On the other hand, Brenda, our store’s official chalkboard artist, is a little annoyed because Derek asked her to come up with a fantastic sign to post on Fridays to advertise my talents.
I quickly put my things away, tie on my apron, and join the girls up front.
“Oh good, you’re ready,” Brenda says. “Now you can take over up here so I can go sit and work on your sign.” She practically snarls the words at me like I’ve done something wrong. I’m no happier about this than she is. In fact, worrying about it all week is giving me an ulcer, I think. Brenda disappears to get her supplies and returns to the front in moments. She stops momentarily by me at the register. “So what is this”—she points at the board—“all about, anyway?”
I sigh. “Well,” I begin, “long story short, I’m the new Friday night attraction. From six to ten on Friday nights I will be taking down drink orders and matchmaking. It’s called Espressology.”
“Does it work?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I can see Daisy out of the corner of my eye looking at me like I’m full of it.
“Why haven’t we ever heard of this before?” Daisy asks with an attitude.
“Because I haven’t told you about it,” I snap. I’m so not in the mood for any crap from Daisy today. “Have you checked the bathrooms recently?” Daisy makes a face and leaves the counter to go on toilet duty.
While I’m busily glaring at Daisy’s retreating back, the door swings open and my dad walks in. I quickly look at Brenda and shake my head a little as I eye the chalkboard. I do NOT want my parents to find out about this Espressology stuff. Not yet, at least. We have a fairly easy, stress-free child-parent relationship going on these days and I don’t want to rock it.
“How’s my favorite barista?” he says, approaching the counter.
“Good, Dad.” I love it when my dad comes in. Not only is he a friendly face, but he always leaves a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar. “Small cappuccino?”
“Is she good or what?” he asks Brenda.
Brenda laughs. “She’s good.” She retreats to a nearby table with her supplies, still close enough to overhear our conversation.
I ring up his order and make his drink. When I turn around I see a ten in the tip jar. Dad is so dependable.
He takes a sip of his drink. “Mmm, tastes great,” he says loudly to the store. Like I need extra help selling this stuff. “See you at home, sweetie,” he says, just to me.
“Bye, Dad.” I watch him leave.
“Your dad is so cute,” Brenda says.
“Yeah.” I pause. “You know, my mom and dad fell in love over coffee, so maybe it was my destiny to bring others together through my Espressology.”
“Deep.” Brenda giggles.
I give her a wounded look.
“No really, it does actually sound kind of cool,” Brenda says. “I don’t work Friday night, but I might have to come in and check it out.”
“Sure,” I say, grateful for the small bit of kindness. I want her to think I have everything under control, but inside I’m totally freaking out. Friday is only two days away. What if I look like a gigantic moron? What if I can’t in fact really do this? So what if I matched three couples? It could be a total fluke. Nevertheless, I’ve been studying my notebook every night since Derek told me I’d have to start playing Espressologist this Friday. I even skipped studying for my chemistry quiz to study my Espressology. Derek said that each Friday he’s going to set up the huge chalkboard outside, with the words:
The Espressologist is In
Fridays 6–10 p.m.
Come in for a little latte and love
The plan is that from six to ten I’ll sit at a small table in the front of the store near where the drink orders are taken. People who want to participate will give me their phone numbers or e-mail addresses and I’ll jot down notes on them and their drink orders into a spreadsheet on my laptop. They can hang around and see if I match them sometime during the four hours, or I can have their coffee match call or e-mail them. The service is free; well, after the customers buy a drink, that is. I’m totally freaking out because I’ve never had to do this on demand before. I mean, it has all just been for fun so far. And what if my matches are just a huge coincidence and I am in fact 100 percent full of crap with my coffee theory? Ugh. I just have to stop thinking about it.
I’m busily making six small white chocolate mochas for a moms’ club meeting when my already bad day gets even worse. Melissa and Ginny are heading into the store.
“Jane!” Melissa exclaims happily, striding up to the counter. “Isn’t December fantastic? I just love that adorable holiday music you have playing in here.”
I give her a wary look.
“What can I get you guys?” I ask in a flat voice.
“Did I mention that I ran into Jane ‘off hours,’ ” Melissa says to Ginny, making dramatic air quotes with her fingers, “a couple of weeks ago?”
“No, where?” Ginny asks.
I stare at both of them with my mouth hanging slightly open. Do they even see me? Hello, running a business here. Place your orders already, I beam at them with my eyes.
“Oh, here of course.” Melissa laughs. “But she wasn’t working. She was on a date!”
“Really . . .” Ginny raises her eyebrows and looks from Melissa to me.
I clear my throat. “Like I said before, what can I get you guys?”
Melissa completely ignores my question. “Yeah, and he was a total hottie, too! I didn’t see any family resemblance.” At this, they both erupt in laughter.
“That’s enough!” I say loud enough that most of the other customers turn to look at us. “From now on we are going to just keep our exchanges to coffee, got it?” I’m shaking a little bit—surprised at myself for being able to be so direct with Melissa.
“What? I don’t understand.” Melissa looks slightly wounded. “I thought we were friends.”
“What?” I spit at her. “When were we friends?”
“Well, uh . . .” she stammers.
“Yeah, let me help you out,” I say in a much quieter voice. “We never were and we never will be. Now place your order, give me your money, and go wait for your drink.” Melissa stares at me for a moment with a stunned expression on her face.
“Two small nonfat lattes,” she whispers, sliding me her credit card. I roughly mark two cups with their drink orders, ring them up, and quickly make the drinks. I keep the same mean face on until I watch the two girls leave the store with their drinks. As soon as the door closes behind them I fall back against the sink, shaking. I cover my mouth with one hand. I can’t believe I just did that. I finally told that witch off. I handled her all by myself without Em whooshing in to save me. I have got to call Em right now and tell her all about it.
It’s about an hour before closing and we’re doing our nightly cleanup. Brenda is mopping the floors, Daisy is hauling the garbage out back, and I’m handling the counter by myself when Will walks in alone. I’m a little surprised to see him in here this late, but I had already thought about our next meeting and had decided to play it really cool with him about the whole Thanksgiving thing. Will gives me a huge grin.
“Hello,” I say plainly. “What can I get you?”
“The usual.”
“Really?” I can’t resist asking. “It’s kind of late.”
“Yeah, I have a late night ahead of me.”
I nod. “That will be three fifty.”
Will looks puzzled. “What?”
“That will be three fifty,” I repeat.
“Oh,” he says, slowly pulling out his wallet, not taking his eyes off of me. I keep a straight face, but I want to laugh at his reaction to actually having to pay for his coffee. I ring him up and start to make his drink. Will comes around to the pick-up counter and watches me work. “So,” he begins.
“So,” I echo, quickly pulling shots and dumping them into his waiting cup.
“I was really bummed you weren’t able to make it on
Thanksgiving.”
What?! What the heck is he talking about?
“Excuse me?” I say.
“You know, Thanksgiving. You said you were going to try to come over for our little celebration. I guess you couldn’t get out of your family thing.”
I hesitate with the ice scooper in my hand, trying to figure out the best way to respond to this.
“No, I couldn’t make it. I had dinner with my family and then I met up with a few people.” There. That sounds kind of good. At least I don’t sound pathetic.
“Yeah, I figured something like that happened,” he says.
Yeah, right.
“But I did try to leave you a voice mail to let you know I wasn’t coming,” I add, not wanting to just let the whole phone-turned-off thing go.
“Really? I didn’t get it.”
“Yeah, your phone wasn’t in service or something.”
“What?” he says, taking his phone out, flipping it open, and looking at it like it is going to tell him what happened on Thanksgiving or something. “What number did you dial?”
Okay, it’s sad I know, but I have the phone number he gave me in my apron.
I pretend to think. “You know, I think it might still be in my pocket somewhere.” I feel around in them, first the left and then the right, and produce a crumpled piece of paper. “Ah, here it is.” I smooth it down on the table. Will looks at it.
“I’m such an idiot.”
“Why?”
“I got the numbers mixed up. I reversed the last two digits. It’s a new phone.” He holds his hands up in a “what can you do?” manner. “I’m such an idiot,” he repeats.
“No, you’re not,” I say, with one hundred times more enthusiasm than I had a few moments ago. It was a mistake. He wasn’t trying to get rid of me.
“Forgive me for being such a dunce,” he says. “Maybe we’ll try to do it again sometime?” Will takes his drink and heads toward the door.
“Sure,” I say, watching his beautiful backside walk out of Wired Joe’s.
9
It’s really here. Espressology night. I’ve been standing outside in the cold staring at the huge chalkboard announcing tonight’s activities for a good five minutes. I have to admit, Brenda did a fantastic job. The board looks amazing. All red and white and silvery dust swirling around the edges. I’m clutching my Espressology notebook and my laptop to my chest. Derek pops his head out the door.
“Coming in or what?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble, not moving an inch. Derek steps outside, grabs both of my shoulders from behind, and gently pushes me toward the door. I guess in all the excitement he forgot about his no-touching rule.
“Come on,” he says. “It’s freezing out here.”
I let him guide me into the store and to the back. The warm air makes my cheeks burn a little bit.
“You look scared to death,” he observes once we are in his office and he’s closed the door. I take a seat in the chair opposite his.
“Pretty much,” I admit. And I’m not kidding—I’ve had a sick stomach all afternoon.
“Well, take your coat and gloves off and relax a minute. Gather your thoughts. It’s going to be fun,” Derek assures me.
It is really strange having Derek be nice to me. Completely out of the ordinary for him. He must really need me to do this.
“I have a table set up in front of the registers with a red velvet tablecloth over it and a rose in a vase. When you are ready, go have a seat and do your thing.”
“You went all out,” I say.
“This is going to be big, I think. People have been talking about it all day.”
“Really?” Now I feel even more bolted to the chair I’m sitting on.
“Yeah, sales are already up today just from people stopping in to ask what an Espressologist is.”
“Wow,” I mutter.
“Here, I got you this to wear.” Derek hands me a cute red apron with the Wired Joe’s logo embroidered on it in shiny silver. The name tag hanging off it says ESPRESSOLOGIST at the top, and then my name directly underneath. It has a tiny cupid in the corner.
“Holy crap,” I say, “you are serious about this.”
“Dead. Now get yourself together, come on out, and let’s make a lot of money.”
I nod and Derek heads out front. I slip the red apron over my black turtleneck and black skirt and I have to admit, it looks pretty cute. I stand up, do a quick hair check, and head to my post.
I trek up front feeling like a freshman communications student getting ready to give a speech for the first time to the entire school, but there really aren’t that many people out there. Yeah, it is a little busier than usual, but there are only about five people in line. They all look at me eagerly, though, so I know they are waiting for me. Sarah and Frankie, one of our newer baristas, are making drinks at the bar, and Daisy is working at the register.
“Here she is, everyone,” Derek booms to the entire store. “Our local Espressologist, Jane. Give your coffee drink order to one of our baristas at the register and then step over to Jane and tell her your favorite drink. Jane will take down your information and find your perfect love match for the holidays. She has never been wrong. Just step right up and give it a try.”
Geez, where is your top hat, Derek? He sounds like he is introducing a circus act. Okay, deep breath, deep breath. I can do this.
I smile and give a little wave to the people in line. “Hey, everyone. Just gimme a minute to get organized.” I put my notebook down on the tablecloth and place my laptop right next to it. I flip it open and give the power button a slight push. I set it on standby before I left home, so it only takes a moment to turn on and for my spreadsheet to appear. The spreadsheet was Em’s idea. She thought it would help if I had all the information I needed already in a table so I wouldn’t blank and forget what to ask. She actually made the spreadsheet for me last night when she came over. She said she was there to help me relax about the whole Espressology thing today, but I know she just wanted to talk about Cam. She thinks she’s all in love with him now. How can she be in love with him already? Puh-lease. They’ve only been on two dates, but she says she can just tell he is so perfect for her. I thought he was perfect for her, too, but strictly in the just-for-fun, not-falling-in-love kind of way. I mean, my god, she just broke up with her long-term boyfriend. She can’t move on this fast, can she?
I’ve got to stop thinking about Em and Cam and concentrate on what is happening right here before Derek kills me. He’s standing about three feet away just staring at me. Like I’m going to wave a wand and alakazam, couples will skip out the door arm in arm. There is a little more to Espressology than that. I reread my table headings on my spreadsheet: name, sex, age, coffee, interesting tidbit, phone, e-mail, match.
“Ready,” I say, mustering a cheery voice. “Who’s first?”
“I am.” A nervous, slightly overweight woman in a bright red fleece jacket steps toward me. She has on matching bright red lipstick, long fake red nails, and heavy eye makeup. Definitely a real estate agent. I can almost smell the pack of cigarettes undoubtedly in her giant purse and sense her newer model Caddy parked in the garage around the corner. “Who am I supposed to talk to?” she asks.
I smile. “Well, just tell your order to the barista behind the register so she can start your drink. You’ll pay her and then come over and chat with me while one of the other baristas makes it.”
“Okay.” She looks from Daisy to me and back to Daisy. She clears her voice and says loudly, “I want a caramel-flavored mack-a-cheeto in the big cup. And with skim milk, please.” She gives us both a pleased look, obviously proud she could remember her order.
“Large nonfat caramel macchiato,” Daisy says loudly, and marks the cup. She hands it to Sarah, who starts the drink.
“What? What did you say?” the woman says, looking slightly panicked. Obviously she doesn’t come into Wired Joe’s too often.
“Don’t worry, she’s just givi
ng your order to the other barista,” I assure her. “Now we chat.”
The woman lets out a slight giggle of relief as she pays Daisy and steps in front of me. “Oh, okay,” she says. “Usually, I just get my caramel mack-a-cheetos at the drive-through Wired Joe’s near my house. They never yell the order at me.” She glares at Daisy just for a moment.
I nod.
“Let me just get down some information, then. Name?”
“Debbie. Debbie Archer.”
“Hi, Debbie. Age? And you can just give me a ballpark here if you don’t want to tell me.”
“Late thirties,” she says.
Riiiiiight.
“All right.” I enter what she told me. “Now just tell me some interesting tidbit about you so I can get a better feel for who you are.”
The “interesting tidbit” category was also Em’s idea. She thought if the customers told me a little funny something about themselves, it would help me remember them later on when I’m doing matches.
“Well, I’m searching hard for my soul mate. I’ve done it all, personal ads, online dating, you name it. But I still haven’t found him. Sometimes I think I’ll never find my soul mate.”
I can’t help but feel touched at this woman’s honesty. I type, “Searching for soul mate” into my spreadsheet.
“Now just give me your phone number and e-mail address and if I find your match tonight or in the near future I’ll have him get in touch with you.”
She gives me her contact info, thanks me, and heads out into the night, caramel macchiato in hand.
“Next,” I say. Three young teenage girls are huddled close together and whispering. The shortest girl gives their order quietly to Daisy and slides her some money and then they all eye me up and down. Do I even need to ask? Obviously it is going to be frappycaps all around.
The Espressologist Page 7
