The Magic Bean
Uncollected Anthology: Enchanted Emporium
Rebecca M. Senese
Copyright Information
The Magic Bean
Copyright © (2015) by Rebecca M. Senese
Published by RFAR Publishing
Cover Design copyright © (2015) by
RFAR Publishing
Cover art copyright ©
Subbotina / CanStockPhoto.com
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
THE MAGIC BEAN
George had always loved coffee. The intoxicating aroma, the sound of rich beans grinding, the rich, brown look as it drip-dripped into a clear glass pot. He preferred his coffee black with one teaspoon of raw sugar, just enough to take the edge off any bitterness.
It was this love that grabbed hold of him when he first spotted the empty shop tucked in between the deli and the bookstore on Maple.
It was a long, narrow shop, not much good for displaying a lot of wares but perfect for something like a coffee shop. George stepped through the front door, holding a kerchief to his nose against the dust. According to the realtor, the place had been closed for years and it looked it. The walls were yellowed and filmed with dirt. Dust thicker than his thumb covered the counter that ran halfway up the right hand side wall. Shelves hanging on the wall behind the counter sagged with age. He didn’t even look in the tiny kitchen area in the back.
As he stepped inside, the tiles crinkled like tissue under his boots. It would probably have to be ripped up and replaced. The whole place would need extensive work, right down to the bare walls.
It was just as the realtor had told him. A money pit of a store.
George couldn’t wait to get started.
And why not? He finally had some money, after dealing with his miserable father his entire life, finally the old man had had the decency to kick the bucket just shy of his eightieth birthday and his wedding to that gold-digging harlot of a fiancé. No one could tell George it was love. What thirty year old woman in the prime of her life wanted to shackle herself to an eighty-year-old if she wasn’t looking for money?
Fortunately, his father had died before they could get married. To stop the fiancé from being a real pain, George had given her a gift of twenty thousand. She’d managed one thin-lipped smile and vanished in the wind as if she’d never been there, the only lingering effect the acrid stench of her hairspray.
The rest of the money went to George. And for once in his forty-five years, he decided to do something impulsive, something adventurous, something daring with the money.
He quit his accountant job and bought that rundown shop.
It was time to make his dream come true.
He was going to open his own coffee shop.
The realtor thought he was mad. There were other locations, better locations, with better shops, ones not in total ruin, ones with better clientele than the shoddy neighbourhood on Maple.
But George didn’t care. There was something about the narrow shop, something that called to him in the dust and the peeling tiles and the yellowed walls. It had been something once. It just needed some loving care. It just needed a purpose again.
Like him.
To keep costs down for the renovation, he would a lot of the initial cleaning himself. Who would have thought it? George Cornell, all five foot seven of him, down on his knees scrubbing the floor, dusting the shelves.
He wore a paper mask over his nose and mouth to prevent the dust from triggering his asthma but to his surprise no matter how dusty it got he didn’t sneeze. Sometimes the dust clouds made him blink as they billowed up into the air but even then they seemed to avoid him. As he waved the rags in the air, the dust would glom on to them.
Almost like the dust had a mind of its own.
Ridiculous.
But soon, the layers of dirt washed away. He primed the walls and painted them a cheery off-white, brightening the place a thousand fold. He noticed trim along the tops at the ceiling and he decided to paint that blue. Soon he was perched on top of a ladder, using a brush to paint the trim. His knees shook a little, reminding him of his fear of heights, but he wouldn’t let himself look down. Just at the narrow, two-inch band of trim as the smell of the fresh paint tickled his nostrils. By the end of the day when he climbed down the ladder one final time, the trim was done and it looked terrific. Gave the walls a finished look, although he probably needed to go over it once more.
He’d deal with that tomorrow.
He pressed the lids back on the cans of paint and set the brushes in turpentine to clean. His shoulders ached from reaching above his head. His legs and back were sore from climbing up and down the ladder and holding himself steady. Every muscle, every cell seemed weary. He’d never felt so tired.
He’d never felt so good.
This work had a purpose, a use. When he’d worked as an accountant, he’d never felt this kind of satisfaction and he hadn’t even opened the coffee shop yet.
Worth it. Every sacrifice, every moment, was worth it.
He dragged himself home to his small one bedroom apartment and didn’t even bother to have dinner before he fell into his double bed. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
He dreamed of his little shop.
He stood in the doorway, facing in. Little wood tables covered with white and blue tablecloths were scattered around the front. Little bistro chairs with curled iron backs were tucked in around the tables. Everything was empty, then he blinked and people appeared, sitting at the tables, lining up against the counter. Young college kids with knapsacks and books piled in front of them. Businessmen with cell phones in their hands and ties tucked up to their chins. The air swirled with the rich scent of coffee, underlined with the spicy hint of herbal tea.
Voices murmured, lilting into laughter before easing back into quiet conversation. Behind it, he heard the tinkle of music: piano, violin, and guitar filling the space with warm.
His shop. His perfect coffee shop.
His heart felt like it was going to burst with joy. It hammered in his chest like a thudding gong. The beat was heavy and dark. And he felt his feet pushed forward, each step stomping down, in the same
heavy
beat.
With each step, the shop grew darker. The walls dimmed from white to a deep grey. The image of the tables and chatting people shimmered. He tried to hold on to them, tried to keep them, even put out his hand to grab on but they vanished.
In their place…
Shelves filled with dark volumes.
He could feel the coldness in them. It seemed to drip from the heavy wooden shelves, staining the floor with smears that looked sleek like oil. The rich, flavourful scent of coffee faded, replaced by something that stung his nose with a ripe, sickly-sweet stench.
And just underneath, the heavy, iron scent of blood.
Shadows moved at the back of the shop, shifting back and forth between the shelves. With every step, they flowed closer, deepening the darkness that swallowed the shop. First the kitchen, then the counter along the right wall. It seemed to struggle and sag against the shadows. The music stopped with a screech, leaving only the heavy thumping.
Creeping.
Dripping.
Crawling.
Spreading cold and darkness through the shop even as it struggled to hold on to itself, onto the white walls with the blue trim. But it faded.
All faded.
Swallowing.
> Swallowing the shop.
Swallowing his dream.
NO!
It couldn’t have the shop, his shop. His coffee shop. He would have his dream. Over there, where the shelves crowded, he would put the bistro tables and chairs. The counter would hold the coffee makers and all manner of mugs and cups. He would have one of those display boxes for the tea, tiered so people could see them all displayed.
He would paint the walls white and the trim blue. White enough to brighten the place, white enough to fill the shop with light, white enough to drive away the shadows.
The shadows rose up, towering above him, stretching high enough to blot out the ceiling. It was going to crash down on him, smother him, swallow him.
George tried to scream but nothing came out. He threw up his hands, trying to hold it off.
The shadows began to fall…
Then then smell of coffee, strong, black, and pungent filled his nose.
He blinked.
His coffee shop. White walls. The bistro tables filled with students and business people. Soft music tinkling in the background.
And the warm, rich, scent of coffee.
* * *
He awoke feeling groggy and disoriented. Sticking his head under the shower woke him up and a toothbrush scrubbed away the grubby feeling in his mouth.
He had dreamed, hadn’t he? The coffee shop. Images drifted through his mind and he tried to seize them, but they felt apart, like rice sliding between his fingers.
His coffee shop.
He shivered. Why would that thought make him shiver?
Stop. He had things to do. Lots of work yet to be done.
Focus on that. Not on silly dreams at night. He had a dream to fulfil in the day.
He expected to have to repaint the trim before giving a second coat to the walls but as he stepped through the door, sunlight from the window showed him he didn’t need to. The blue trim was deep and vibrant. The off-white gleamed in the sun. The air still had a lingering touch of paint smell but it seemed almost dry.
And here he’d thought it would need a full twenty-four hours. He thought he’d need an extra coat to drive away any shadows.
Strange, where did that thought come from?
He shook himself. Next he had to deal with the floor.
Even though he intended to pull it up, he had laid plastic sheeting all along the walls. Crinkling filled the shop as he started grabbing the sheets, folding and rolling them before stuffing them into a plastic bag.
He started at the back door and worked his way forward. As he pulled the sheets away, the tiles came into view, a checkerboard pattern that extended from the back all the way to the front. Still dusty and dirty, they didn’t look as damaged as he’d originally thought.
At first, he had thought there had been cracks and indentations, where something heavy had sat on the floor. Indentations that lined up in rows.
Like shelves.
But they were gone now. The floor looked smooth.
Even.
He pulled away the final sheet of plastic from in front of the narrow window facing the street. Morning sunlight washed in, gleaming on the white tiles and making the dark ones look… blue?
Was that right? He could have sworn they were black.
Plastic crinkled in his hand as he knelt down in front of the window. The tiles felt smooth and cool against his palm as he reached out to touch it. His fingers traced a trail in the thin film of dirt, exposing the white and, yes, definitely blue tiles.
Well, what do you know?
He’d made the perfect choice for the trim along the ceiling. Maybe he’d subconsciously realized the floor tiles were white and blue not white and black.
Of course. That had to be it.
And the floor felt like it was in much better shape than he’d originally thought. Hadn’t he felt it creak and bend under his weight when he first walked in?
Maybe he had been stepping on old newspapers. The place had been a mess when he first came in.
And not having to replace the floor would save him a ton of dough, not to mention time. Several days at least, maybe a week or more, depending on how quickly he would have been able to get tiles and have them installed.
Now he just had to clean the floor.
That he could do himself.
He dragged all the plastic sheeting out before he went off to buy supplies for washing the floor. The cashier at the neighbourhood variety store gave him an odd look when he came up with his basket. Of course he must have looked a state to her. With his bowed shoulders and thinning hair, he didn’t look like he suited the overalls he wore, especially since they were so obviously new, even beneath the dust.
As she rung up the mop and two bottles of lemon fresh floor cleaner, George wagged his thumb in the direction of the street.
“I bought narrow shop beside the bookstore,” he said. “I’m putting in a coffee shop. Would you like a couple of coupons for a free cup when I open?”
The cashier, a thin-faced woman in her forties with blonde hair curling around her ears, stopped with one bottle of cleaner in her hand. George noticed her thin fingers whitened as she gripped the plastic bottle. She wore peach nail polish. It was chipped on her index finger but each nail was cut neatly.
“The dryer cleaner is gone?” she said.
“No, not that side,” George said. “The other side. Before the deli.”
The bottle fell from her hand. It bounced on the metal counter.
George made a grab for it, just as the cashier did. They both got their hands on it, and on each other.
Her skin felt cold. He yanked his hands away as she scooped up the bottle and stuffed it into the plastic bag with the other items.
She stabbed at the cash register to get the total, not even bothering to look at him as she took his money. She slapped the change on the counter and slid it over, yanking her hand back before he reached for it.
Had he said something wrong? Done something?
Maybe she didn’t like coffee.
He gathered his bag and pushed the door open. The little bell above it jingled. The cashier jumped and stared at him as he walked out. He felt her gaze as he walked past the glass window in front of the store. He stopped and looked in.
She looked like she was about to say something. Her mouth opened slightly then snapped closed. She turned away.
Strange.
George crossed the street and returned to the shop.
The sight of the freshly painted walls soothed him. So what if the cashier didn’t want a free coffee, he would soon have customers to spare.
He just had to keep the faith.
It took him a little while to get the hang of using the mop. The smooth handle felt awkward in his hands.
He headed to the back kitchen to fill the bucket with water from the tap. The pail barely fit in the single metal sink. The water ran brown. He dumped it into the sink, watching it swirl away down the drain. Maybe if he gave it a minute. He couldn’t fix that himself and he didn’t want to have to call a plumber. Maybe it was just brown from overuse. Was that possible?
As he waited he looked around the little kitchen area. The counter was grey from a thin layer of dust. To the right was a space for a fridge, tucked into the corner. Opposite, along the back wall was a spot for a stove but he wouldn’t need one, not for a coffee shop.
Would he?
Maybe he could branch out at some point with sandwiches or something. That still wouldn’t need a stove. Probably best not to bother with it. He could use that space for storage of filters and cups.
Finally the water ran clear. As he stuck the bucket under and let it fill he started to imagine how it would look in here when it was done. The smell of roasting coffee beans. The murmur of the cash register and the clientele chatting at small tables in the front area. He’d wire speakers and play soft jazz.
He could even serve biscotti.
Cold water splashed over his hands. The bucket was full.
<
br /> He turned off the tap and wrestled the bucket out of the sink. The dream was all well and good but he still had to get there.
He added a generous pour of cleaner to the bucket and started at the front door.
Before he knew it, the bucket was full of dark brown water. He’d barely washed a quarter of the floor. The strong lemon smell filled his nose and made his eyes water. He set the mop down on the floor and dragged the bucket back to the kitchen. Dump the water, fill it up again, add more cleaner.
Rinse and repeat.
With each sweep of the mop, the floor gleamed. The white tiles shone out. The dark blue tiles were deep and bold. How could he have thought they were black and white? How could he have thought the floor needed replacing? He had to have imagined the feel of crunching under his feet, the give of them, even the way they lifted in the corners. The floor didn’t have any of that. Just this simple wash was totally doing the trick.
His arm muscles started to ache by the time he was halfway through but he couldn’t stop now. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampening his thinning hair, making it stick to his scalp. The lemon smell was so strong he could feel it in the back of his throat. Whenever he stopped to gulp a drink of water it was like drinking lemonade.
But the floor gleamed, matching the walls for brightness. It almost felt like the shop was waking up.
He had to finish washing it today. He had to.
He dumped the brown water one more time and filled up the bucket. All he had left was behind the counter and the kitchen area. Just one final bucket and the floor would be done.
Late afternoon sunshine barely peeked through the front window but it was enough to reflect off the floor, brightening the whole place. For a brief moment with the cashier, he’d been hesitant about his decision to buy the place but no more. This was right. He could feel it. This shop was supposed to be his. He would take care of it and it would take care of him.
Water spilled over the rim. He yanked the final bucket out and headed behind the counter.
Magic Bean Page 1
