by Ciara Knight
Why would her landlord be calling in her loan now? She’d been behind on payments forever. The avoidance and empty promises had kept him from pressuring her too much. After all, some money was better than none. Who would want to own a failing garage on the edge of a small town besides someone with a family history that bound them to the business?
She pushed away the anxiety and shoved the note in her pocket before about-facing and marching down the street. Thank goodness for Jake. Her walk to his house provided time for her to cool a little. She needed to hurry, though, if she’d make it back in time for the guy coming to look at her Chevy.
The crooked, dark-brown sign that read Hunting and Fishing banged against the front porch. Every day she could hear that sound echo up the street and into her garage. One day she snuck over to fix that blasted sign, but he told her he liked it that way. The old store was actually his belated mother’s home that doubled as a seasonal shop.
She knocked, but when he didn’t come to the door she turned the old brass knob to discover the door locked. Not much business for hunting and fishing this time of year, unless someone wanted to go ice fishing or something crazy like that. A shadow through the window told her that he was inside, though, so she fisted her hand and pounded on the door three times. “I know you’re in there, Jake. Don’t be a coward.”
The top of his red hair popped up at the bottom of the front window.
“You know I can see you, right?” Stella took in a deep breath and blew it out with a vengeance, expelling all her anger with it the way the counselor had taught her after her father had gone to jail.
“You’re not going to hit me?” Jake asked in a whimpering tone.
“My goodness, no. I have a temper, but I’d never hit someone without a good reason. Now open this door so we can talk.”
“We can talk through the window, I think.” His head rose enough to show his tiny, fear-filled eyes.
“Seriously? You put an eviction notice on the garage and then don’t tell me why?”
“I didn’t put the sign there. I paid someone to do it. You’re behind on payments,” Jake said with a little more grit to his tone than she’d expected. She’d been telling him he needed to toughen up or people would walk all over him. Too bad he was using the training against her.
“I know that. And I’m working on it.” She tried the knob again, despite already knowing it was locked.
Jake slid below the window again. “You’ve been working on it for over a year.”
A bird swooped down into his dead garden and landed in the tree. A garden that had won the Best Lawn in Sugar Maple four years in a row before his mother passed away. Now he was alone. Obviously lost. Stella could relate. “I know that, but I’ll catch up soon.”
“No. I won’t be a footrest anymore.”
Great, he’d thrown her own words back at her. She snugged her hat down and shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “Why now? I don’t understand.”
The sparse sprinkling of red hair made another appearance. “Because I have a buyer. Never had a buyer before.”
“Buyer? For my garage?” She removed her hands and slapped her palms against the window. “Who in town would want my abuelo’s old garage?”
“Not a local.” Jake’s entire head popped up like one of those fun park mallet games she liked to pound her frustrations out on. “And he doesn’t want the garage.”
“I thought you said he wanted to buy—”
“Property. He wants the property.” Jake’s scarf-wrapped neck made an appearance, showing his increased bravery.
“Why would anyone want the property?” Stella asked.
He shrank back to cheek level. “Don’t know. Don’t care. It’s a lot of money. Money I need.”
Stella hopped down from the front steps into the dormant rose bed, crunching mulch below her. “We all need money, but we don’t evict people to get it. Tell me who this person is. I’ll talk to them.”
“No way. Not gonna help you chase off the buyer.”
Stella needed a plan. A way to get the information she needed to thwart this sale. “Give me some time, then. That’s only fair.”
Silence.
Good. That meant he was thinking about it. She channeled her best inner-Carissa and cleared her throat. “You know I’ve struggled to make this work, but I have a plan. I just need more time.” She leaned her head against the damp, icy siding and willed her mood to remain calm.
“What plan?”
She pressed her finger to the frosted glass of a basement window and drew a car, thinking of her next words carefully. “You know I’ve struggled with all the new computer systems in the cars. I’ve decided to purchase a diagnostic computer so that I can work on all cars, not just classics.” Her finger rubbed harder, causing a loud squeal from her leather gloves.
“You said you’d never give in to the, how did you put it…um… Oh right. You’d never give in to the snotty, glorified walking terminators that rich, lazy drivers are selling their souls to drive.”
“Things change.” She hated change, but no matter how hard she tried to hold on to the past, it slipped away every time. Ever since those discount corporate car places opened outside of town, she hadn’t done well. Carissa, her best friend turned nauseatingly happy love bird, never had time for her anymore. Her grandparents who’d raised her had passed away, her father was in jail somewhere, and her mother… Well, who knew. In search of fame, she’d abandoned Stella when she was young and did her a solid, never returning—unlike her father. Apparently fame had eluded her, since Stella had never seen her on social media. A place she’d scoured for months after her abuelo passed. The man had always said Stella was the spitting image of her mother, with the attitude of her dear abuela.
“You could always move your garage. Then I could make money and you could still run your business.”
“No!” she shouted and shot up straight. She paused to calm herself again, adjusting her leather jacket. The one Carissa had given her three Christmases ago. The girl was always thoughtful and giving and kind and now absent.
Great, so much for channeling her inner Carissa. Stella couldn’t even control her temper for five minutes for the sake of her abuelo’s garage. “Jake…” She swallowed the stomach-lurching boulder of pride and said a word she didn’t even know was part of her vocabulary. “Please.”
Begging. Is that what she was reduced to, all because no one had a love for classic cars anymore? The entire world was obsessed with the future and dismissed the past.
“You have thirty days to get the money, but I won’t make you close shop until sixty days.” Jake snatched the curtains shut, and Stella had no choice but to face the truth about her future.
She had to figure out how to get the money for the computer she needed. It looked like the only choice she had was to humble herself and play nice with Knox Brevard in order to drive business to her garage the way he’d done for Carissa with that stupid Internet show.
That was a huge price to pay. Humbling herself for some wannabe star like her bio mom and dad made her stomach swish and bubble and revolt. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be worth it to save her abuelo’s shop. She owed him that. The only family that had ever believed in her, encouraged her, loved her.
Three
Knox slumped over his mug, inhaling the magical concoction that one of the Fabulous Five, Mary Beth, had created. He inhaled the aroma of cardamom, the distinctive smell of mild spice, with a hint of nutty sweetness, a dash of woods. The unmistakable signature of an Iraqi coffee flooded him with emotions. How many times had he hoped for an offer to join Alima’s family for coffee? The day that invitation finally came flashed like a lightning bolt charged by God himself.
He shoved the memory away before it rendered him breathless on the floor in the heart of the coffee shop. The horror of that day was too much to face in a public place where cameras could capture his meltdown. The desire to abandon his spot overwhelmed him. He gripped the ceramic
mug so tight he thought it would shatter into tiny pieces. If he stood, he knew his legs wouldn’t be strong enough to support him.
Despite his desire to flee from the memories, he was drawn to the coffee once more. He closed his eyes and imagined the good times, although sparse, and focused on one memory. Alima sitting across from him, explaining their coffee traditions. Her dark hair a stark contrast to the flowing silk scarf wrapped around her head and neck. The loose-fitting clothing had done nothing to hide her shape, not that he could ever steer his attention beyond her vibrant, dark-rimmed, long lash–framed eyes. The kind of eyes that had depth beyond her years and geographic experience.
Under the aroma of cardamom he discovered hints of other spices, as if Mary-Beth had managed to convince an Iraqi family to part with their coffee spice secret. Something that wasn’t done.
He leaned over the mug, allowing the steam to caress his burning, windblown face. When he’d first arrived in town, he thought the gossip about Mary-Beth, the coffee whisperer, was a myth. Nope. It was true. The woman knew how to create the perfect beverage for any person.
His eyes watered, so he leaned away from the cup of memories, where he’d lost himself in another place, another world, another life.
When Drew and Lori had told him about Sugar Maple, he’d thought they’d been exaggerating, but it was really small-town America where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Not too unlike the villages of Iraq.
For a few seconds, life didn’t seem so bad. He hadn’t felt the comradery of townspeople for a long time. The big city had allowed him that luxury. To remain in his own space without too much personal contact. Life was better that way.
Maybe doing more segments in this town wouldn’t be such a bad idea. He’d definitely want to do one on the mystery of the coffee whisperer. It would be a tall order, though, to figure out how to capture Mary-Beth’s gift.
This was the first time in as long as he could remember that he’d had the opportunity to complete a thought without a camera in his face or someone asking for his autograph. He savored the moment of peace until the front door opened, sending a gust of frigid air through the café. “Close the door already,” he grumbled.
Click. Click. Click.
The unmistakable sound of Jacqueline Ramor’s stilettos didn’t send his pulse racing like he’d anticipated, but she’d be a welcomed distraction from his memories. Being the outcast of the Fabulous Five, nicknamed Judas Jackie, meant they shared in their misery. When first arriving, he was sure they’d hook up, but he didn’t even aspire to have her on his arm for some big event. She was more like a sister to him now. An irritating, self-absorbed sister.
“Grump, much?” Jacqueline slid into the chair across from him and tapped the tip of her fire engine–colored nails to the tabletop. “Guess your mood tells me the answer to the question I came to ask.”
He let go of the cup of distraction and lifted his head to see her eyelashes that extended to millimeters below her dark brows. “And that was?”
“If you’d be working with me on the next segment.” She wrapped her long fingers around his mug and slid it toward herself, but he covered the rim with his hand, stopping the movement. Sharing wasn’t his strongest character trait. Probably why relationships never were attractive to him, despite Lori’s overanalyzing mumbo jumbo about him not wanting to lose anyone else in his life after losing so many brothers in war. If she ever found out about Alima, she’d never give him room to breathe.
“Do you want me to order you something?” Knox knew he’d have to tell Jacqueline the deal about the show and hoped one of Mary-Beth’s mood-altering concoctions could distract her enough for her not to cause a scene.
Not that he was scared of Jacqueline, but there was a woman with her phone already out and eyeing him. The last thing he needed was a picture of a mug of coffee over his head going viral…again.
Jacqueline eyed the counter and then glanced back at him before relinquishing her hold. “No. I’ve got to go in a minute.”
Before she had a chance to change her mind, he downed a gulp, sending warmth to his toes. It wasn’t as bitter as an Iraqi coffee, but it still had the flavor. “You’re right. We’re not doing your segment next. I know you’d hoped for that, but we’d planned to do one full sweep of the town for the next segment and then move on.”
“But that isn’t the plan anymore.” Jacqueline tapped her nails harder. “Word in town is that you’re going to be doing several segments highlighting businesses. According to my sources, the segment on Carissa’s shop put you back on top with your fans—and then some.”
“That’s true.” He cradled the mug and took another long draw.
“Then you should focus on the one business in town that will take you to the next level. Let’s face it… Coffee shops are everywhere.” She pointed one finger toward the ceiling and then to the squealing espresso machine sending steam upward. She paused, but to his relief, it wasn’t long enough to allow him to speak. “Then there’s Felicia’s Nursery—well, that’s out, considering its winter and spring could be weeks away. That only leaves the grease pit.” She giggled, but apparently he had to work on his poker face because her grin turned into an uncharacteristic nervous chuckle. “Wait, you’re not serious. Sassy, sarcastic, scornful Stella is going to be your next poster girl for sweet, small-town Sugar Maple?” Her hands dropped to her lap. She sat upright, mouth open, eyes wide, looking like a petrified Jacqueline mummy.
“They’ve gotten to you. The elders, the small-town crazies… They brain-freezed you or something. I mean…” Her eyebrows reactivated like an animatronic and rose toward her hairline. “You of all people should appreciate what I can offer your show.” She fluffed her hair and regained her composure. “Polished perfection. Isn’t that what your viewers deserve? What they want and crave?” She placed her forearms on the table and slid closer to him, touching his hand with one of those nails. “Together, we could make your show number one.”
Knox had never shied away from a flirt before, but there was a first for everything. Perhaps it was the fact he didn’t feel like he had a choice. It took a second for his words to form, but he got there. “If this was my choice, it would be all about you, hon. I mean, look at you.”
That provoked a bright-red-lip smile. “It’s your show. Your choice.”
“Unfortunately, it isn’t. Not this time. Yes, I run my show, but the Internet world is capricious. My audience dictates what I do. Without their support, there is no show.”
“Who told you your audience wants Stella? After what happened with your last automotive repair place…I mean…” She gripped his hand tighter. “I just want to see you become number one. Isn’t that what you want? To be the best?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?” Jacqueline pulled away and pushed her chair out with a squeal. “I thought I had a winner here. Someone like myself. When you wake up and realize the colossal mistake you’re making, give me a call.” Her stilettos beat indentions into the old wood floor on her way out.
Great. He’d alienated the one person in this town he had anything in common with. A woman who understood why mediocre was never an option. Perhaps he’d invite her out for a nice meal to smooth things over and try to explain the situation better. He hated to eat alone in public.
Before he had a second to recover, Stella entered the coffee house with her Buick-sized attitude. She shuffled over in her military-style boots and halted with a squeal of leather to hard wood. “Listen, if you want this show, fine. I’ll do it. I’ll lower myself to the people-pleasing, accolade-craving, need the world’s superficial approval to feel worthy show. Let’s get it over with quick. I’ll be ready first thing in the morning.”
She about-faced on her scuffed size sixes and headed for the door.
“What if I don’t want to work with a stubborn, underachieving, combative, sassy woman pretending not to care what other people think because she’s too scared to face the truth?”
“Sassy?” She returned to the table. “You’ve been talking to your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Whoa, no need to be hostile. Sounds like she already dumped you for the next eye-candy that strolled by. Or wait, did she find out I’m in and she’s out? That must’ve been an explosive scene.”
The eyes of the residents of Sugar Maple were homing in on him. How long would it be until someone posted a video of his two-time girl walk-out in minutes? That wouldn’t help his image at all. He nudged the chair out with his foot. “Sit. I think we need to talk before either of us agrees to this.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, and he was sure she’d bolt, but instead she flopped down into the chair. “Speak.”
The woman in the corner slid her phone back into her jacket pocket, apparently deciding there wasn’t going to be a show.
“First of all, this is not something you can start filming in the morning.”
She opened her mouth, but he held up one hand. To his surprise, she didn’t talk back to him. Maybe she wanted this but wouldn’t admit it.
“If we move forward with this segment, I’ll need to know everything about you. I refuse to move forward with a business that turns out to be—”
“Stealing from the innocent elderly?”
“You saw that segment?” he asked, the hair on the back of his neck matching her posture, rigid and straight.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t watch your show.” She shrugged. “I hear things.”
He clasped his hands around the now lukewarm cup and took a break long enough to enjoy another sip.
“What did Mary-Beth make you? Some frou-frou caramel, green tea California concoction?”
He lowered the mug enough to see over the rim. “No, it’s a blend of cardamom, cinnamon, and I think nutmeg.”