The Coffee Girl

by Natalie Charles

  The inn was quite large, with approximately forty guest rooms and several guest cottages. Having grown up in Archer Cove, I'd never actually stayed there myself, but I'd always admired the sweeping porch that wrapped around the front and sides and overlooked the ocean. Now that same porch was occupied with guests and visitors enjoying evening cocktails and light jazz, and Jax and I were quickly becoming a distracting spectacle.

  We climbed the wide front steps that led to the gracious entry, where an enormous crystal vase filled with roses — pink, white, and yellow — occupied our line of vision. Mine, at least. I'm not sure Jax was able to focus on anything.

  "Oh for the love of —" Anna Tumblesby, the owner of the inn, came flying from behind the front desk. "What on earth…?"

  "Hi, Anna. It's me. Wren."

  "Oh heavens." She set one hand over her heart. "Honey, I didn't recognize you. Nice hat."

  "Uh, thanks. This is Jax. He says he's a guest at the inn."

  Until that moment, it hadn't occurred to me that he might be mistaken, given his state, and then what would I do? But fortunately Anna nodded and whispered, "He's a VIP. He's in the executive suite."

  "Mind if I take him there? He needs to lie down."

  "I'll say." Anna was a vision of white, from her white linen jacket and matching pants to her light blonde hair. She was full-figured and soft in both appearance and manners, but that didn't stop her from assisting me by reaching across Jax's lower back and saying, "Come on. It's on the third floor, and our elevator is out until tomorrow."

  Together, one step at a time, we reached the executive suite. As I stepped inside, my breath was stolen by the bay window that captured a panoramic view of the Atlantic and the mansions on the cliffs, lit against the darkness. The entryway was marble, the woodwork appeared hand-carved and ornate. The decor was rounded out by crystal lamps and silk linens.

  We helped Jax to the bed, sitting him down and then flinging his legs on top of the mattress. Anna set her hands on her hips, every bit the image of the disappointed mother. "Mr. Cosgrove," she said, clucking her tongue. "Are you going to be okay, sir?"

  "Just tired. I…took a pill."

  "You did what, now?" I went from irritated to concerned. "What kind of a pill?"

  "Valium. This morning. For the plane." He flung one arm across his eyes and reached for me with the other one. "Stay here. Please?"

  I looked at Anna, who simply returned my gaze helplessly. "I don't…don't you have anyone else you're traveling with? Can't they stay with you?" Can't anyone else stay with you?

  "He came in alone," Anna said. "Told me his agent isn't coming in for a few more days."

  "Please?" he whispered. "What if I die?"

  I gave a long glance at Anna, who just shook her head. "Fine. I'll stay here for a little while. But I swear, if you touch me, I'll cut you."

  I didn't have anything to cut him with, but Jax didn't seem capable of doing much of anything but whining and passing out. "Okay," he murmured as he rolled onto his side. "Deal."

  Anna pursed her lips, clearly disapproving of her guest's unbecoming state. "Mr. Cosgrove, you let me know if there's anything else you need tonight. Just hit that little red button on the phone. You too," she said to me, lowering her voice.

  I nodded. "I'm only going to be here for a little while, until I'm sure he's okay."

  Anna nodded. "You owe her one, Mr. Cosgrove. You hear me?" Then with a little wave to me, she turned and left the room.

  I slumped onto a leather couch that was surprisingly soft and inviting. Jax didn't move, other than to mumble something every now and then. I waited for a bit, thinking I should make my way home. I was only four, maybe five blocks from my apartment. I don't know why I didn't just get up and leave. I kept thinking about Jax saying that he took a Valium, and I thought it made sense to have someone there, just in case he stopped breathing. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I left and he died.

  I removed my hat and set it on a table, then shook out my hair. The couch was soft, and my body ached because I'd been up early, and the pillows were perfectly stuffed and velvet…

  He woke first and shook my shoulder. "Hey," he said. Then more insistently, "Hey."

  "Oh." I sat upright, rubbed my eyes, and glanced at the blue numbers on the digital alarm clock. "Shit." Five o'clock. That meant I had half an hour to get to work.

  I slipped into my shoes, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door. "Wait!" Jax said behind me. "You don't have to —"

  "Thanks for the ice cream!"

  I pulled on my hat, opened the door, and stepped into the hall. Stopping at home was out of the question, but if I ran to work, I might have time to wash my face in the bathroom sink, and maybe Jessie would have an extra toothbrush. Just…shit.

  I broke into a run when I hit the front porch, feet flying across the boards. All I could think about was reaching work in time to avoid my dad's suspicious gaze. I never even saw the woman taking my picture.

  I was out of breath by the time I made it to Jessie's apartment and knocked on the robin's-egg blue door. She was fully dressed, but she had a towel on her head and a toothbrush in her mouth. "Wren? What's going on?"

  "Long story. Can I use your shower?"

  She stepped aside, staring at me as I entered. She removed her toothbrush. "Is everything okay?"

  "It's fine." I set my laptop on the kitchen table and removed my hat. I felt grimy, there was no other word for it. "Do you think I could borrow some clothes, too?"

  Jessie left the room without a word and returned moments later with a pile of clean clothes and a towel. "Did you pull an all-nighter or something?"

  "I spent the night out." When Jessie's eyebrows hit the ceiling, I hastily added, "It's not what you think. Trust me."

  "Too bad." She resumed brushing her teeth, and this time, she spoke to me around the toothbrush. "I have more soap in the cabinet."

  I showered quickly and dressed in the simple black T-shirt and jeans Jessie had provided. The underwear was more complicated. I settled on turning yesterday's pair inside out.

  The hot water went some way toward clearing my head, but I must have still looked terrible because the first thing Jessie asked me when I stepped out of the bathroom was "Are you okay to work?"

  "I have to be okay to work." Not because of any valiant work ethic, but because I was broke, and I needed the paycheck. I finger combed my hair. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. It all was.

  Jessie went around the apartment, straightening the pillows on the couch and opening the white curtains that hung over the picture window. "You probably haven't eaten. I'll make you breakfast when we get down there. I've been working on my caramel truffle recipe."

  "Chocolate for breakfast sounds good."

  "Oh, sorry. Those were two different thoughts. But if you want a truffle for breakfast, that's fine."

  Jessie lived in the three-bedroom apartment above the bakery, which sounds more spacious than it is. Lately, it seemed to be shrinking as she compiled the tools of her after-hours chocolate-making hobby: a copper kettle, various mixers, candy molds, and a marble slab. After leaving Hedda's, she would come home and develop her own caramel and ganache recipes. In the time I'd stayed with her before finding my apartment, I'd probably gained ten pounds.

  I darted a glance around the room as Jessie grabbed her keys. "Where's Prince Travis?"

  "Oh, I stuck him behind the door," she said nonchalantly. "I had some friends over a couple nights ago."

  Prince Travis was a family heirloom: our great Aunt Esther's beloved pet silver fox, who'd been preserved for all eternity after his death by a taxidermist who mistakenly believed Esther would invite him to bed for the favor. After Aunt Esther passed away, we all wondered who'd be the lucky heir. Turns out it was Jessie. "They asked me to move him," she explained. "It's like it bothered them to have cocktails while staring at a taxidermic fox. Weird. You still have to pat his head on the way out. For luck."

  I
reached down and dutifully patted his stiff black head. "Stay, Travis."

  Jessie locked up and we headed down the rickety gray back steps to Hedda's Bakery, where my dad already had the ovens in full swing. The air was filled with the scents of powdered sugar mixed with cinnamon, warm bread, and coffee. These were the smells of my childhood. If I closed my eyes, I was ten years old again.

  "Good morning, ladies." My dad was whistling to himself as he baked, wearing a white T-shirt, khaki shorts, and an apron. "Another busy day."

  "Busy is good." Jessie grabbed an apron from the hook. "What can I get you for breakfast, Wren?"

  "You didn't eat this morning?" Dad sliced some dough for cinnamon rolls and set them in a baking pan.

  "Uh, no. Just…" I glanced at Jessie. "Overslept."

  Dad resumed whistling, and I released my breath. It was never a good idea to pique Dad's interest.

  "How about an egg sandwich?" Jessie offered.

  "Sounds good." I lifted a forlornly utilitarian light-blue apron and walked into the cafe.

  It's pretty much my personal hell to work in a bakery, even if it belongs to my family. My cooking acumen stops at boiling water for noodles, though I've been known to microwave a mean leftover here or there, or build a decent sandwich. Still, I can't bake, which is why I ended up on the coffee maker.

  I fired up the machine and made myself a latte, figuring I should get caffeinated before we opened. At least I got breakfast sandwiches. Jessie served up two hand-sliced pieces of rye toast stuffed with two eggs over medium, two slices of tomato, thinly sliced red onion, avocado spread, and melted cheddar cheese. It was messy and absolutely perfect. "Who's better than you, Jessie?" I managed through a mouthful.

  "I'll add that to your tab," she said, and swatted at my behind with a rolled-up towel.

  CHAPTER TWO

  You knew just by looking at him that Griffin Dannel was going to be a star. He had that charisma and the good looks to go along with it. We met on a small indie film, and he invited me out for dinner. That was it. Presto! Our love was as instant as dehydrated soup. We moved in together because we wanted to, but also because it made sense. I was a struggling writer, he was a struggling actor, and rent was pricey. We ate macaroni and cheese and drank tap water and we were happy. Then Griff hit. Big time.

  He was cast in a summer blockbuster — in the leading role, no less. He was a hot new face on a hot new franchise that involved sex, spies, and explosions. Suddenly people stopped us on the street for autographs. The paparazzi followed us. I suppose it was naive of me to think Griff and I would weather his fame. One celebrity blogger ran an entire post about how it was "sweet" that Griff was still standing by his "average" girlfriend despite his celebrity. "He could have any woman in the world," she'd written. "For now, he seems content to settle."

  "That's bullshit, Wren," Griff had said when he'd found me curled up on the couch in the fetal position. He was wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and his collar was ringed with sweat after another one of his sessions with his personal trainer. He lifted the front of the shirt and swept his face. "You can't pay any attention to that crap."

  I wanted to believe him. You want to believe that the person you love to the stars and back loves you the same distance. But I think those bloggers hit home. I knew that as much as I adored Griff, he was settling for me.

  I didn't find out about Poppy until the neighbor went on vacation and asked me to feed her cats. They were out of food, and I'd gone to the convenience store to buy more. So there I was, emptying a basket of Fancy Feline onto the checkout counter, when I saw the new edition of Star Sightings. On the cover was an image of Griffin holding hands with reality television star Poppy Hayes and the headline, "It's Official!"

  "Would you like to buy a lottery ticket, miss?"

  I was jarred from my intestine-wringing dismay by the checkout clerk's question. "Sorry?"

  "Anything else tonight?"

  I calmly reached beside me and lifted a copy of the magazine. "Just this. Please."

  When I got home, I left it in the brown paper bag and hid it under the mattress. I fed the cats, made some tea, and stared at the wall for a bit. When Griff came home, I didn't say anything. In fact, I didn't even mention it until two days later, and only then because I'd come home to find Griff's suitcase open on the bed. "You're finally leaving?" I said.

  "Yeah." He didn't make eye contact.

  I thought about retrieving my magazine, maybe brandishing it at him with a string of expletives and vitriol. But I didn't. I didn't want to confront those photos. A small part of me even hoped he might change his mind.

  "You've made a fool out of me." My voice cracked.

  He didn't say anything else as he tossed his clothes into the suitcase. Neither did I. Two years together, and then he was gone.

  "Put that in your pipe and smoke it," had been my mother's response. I'd called her when I found out about Griff.

  "Mom, what does that even mean? What am I supposed to be smoking here?"

  I was sitting on my couch, wondering what had possessed me to seek out my mother about boy troubles when I was twenty-eight years old. It wasn't the idea of seeking out my mother. It was the idea of seeking out my mother.

  "Poppy Hayes," she said. "Put Poppy Hayes in your pipe and smoke her."

  I'm sure I blinked a few times. "I still don't see —"

  "It is what it is, Wren. That's what the expression means." I imagined her waving one hand as if swatting at flies and then taking a sip of zinfandel. "So Griffin has moved on to someone new. There are plenty of other fish in the sea. You've looked around, right? You keep your eyes open when you walk down the street? You live in the land of beautiful people. You'll find someone new."

  Words of wisdom from my mother, who flubs clichés and thinks people are as interchangeable as goldfish. Jessie was more concerned for my well-being. She advised me to stay off the Internet. "Those bloggers are bottom-feeders. Nothing but lies and rumors."

  "Is that right?" I replied. "I wouldn't know. I don't read those blogs."

  This was a lie. I devoured those blogs, usually with a pint of ice cream. Griff and Poppy were heading out to the beach — check out her killer abs! Poppy was recently spotted wearing a canary diamond on her left ring finger — are wedding bells in the air? Once I'd read about them grabbing frozen yogurt at a spot in Malibu, and I'd actually shouted at my computer screen, "You're lactose intolerant, you jackass!" It was as if the breakup had fostered some kind of pathology.

  Because when it came down to it, I had loved him. I had loved Griff Dannel, and he broke my heart by cheating on me with Poppy Hayes. The experience had rubbed a part of me raw, and each time I thought I was healed, the wound would open again.

  I was preparing a mocha latte when I heard Jessie curse under her breath and say, "Don't look now, Wren."

  Of course I looked, as I do any time someone tells me not to. At first, I only saw the crowd across the street, the paparazzi and the autograph seekers. Then a tall, lanky blonde pulled away from the group, shaking her head and holding up one hand. No more, she was saying. I could read her lips from there. No more. And she reached behind her to grab her companion's hand. The hand I used to hold.

  "Griff and Poppy." The names tumbled out of my mouth. "Dammit."

  I watched them like a voyeur observing a car wreck. They were a gorgeous couple, suntanned and fit. She was wearing aviator sunglasses and a pink shirtdress that exposed a mile of bronze leg. He was more casual in jeans that were strategically torn and a dark T-shirt that fit his muscular frame like a glove. His hair was longer now. He wore it tousled, and he'd had it highlighted.

  We used to make fun of people who looked like he looked now, men who bought jeans pre-ripped and added foil highlights to their hair. I used to know who he was. I observed the shift with more curiosity than sadness. Then I realized they were coming across the street. To Hedda's. Where I was.

  I glanced down at my plain black T-shirt, deni
m jeans, and flat, rubber-soled sneakers. The uniform of the damned. "I have to go," I said to Jessie.

  "Are you kidding? Look at this line!" she hissed. Then she shook her head. "No, you're right. Just finish whatever you're doing. I'll handle it."

  I swore under my breath and fumbled the coffee filter in my hands, all the while hoping to God I could foam that mocha latte and slink away to the back before they could see me. I was wearing no makeup and my hair was pulled back into a messy bun and secured with a piece of twine I'd found in the kitchen. I was wearing clothes I'd borrowed from Jessie and yesterday's underwear, inside out. I kept my eyes on my work, the ostrich strategy. If I don't see you, then you don't exist…

  "Hello, Wren."

  He'd come right up to my side of the counter, bypassing the line that wound around the interior of the bakery. His voice was smooth and cool, his gaze set to level with mine, and when I looked him in the eye, I detected a hint of amusement that made me wish I could spontaneously combust.

  I pulled myself together enough to say, "Griff. What a surprise."

  "I heard you'd come back here," he said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he looked around, rocking back on his heels. "Nice place."

  I followed his gaze, trying to get a sense of his appraisal. The white walls needed painting, and the old advertisements on the wall for flour and eggs might be regarded by some as kitschy. We'd had the display cases for as long as I could remember, and the white and black tiles on the floor had seen better days. People came here because my dad was the best baker around, not because the decor was top-notch. "I've always liked it," I said.

  "So you're gone from LA? For good?"

  "Yeah." I shrugged like it was no big thing. "I figured it was time to take a break from it all. You know, the grind." I set the mocha latte on the table beside me and said, "Carl!" And then I saw a flash of pity in Griff's eyes, and I wanted to die. "I love it here," I added, wiping my hands on my apron. "You know that."

  "You're not writing anymore?"

  "Oh no, I'm still writing. I'm working on a new screenplay. It's generated some interest."