He couldn’t hear his father’s response, but the wide smile on Kathy’s face made him think it wasn’t negative. “I know,” she said. “I’m feeding him in the meantime.”
He bit into the sandwich, aware of his mom’s eyes on him as she hung up, aware of all the questions lurking in her expression. She made it only a handful of minutes before she asked the only one that really mattered.
“Why?”
He carefully swallowed and put the sandwich down. “It’s a long story, Mom, and I’d prefer to tell it to both of you together if you don’t mind.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Did you hear that Alex is getting married?”
“I was there when he proposed, remember? He asked me to be his best man.”
The key rattled in the front door, followed by heavy footsteps on the wood floor. His dad must have dropped everything and raced home. When Mitchell entered the kitchen, Bryan braced himself. But his father wordlessly crossed the room and pressed him into a bone-breaking hug.
“I’m so glad you’re back, Son,” he murmured, his voice sounding suspiciously husky.
Bryan pulled back before his own eyes could get misty. “I’m sorry, Dad. I had some things to figure out and I couldn’t do it here.” He looked between his parents. “Maybe you should take a seat.”
Mitchell pulled up a stool beside Bryan at the island, and Kathy leaned against her husband so he could put his arm around her waist. Typical of his parents, presenting a united front.
Bryan cleared his throat. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Start at the beginning,” Kathy said with an encouraging smile.
The beginning. Not of this disappearance, but where his life had gone off the rails. “When I left the last time, almost four years ago, I had asked Vivian to marry me. She said no.”
His parents exchanged a glance. This was something he’d never told them.
“I convinced myself I was over her. But you know what happened next. A lot of different women . . .” He trailed off, not wanting to go into detail about what they already suspected. “When I went to Colombia last year, I thought it would be good to go to Suesca and face those ghosts. Except Vivian saw my posts and came from Peru to see me.
“I thought she was back for me. And then she told me she was getting married. To Luke Van Bakker.”
“Your sponsor?” Mitchell asked.
“Yes. I’m not going to lie—it was a kick in the gut. They’d been together for over a year, and he never saw fit to mention it to me. Anyway, I was done. I intended to leave Colombia, but she insisted on climbing La Bruja, and I wasn’t willing to let anyone else belay for her. It went horribly wrong.” He told them how she’d zippered off the rock, the injuries she’d sustained. “I didn’t have any choice but to call Luke to get her home. He didn’t take the fact we were together very well, and he basically fired me.”
Silence from his parents, obviously unsure how to respond.
“In any case, a pro climber without a sponsor really isn’t a pro. And Luke is vindictive. Once he figured out that Vivian and I had—” he cleared his throat—“hooked up, he made sure no one would take my phone calls. So I guess we can safely say my climbing career is over.”
Mitchell sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Son.”
“No, you’re not. You always told me that climbing was a short-term job, not a long-term plan, and you were right.”
“Do you need money?” Kathy asked, ever the practical one.
Bryan laughed, but even he could hear the absence of humor. “I do, but not for the reason you think. I know you don’t think I listened to anything you said, but I do have a business degree. I lived way below my means for years and invested every free cent. With the way the stock market has gone, I had a pretty big nest egg.”
“Then why do you need money?” Kathy asked.
He looked between the two of them. “Because I bought a coffee farm in Colombia.”
For once, the Shaws were stunned speechless. His mom regained her composure first. “What do you know about coffee?”
“Quite a lot, actually. I spent four months working alongside the farmers, learning how to plant, grow, pick, and process.”
He filled them in on the mission of the importer he was working with, how his farm gave high-paying employment to local workers, how he was part of a co-op with other farms that would leverage their collective bargaining power to make a living wage in the region. “For the first time in years, growing coffee is more lucrative than cocaine. The entire region is being transformed because of Café Libertad.”
Mitchell exhaled slowly. “That’s a lot to take in. I’m proud of you for choosing a new direction and seeing it through. But I still don’t understand why you’re here if your farm is in Colombia.”
“We don’t yet produce enough green coffee beans to turn a profit after expenses. So I’m importing my entire crop next month. I’m opening a roasting business.”
Mitchell seemed to be weighing his words. “Do you realize how difficult that’s going to be?”
“I do. I’ve spent the last two months working with a roaster in Oregon, learning the technique, studying his business model. There’s no guarantee of success in anything, Dad. But I’ve got a great story to tell, and it’s one I think people will respond to.”
His father nodded slowly. “It seems you’ve thought this through. If you like, I’ll take a look at your business plan.”
“Thanks. That really wasn’t meant to be a pitch, but I would appreciate a place to stay while I’m getting the business off the ground.”
Kathy jumped in. “Of course. You don’t even need to ask. Your old room is here any time you need it.”
“Thank you.” Bryan hopped off his stool to give them each a hug, then lifted his backpack. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to unpack and then see if I can track down the stuff I left in the townhome.”
He smiled and left the room, trying not to feel like a kid again as he returned to his childhood bedroom, trying even harder not to linger and overhear the inevitable conversations that would follow. His mom would be on his side, relieved that he’d turned from his “wild ways” and seemed to be focusing on having a normal life. His dad would be more skeptical, cite the business-failure figures, talk about how Bryan had shown no interest in business until his epiphany—all legitimate concerns. Both of them would wonder about the state of his faith.
The state of his faith? Shaky. The Prodigal Son story was a parable, an illustration of how God welcomed back the lost without holding their past wrongs against them. But what Bryan really could have used right now was what came after the feast, from the lost son’s perspective. The father was overjoyed, but no doubt the relatives sided with the older brother, maintaining their skepticism while rumors flew. How did the Prodigal earn back the trust of those who had written him off as a wastrel? How did he prove he’d truly changed and not just crawled home when he hit bottom?
More importantly, did the change actually stick?
Bryan climbed the stairs to his room, the first one on the left. It had been converted from his teen decor back to the elegant and traditional scheme of the rest of the house, but that didn’t kill the memories. He shut the door and began unpacking the few possessions he’d lived the last nine months with: an extra pair of jeans, three shirts, some athletic wear, a mess of climbing gear. It now seemed ridiculous to have toted thirty pounds of webbing and cams and carabiners when he had no intention of ever setting hand or foot on a rock again. Maybe he just needed to bring it back with him to come full circle. Once he’d inventoried what was left of his gear in his car, still parked outside his parents’ house where he’d left it, he would put it up for sale. Use it to fund equipment for the roastery. Move on to the next phase of his life.
He was about to take his pile of clothes down to the laundry room when a gentle knock came at the bedroom door. He opened it, expecting to see his mother, but his dad stood there instead.
“Can
I come in for a minute?”
Bryan stood aside. “Of course.”
Mitchell looked around the room as if it were somehow unfamiliar and then seated himself on the wingback chair near the door. “I owe you an apology.”
Bryan cocked his head and sank down onto the edge of the bed. “For what?”
His dad sighed. “I knew you were going through something four years ago, but I never pushed. I didn’t interfere. Maybe I should have.”
“So my choices are your fault now?”
Mitchell looked at him in surprise. Bryan clasped his hands and leaned forward onto his knees. “I’m not sixteen years old, Dad. I’ve made my own decisions. Unfortunately, those decisions have landed me back at home. But that doesn’t mean you bear any responsibility for my actions.”
“But we raised you—”
“Right. You raised me. But it was my choice to pursue a climbing career. It was my choice to go off the rails after Vivian dumped me, and it was my choice to sleep with her when she came back. I’m basically reaping the consequences of that, just as you always warned me I would.”
Mitchell stared at him, sadness the only emotion showing on his face. “I’m still sorry.”
“I’m not.” Bryan pushed himself up. “It wasn’t until everything fell apart in Colombia that I took a good look at where I was headed. I’m turning thirty-six. I’ve been saying that climbing is my career, but it’s really just been a placeholder, an excuse to live entirely for myself. Not for other people. Certainly not for God. And for what? I wasn’t even all that happy.
“And then God put Café Libertad in my path, and I started to realize there might be something else for me out there. I just couldn’t come back until I had it figured out. Until I could prove that I’d changed. I hope you understand that.”
“I do.” Mitchell rose and put his hand on Bryan’s shoulder. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad you’re back.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Bryan watched as his father left the room, only then realizing what Mitchell hadn’t said. He hadn’t said anything about the viability of the business, hadn’t offered his help. Which was fine. The last thing Bryan wanted to do was to run back to Mitchell Shaw for help as he embarked on the first real challenge of his adult life.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to need help, though. He might know about coffee farming and roasting now, but his college degree didn’t mean that he knew anything about running a business. And he only had one shot to get this right.
Chapter Three
FOR TEN SECONDS after Ana opened her eyes, she was happy.
All too quickly, yesterday’s twin nightmares crashed over her like breaking waves, sweeping away those fragile particles of contentment. She might have mitigated the client issue, but she wasn’t naive enough to think that was the end of it. Mason had proven he did things merely to get a rise out of his publicists, and there was little chance he would stop at underage escorts.
For all the distaste she had for her new client, he wasn’t her biggest problem. Rachel and Alex still didn’t have a wedding venue, and every day she procrastinated was one day closer to potential disaster.
But venues didn’t open at 7 a.m. on Saturday. Ana hauled herself out of bed, brushed her teeth, squeezed into a fresh set of gym clothes. A cup of tea and half a slice of toast later, she was headed out to her usual Saturday morning spin class. Gibson didn’t feel like he’d done his job until he’d made someone puke, so the real breakfast could wait until she was done.
A little more than an hour later, Ana left the gym, sweat-drenched and jelly-legged, but unaccountably proud that she had not been the puker today. That honor had gone to a poor noob who didn’t take the class’s high-intensity warning seriously enough before booking his bike.
One task down, thirty-two to go.
She went home to shower and change, then sat down with a cup of coffee and her planner. First up was her Scripture reading and daily devotions—a book for busy women that was supposed to teach her how to surrender and breathe. She powered through the reading, but halfway through the reflection questions, the only thing she was reflecting on was the list of wedding venues waiting on her laptop. She stole looks at the dark screen every ten seconds until she finally gave up and put the devotional aside. She’d go back to it later after she’d dealt with this task. Even as she logged in, though, she knew it was probably a lost cause. What were the chances any halfway decent location would have cancellations at all, much less on the particular date they needed?
Three hours later, Ana had a spreadsheet with half the text grayed out, the other half with notations to call back the following week. She pinched the bridge of her nose for a long moment and then drained her coffee cup down to the cold dregs. It was useless. On Monday, she would call all the venues that hadn’t responded, but she didn’t have high hopes.
She had to tell Rachel. She wouldn’t stop looking, but she needed both Rachel’s and Alex’s input to determine acceptable alternatives. She just hated the feeling that she’d somehow failed two of her favorite people in the world.
But since it was still hours until she could head to the restaurant for supper club, she clicked over to her email. Not surprisingly, she’d racked up dozens of messages since she left the office last night.
Despite his antics, Mason wasn’t even her most pressing client. She was currently juggling several active files, one of which involved a scandal surrounding allegations of performance-enhancing drugs against one of Colorado’s most beloved Olympians, downhill skier Beth Cordero. Beth hadn’t even tried to deny the accusations—she’d only come to Massey-Coleman in an attempt to stop the media firestorm that had followed her admission of guilt.
Ana certainly didn’t approve of cheating, but when she’d heard Beth’s story, she couldn’t help but feel a measure of sympathy. Her mom had been the legendary slalom athlete Jeanine Cordero, both her career and life cut short by cancer in her thirties, when Beth was just an infant. Beth’s father, Denton, had been determined to make over his daughter in his dead wife’s image and devoted himself to her career, even homeschooling her while she trained. On the surface, Beth said, everything seemed great, but in private Denny had been abusive and overbearing, punishing her for bad training sessions and cutting her off from any influences in her life that he deemed unproductive.
The picture the athlete painted was of a woman bullied and isolated, who had never experienced life outside of skiing. Never willing to risk getting sued for slander, the firm had done its research and corroborated the story, though Beth’s family and friends refused to go on record about the abuse.
Now Ana’s real work began. Some heartfelt press conferences had preserved Beth’s endorsements for now. Ana’s real job was to take the momentum and convert it into charity work and speaking engagements. By the time she was done, Beth Cordero would be a positive role model and spokesperson for women suffering emotional abuse. No one would even remember the revoked gold medal.
But first, Ana had to craft a pitch for the speakers’ bureaus. She wrote a compelling biography for Beth and then moved on to several less time-sensitive projects she’d been putting off during regular work hours. When she finally glanced up, the clock told her it was already after six. She’d spent all day on the computer at her kitchen table. No wonder her eyelids felt like they were lined with sandpaper.
At least she got to spend the evening with her friends. She went to the bathroom to freshen up her makeup, then traded her T-shirt for a floral-printed chiffon button-down and slipped into a pair of bright-green pointy-toed flats. The cheerful patterns and colors made her smile. Spring kept threatening through bouts of snow; she was going to pretend that today’s sunshine would stay. She transferred the contents of her purse into a more casual handbag, grabbed her keys, and headed downstairs for her car. She’d be early, purposely—better to tell Rachel the bad news in private.
Street parking on Old South Pearl in Platt Park was as bad as ever, cars lini
ng the streets on both sides and down intersecting roads. She circled the block twice without finding a space, then gave up and pulled into the crowded alley behind the building. Both Rachel’s old Toyota and Melody’s Jeep were parked there, where they’d likely been since four a.m. Even nine months after opening, her friends were still working fourteen-hour days.
Ana stepped out of her SUV, avoiding a greasy puddle that had formed in the potholed asphalt, and moved toward the back door. Unlocked. She pushed through, the heat from the kitchen hitting her immediately in contrast to the cool outside air. “Hello?”
Melody saw her first. “Ana!” She turned away from what she was doing—labeling large round containers with Sharpies on masking tape—and held her arms out for a hug. “I’m glad you came early. We could use some help setting the table. We’re running behind tonight.”
Ana flicked a glance to the range, where Rachel stirred something in a gigantic pot with a long-handled spoon. They could be behind or on time, but you’d never know from looking at Rachel; in the kitchen, she always had the same measured stance and unreadable game face.
“Hey, Ana.” Rachel offered one arm for a sideways half hug before turning back to her pot. “Sorry, I can’t leave the risotto. How are you?”
“Long, crummy week. I’m glad to see you guys.” Ana inhaled deeply. “Something smells amazing. What are we having?”
“Braised lamb shanks over parmesan-mushroom risotto. My guy brought in some morels this morning, and there was no way I was going to pass them up.”
“I’m hungry already. What can I do?”
Rachel nodded in the direction of the dining room. “Tables are set up and the plates and flatware are on the front counter. Mark folded the napkins before he left, so you can just put those on the plates.”
“Sure thing.” Ana backtracked and put her purse and her wool coat in the staff room, not much more than a closet in the back of the kitchen, and then headed out front to get the tables ready for guests.
To say that Bittersweet Café was her happy place was perhaps an understatement. In the last two years, Rachel had left behind her high-pressure executive chef job and Melody her dead-end position in a chain bakery, then decided to open their dream restaurant together. The way all the details had come together was downright magical; nowhere in Denver’s history had a functional café and bakery materialized in under four months. But Ana had no doubt there had been a healthy measure of divine intervention in the situation. She could feel it in the mood and the atmosphere of this place. Light, welcoming, refreshing. It was no wonder they’d quickly developed a devoted following. They were already in the middle of plans to take over the vacant space in the strip mall beside them and expand to meet their ever-growing demand.
The Solid Grounds Coffee Company Page 5
