helpless, cornered look on his face makes my pulse skip. A warm, gooey kind of skip that makes it impossible to stay angry at this aggravating man. “Look, we can argue about budgets and formulas all you want, but I think we need to talk about something entirely different.” In a fit of bravery, I add, “And you know what it is. And we’d better figure out what to do about it.”

  Will stares at me. My pulse goes past skipping and stops altogether. His eyes look vibrant and powerful—like thunderclouds, both frightening and dazzling at the same time. After a long momen
t, he says, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  You know, I’ve had it with his confounded British reserve. “Since when is this kind of thing ever a good idea? And there is a this kind of thing, Will. Let’s not even try to pretend there isn’t.”

  “That’s dangerous ground, Maggie.”

  Fidgety, I get up out of the chair. “Yes, I know what you said after that rugby tutorial.” I’m pacing. When did I start pacing? “But it isn’t going away, is it? We keep ending up around each other even when we say we won’t. I know we’ve said this is too risky to let happen, but I’ve got news for you, William Grey III, it’s already happened. So what are we going to do about it?” I pick one of the dozen arranged pencils up off his desk and start twirling it in my fingers.

  Will stands up to grab my twitching hands and snatch the pencil from them. “Then maybe we should try harder to stop it.” Suddenly, he realizes he’s holding my hands. He yanks them back, stuffing them into his jacket pockets.

  “Why?”

  “I think that should be obvious.”

  “Bankers shouldn’t date their customers. Yes, I’m sure there’s some handbook with a whole chapter on that. Okay, so why shouldn’t bankers date their customers?”

  “Conflict of interest,” He practically shouts.

  “That’s my call, isn’t it? As for me, there’s no conflict. I’m interested. It’s weird, it’s not at all what I had in mind, but there it is. I’m interested. You’re interested. We can find a solution for the business issues when it comes to that. Let’s let things get interesting and see what happens.”

  Will looks a bit stunned. That might have been a bit too direct, even for me. “Look,” he replies, “it’s not just ‘your call.’ The bank needs to make sure an objective decision gets made. I thought we could just be careful about this but it’s not working. I’m afraid we’ll end up doing something we’ll both regret. And I won’t let that happen.”

  It’s there, all over his face. He’s made up his mind. Even if I want to cross this line, to take this enormous risk, it won’t happen. That hurts worse than any rejection he could have handed me. I yank Will’s office door open. It pops out of me before I can stop it. “Worth all the protection but none of the risk. You don’t want to protect me, you want to protect yourself.”

  I grab my bag and my books and walked out of there as fast as I can, waiting for some kind of reaction from him. Waiting, with some small tender part of me, for him to come after me and stop me.

  He never said a word.

  I cried when I got home.

  It made me furious that I did, but I couldn’t seem to stop. Stupid, isn’t it? I feel horrible and I feel worse for feeling horrible.

  I ranted to God about the whole mess. I railed to Him about how hurt and confused I felt. I pleaded for clarity and wisdom. By the end of an hour I was reduced to begging Him to make the whole thing go away.

  No responses came to me.

  The long shower didn’t help. Nor the two I Love Lucy reruns. So why am I surprised when the entire package of chocolate-chip cookies fails to grant me any answers?

  It’s after midnight and I’m prayed out. There’s no hope for this tonight. I might as well sleep on it and see what the morning brings.

  I’m just throwing away the pathetically empty cookie bag when my doorbell rings. Great. That’s the third time this year Diane has locked herself out of her apartment when she gets off the evening shift at the hospital. I yawn and pad over to the door, reaching for the spare set of Diane’s keys that I keep in a bowl nearby.

  My eyeball practically glues itself to the peephole.

  It’s Will.

  His shirt’s untucked; his tie and jacket are gone. He’s just standing there, hands in his pockets, looking supremely uncomfortable. He looks mussed.

  I gulp—probably loud enough for him to hear on the other side of my door, paw pointlessly through my hair, check my face for chocolate smudges and open the door.

  “Hullo,” he says softly.

  I lean my head against the door. “Hi, Will.”

  “I…well…I don’t like how we left off. May I come in?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Our side of the pond

  “Sure. I’ll put a pot of…” I was going to say I’ll put a pot of coffee on, but somehow that seems like the last thing I should do. “Why don’t you just come on in?”

  I pull the door wide open and Will steps inside. “Thanks.”

  A sour feeling about my last remark to him—the feeling that’s churned in my stomach for the last couple of hours—rises and tightens in my chest. “Hey, look, I shot my mouth off and…”

  Will looks at me. “Don’t.”

  “No, really, I’m sorry. It’s just that this is so incredibly…awkward? Difficult? Weird? Take your pick. I’m at a loss here.” I motion toward my kitchen.

  Will takes a deep breath as he pulls out a kitchen chair and sits down. “Actually, I was thinking it was quite the opposite.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, it seemed to me that you knew exactly what you wanted to do. I’m the one who seems to be saying one thing and doing another.”

  I don’t know who he’s kidding—I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m doing. I’m making this up as I go along. The television chatters softly from the living room and I can hear the ice-maker release its cubes inside my freezer. It’s that quiet between us. I walk over to the fridge. “You want something to drink?” I say to fill the gap of silence.

  “No. I’m fine, thanks.” He looks up to catch my eyes, suddenly looking older than he did mere hours ago. “Or rather, I’m not at all fine. I don’t like how we left off.”

  I guess we’re getting right into it then, without the pleasantries. I suppose that’s best. I sit down, my fingers fiddling with the ribbon edge of the place mats I got at last year’s flea market. “I’m sorry about what I said.” It seems like the best place to start, because I am. It was a lousy thing to say.

  “Don’t be. You spoke your mind. I’m the one who hasn’t been fair.” His face lightens just a bit, still tired but gaining warmth. “Although,” he shakes his head, “I must admit, you are far more direct than I ever counted on.”

  The corner of my mouth creeps up. “America’s a pretty in-your-face nation. And,” I sigh, “I’m a pretty in-your-face person from an equally in-your-face family. Even the natives find me a bit intense.” I flatten my hands on the table to stop my infernal fidgeting. “I do owe you an apology for railing at you like that. You’ve been trying to do the right thing and I blasted you for it. It’s just that I got excited when I finally understood the whole business thing. Then when it all fell to pieces…” I gesture vaguely, unable to describe the tornado of emotions that was tonight’s class and its aftermath.

  “It did. And I’m sorry about that.” Even though Will looks beat, it gives him an unfettered sort of calm. As if he’s too spent to put up the usual front. “Some things are going on at the bank. There’s a lot of…pressure right now.” Will spreads his hands on the table. “Look, Maggie, it was never my intent to hurt you. But surely you must realize that I’m not the kind of man who can ignore the rules.” His voice is different, and I realize I’m seeing Will Grey let down his guard. Intentionally.

  “Are you sure there are rules, Will?” I say carefully, “Worthwhile rules?”

  “I want you to know you…you do mean something to me. That I wish circumstances were different. I know you want me to dive into this,” Will continues. “Ignore the consequences, toss every rule to the contrary and start up with you. But can you see that you’re asking me to jeopardize your financial future just because…?” he doesn’t even finish the sentence.

  I lean my head on one hand and out of the corner of my eye I catch the microwave clock click over to 1:01 a.m. “Would it help you to know I’m not exactly sure what I want?” That’s absolutely true. I don’t do casual. I fling myself full-force into relationships, which is why I’ve got
a hit parade of heartbreaks to show for it. I don’t know how to deal with anything requiring this much caution.

  Will clears his throat. “I don’t know what to do. The right thing would be if we simply didn’t talk to each other outside of class.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “And I keep saying I’m going to do that, but I don’t seem quite able to follow through.” When his eyes land on mine, they seem a murky, heathered blue. Like the fog the morning after a storm. “I enjoy your company, Maggie. Immensely. But, I don’t want to make promises I shouldn’t keep or give you possibilities you shouldn’t consider.”

  “I’m a big girl, Will,” I reply, pushing out my breath and returning his questioning glance. “I know this isn’t a clear-cut situation. I’m not ready to rush through this door, but I’m also not ready to slam it shut.” I hold his gaze. “I don’t think you are either or you wouldn’t be here. You’d be leaving some vaguely negative ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ message on my answering machine.”

  Will frowns his disapproval. “Is that the conduct of the average American male?”

  I chuckle. “At least the ones I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

  He takes on a very serious look. “That’s not something I’d ever do.”

  “I know that.” And I do. Just by the way he acts. This guy has a sense of honor—okay, maybe a little overblown into a protective-hero-complex, but honor just the same—that you just don’t see much. Never, actually. The idea surfaces with a quiet pop, like a bubble. “I think I might know where to start. Have coffee with me. Let me show you what a top-flight espresso machine can do. If you still hate it, I’ll shut up and you’ll never hear about it from me again. But you need to taste what this thing can do.”

  “Maggie…”

  “Think of it as business research, if that makes it easier. Me flexing my very fine salesmanship skills here. One cup of coffee. Actually, three—I want to make you an espresso, a cappuccino and a latte.”