First Chapter: Fireproof
Mason
Colebury, VT
“So you’ve used one of these before, right?” My new boss, a lively, dark-haired woman named Zara, was eyeing me skeptically from behind a coffee machine that looked more convoluted than the new milkers I’d brought in for my goats.
I hadn’t. But I might have suggested that I had during the short interview process where Zara and her co-owner, Audrey, gave me the impression that they were desperate enough to hire just about anyone with a heartbeat and half a brain, so long as he was willing to learn.
“Technically, no,” I said. I hadn’t straight-out lied about it before, and I wouldn’t do it now. “But I pulled a few shifts helping out back in the service.”
Zara turned to face me fully, crossing her arms over her chest and giving me a grin. “Did they have a temperamental Astra in the coffee mess when you were a Marine, Mason?” She patted the complicated-looking machine that occupied much of the front counter.
I took a quick look around the interior of the Busy Bean, the place I’d hoped to begin some secondary employment today in order to bring in a bit of the money that the farm wasn’t currently making. And then I realized I really needed to show Zara why I’d be an asset here, whether I’d made fancy coffee before or not. I needed a flexible side job, one that would still let me take care of things at the farm, and the hours here worked well.
“No,” I said slowly, making a point to relax my hands and shoulders—I had a tendency to clench them and I knew it added to what my sister called my “resting murder face,” which apparently held fast to my expression about ninety-six percent of the time and freaked people out. I blew out a breath, forcing myself to relax. “But I’m a quick learner, Zara, and I hope you’ll give me a chance.”
“Relax, Mason. Having you here—even if it’s just another body to run plates out front—is great. We’re desperate.” She grinned at me, and I did relax a bit. “When we first interviewed, you said something about improving efficiencies. Audrey and I both think we could use some of that military efficiency around here. Got anything in mind? I mean, I know it’s your first day.”
I nodded. It was early, and the smell of coffee and baked goods was beginning to warm the air. The sky outside the plate glass windows grew brighter, and I knew we didn’t have a ton of time before the Bean opened for the day. I hoped to still be here by then.
“Let’s hear it,” Zara said, and she stood just a hair taller, as if she was bracing herself for an assault.
I could be intense, I knew that, and I forced my posture to remain relaxed, tried to keep my voice light.
“Just a couple. For one thing, the menu board—“
“Be careful now, that’s Kieran’s baby. He doesn’t work here anymore but he still likes to come in and beautify the board. That one’s his.” She was looking at the huge sunflower that was, admittedly, beautiful but that dominated the board to the point that the menu was an afterthought.
I smiled, holding my hands up in front of me, palms facing her. “It looks great,” I said. “But it’s not about looks. There’s a lot of stuff up there, and some really loopy writing that takes a few minutes to figure out.” The menu board was a dense swirl of color, the actual offerings of the Busy Bean competing for space around the art.
Zara continued to stare over her shoulder at the board.
“If you simplified the board, customers could figure out what they want a little faster. It might not seem like a lot, but when the line is to the door, seconds count.”
She raised one shoulder, as if suggesting I go on.
“You might also get a hot water tap here, next to the sink. Getting hot water from the espresso machine for non-espresso drinks forces everyone to wait for the pressure and steam to rebuild here.” I indicated the spout of the machine. “And time is money for a little shop like this, right?”
Her eyes had gone a tiny bit wider. “Right,” she said slowly, glancing at the machine as if it had said something in response. “So you do know a bit about this machine.”
“I did some reading.”
She nodded, looking wary, and I knew I had to be careful. This place was Zara’s baby—and Audrey’s. But I could help here, and I didn’t think making coffee would be that hard to learn.
“I’ve got one more suggestion,” I said, and she looked up at me now, a smile lifting one side of her mouth.
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve got a lot more than that?” she asked.
A low chuckle escaped me. She was right, but just because routine and efficiency were the things that kept me sane didn’t mean everyone wanted to hear about them. “I’ll just give you one for now,” I said.
“Hit me.”
“You have a lot of regulars. They shouldn’t have to wait in line if you already know what they want.”
She nodded. “We’ve talked about that. But part of what people come in here for is the personal attention, the banter at the counter, the atmosphere.”
“No reason they can’t get all that while picking up their drinks at the far end of the counter. You could have them prepay, if you wanted to, or put in a text-ordering system. Or both.”
Her nose wrinkled. “It’s just a lot of logistics,” she said. “I’m not sure we’re ready to invest in stuff like that.”
I nodded. Maybe they weren’t, but it didn’t have to be complicated. “I get it,” I said. “But it could be as simple as keeping a tablet there with the shop’s quick-order email account pulled up. Folks can email before they leave the house or from their cars.”
“So you’re going to manage the line and check email when we’re slammed?”
I’d come in lots of times before starting today, watched the way things operated behind the counter when they were busy. And when they weren’t.
“When you’ve got two people up here anyway, one of them can be designated to check. Keep notifications on the device, and there’s an audio cue that an order has come in.”
Zara didn’t look sold. She glanced up at the clock and then out at the door. “I like you, Mason,” she said. “Even if you do look like you kind of want to kill me sometimes.”
“I assure you, I don’t.”
She laughed. “I know. But Amelia told me to give you shit about your resting murder face.”
Amelia. Of course my sister would have been in here talking about me. It was like we were two halves of one personality—she got all the bright, shiny, social genes, and I ended up with the logic, practicality, and focus. Not that she was flighty or ditzy. She wasn’t. But sometimes she seemed to overlook reality in favor of maintaining an upbeat outlook. I was a little more realistic.
“Of course she did.”
“Anyway, let me show you how this bad boy works, and this morning we’ll just have you pulling espressos, okay? Nothing fancy. Master the shots and we’ll move on.”
I gave her a single nod. A plan. Good.
As Zara went through the steps of making a simple espresso, I noted them all, both in my mind and in the book I kept shoved in my pocket.
“You’re not going to have time to refer to your notes,” Zara said, glancing over her shoulder as I made notes.
“Won’t need to. Writing them down solidifies them in my mind.”
She didn’t say anything else for a few minutes, and we went on. By the time she was ready to open the doors, I could make a shot perfectly and with precision.
“I’ll show you how to steam the milk when the early rush ends,” she said, smiling at me with a bit more confidence now that she’d seen I wasn’t going to completely flub the basics.
As we served the first few customers, Zara introducing me brightly to each one as the new barista, I fell into an easy rhythm that relaxed me. Every other thing in my life might have been hanging by an uncertain thread—the farm, my uncle, my mental state—but the efficiency and routine involved in making shot after shot of espresso felt like certainty. This made sense.
At least until Zara shot me a strange smile and said, “You know, Mason, every barista we’ve hired so far has fallen in love and left us. You planning to do the same?”
“There’s not a chance in hell, Zara.”
I’d already figured out that my life worked best alone, and I had no plans to change that.