Sweetheart
The World of True North
Sarah Mayberry
Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Mayberry
All rights reserved.
This book was inspired by the True North Series written by Sarina Bowen. It is an original work that is published by Heart Eyes Press LLC.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Being married to another writer is truly the gift that keeps on giving. Chris, thank you so much for listening to my rambling monologues about this book and helping me find my way through. I couldn't do any of the things I do without you by my side. Sarina, I am so excited to be playing in your world. Thank you for letting me come on this journey with you. And Mel, you're a treasure and a true friend. Thanks for sharing your smarts with me.
Contents
1. Haley
2. Haley
3. Beck
4. Haley
5. Beck
6. Haley
7. Beck
8. Haley
9. Beck
10. Haley
11. Haley
12. Beck
13. Haley
14. Beck
15. Haley
16. Beck
17. Haley
18. Haley
19. Beck
20. Haley
21. Beck
22. Haley
23. Beck
24. Haley
25. Haley
26. Beck
27. Haley
28. Beck
29. Haley
30. Haley
31. Beck
32. Haley
33. Beck
34. Haley
35. Beck
36. Haley
37. Beck
38. Haley
39. Epilogue
You Will Also Enjoy…
1
Haley
Starting a new job is like starting a new relationship—for weeks you’re on your best behavior, smiling your brightest smile, laughing at every joke. Pretending you don’t burp, fart, and have occasional moments of stupidity like a normal person.
All that effort. All that niceness. That’s why I was braced for an exhausting day when I arrived at the Busy Bean for my first shift. I really needed this job to work out for me, and I was determined to be my most sparkling, eager, and diligent self to show my two new bosses they had made an excellent choice when they gave me the job of barista-waitress in their bustling coffeeshop.
But I hadn’t been prepared for my first day to start with absolute mayhem. I walked through the door to find one of my bosses with a mop in hand, doing battle with a tide of water creeping across the wide pine floorboards. I could hear my other boss letting loose a stream of expletives from the kitchen area, with the deeper register of a man’s voice occasionally chiming in. Chairs had been stacked haphazardly on tables, and a wad of soaked dishtowels formed a soggy barrier in front of the kitchen doorway, funneling the water out toward the seating area and away from the refrigerated display cabinets.
“Haley, thank God. Grab this while I run over to the apartments to steal all of Ben and Alec’s towels,” Zara Rossi said, shoving the mop handle into my hands.
“Okay,” I said stupidly.
“Water pipe broke under the kitchen sink. This place was inches deep when I opened up,” Zara explained before disappearing out the front door.
I mopped like crazy for the next few minutes, wringing water into the bucket over and over, fighting what felt like a never-ending battle. Then a cheer sounded from the kitchen.
“By all that is holy, yes!”
Seconds later, my other new boss, Audrey Shipley, exited the kitchen, her blond hair dripping. She was wearing an old, faded T-shirt and what looked like pajama pants, both of which were soaked through.
“Water is off. Finally. Any sign of the plumber?” She pulled up short when she realized she was talking to me and not her business partner. “Haley. Hi. Where’s Zara?”
“She said something about stealing towels from her brothers at the Gin Mill,” I explained.
“She’s a genius. I was just wondering how we were going to get this place dry enough to open for business.”
“Can you open with the water shut off?” I asked tentatively. I was no expert on managing a coffeeshop, but running water seemed like it might be one of the basic requirements.
“The plumber said he’d be here— Ah, there he is.” Audrey dashed toward the door, opening it to greet a burly, bearded man hefting a battered toolbox.
They disappeared into the kitchen, and I went back to mopping. A few minutes later, Zara came back with an armful of towels, and together we threw them on the floor and started skate-drying, shuffling back and forth across the floorboards with towels beneath our feet. Early morning sunlight was streaming through the leaded glass windows, painting the hodge-podge of antique and vintage chairs and tables with bars of golden light as we shuffled up and down, up and down.
“Okay, Haley, I think we’re done,” Zara said after a strenuous ten minutes. She pushed her dark hair off her forehead and let out a laugh that sounded more than a little embarrassed. “Welcome to the Bean. What a great introduction.”
“Hey, at least we know the floors are really clean,” I said, because I am a pro at finding the silver lining in every cloud.
“This is true,” Zara said.
I started gathering the towels together. “What do we want to do with these?”
“Let’s throw them in a trash bag. I’ll take them home and wash them.” She checked her watch. “Okay, we’ve got thirty minutes until we’re supposed to open. Audrey.”
It took a couple of seconds, but Audrey emerged from the kitchen, a dusting of flour on her cheek, eyebrows raised as if to say, Why the hell are you screeching my name?
“Go home,” Zara ordered. “Haley and I have got this. I only called you because I knew Griff would have a pipe wrench handy, and you’d get here faster than the plumber.”
Audrey started to argue, but Zara simply pointed a finger toward the door. “Begone, wench.”
Audrey’s mouth kicked up into a smile. “Okay, fine. Whatever. See you at one.”
Zara turned to me once her business partner was gone. “Baptism by fire time, Haley. You up for it?”
“Let’s do this,” I said.
The next half hour passed in a blur as we went through the Bean’s morning routine at the speed of light. I did my best to anticipate tasks and jump into action whenever anyone asked for anything, hoping I wasn’t messing up. The plumber announced he’d fixed the broken pipe and turned the water back on five minutes before the Bean’s official opening time, and by the time the first customers walked through the door, there was no sign the Bean had been a disaster zone less than an hour earlier.
I got sucked into the busy rhythms of the job after that, waiting on tables, packing up take-out sandwiches, wraps, and pastries, cranking out coffees on the Bean’s enormous old Astra espresso machine. Before I knew it, it was one o’clock and time for me to clock off. Zara caught me as I was throwing my apron into the laundry bag in the kitchen.
“Audrey just took the helm. Come have a coffee with me before you head home.” Zara handed me a latte.
“Take one of these while you’re at it,” said Roderick, the Bean’s ridiculously hot baker, passing me an apple and walnut muffin. “You’ve earned it.”
Zara cleared her throat ostentatiously, and Roderick made a show of considering whether she deserved one as well.
“Oh, all right, I guess you can have one, too.”
She led me outside via the employee exit, heading for a bench perched at the top of the river bank. I became more and more nervous with every step, mentally reviewing every possible slip-up I’d made that morning.
Hypervigilance and an almost overwhelming need to find a solution to every problem, even if it had nothing to do with me, were survival skills I learned at a young age. By the time we were both sitting on the bench, I was holding my coffee and muffin in a death grip, grimly waiting for Zara to tell me they’d made a terrible mistake and this would be my first and only day at the Busy Bean.
“Oh man, it’s good to take the weight off,” Zara said, leaning against the backrest and crossing her feet at the ankles, her long legs stretched out straight. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face toward the sun.
At just over five feet, I was significantly shorter, so I didn’t try to emulate her. Instead, I simply sat there, my stomach in knots, waiting for the axe to fall.
“Thanks for being such a trouper today, Haley,” Zara said after a moment, flashing a smile my way. “Not exactly how I planned on showing you the ropes, but you worked the Astra like a champ.”
She lifted her coffee in a toast to me, and I was so busy processing her praise I left her hanging for a couple of awkward seconds before lifting my mug to clink it against hers.
“Well, thanks,” I said. “I was trying not to mess up too much. But I’ve got a good grip on the table-numbering system now.”
“You’re already the best barista we’ve ever had,” Zara said wryly. “I’ve been jockeying that thing for a couple of years now, and I still can’t pump out the coffees as fast as you.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Since graduating from high school, I’d worked in a series of coffeeshops, cafés, and restaurants. I could probably make coffees in my sleep if I had to.
Zara let out a little yelp, making me start. Then I realized she was staring at my feet, her gaze covetous.
“Haley. Those boots. You have to tell me where you got them,” she breathed.
Made from vegetable-tanned calfskin in a warm cognac tone, my flat-heeled ankle boots had a stylized landscape of Vermont depicted in rich greens, russets, and browns painted along the vamp. The brushwork was some of my best, which was why I was not unfamiliar with the look on Zara’s face. I guess you could say I’m used to being a literal walking advertisement for my own work.
“I made them,” I said. “That’s what I do when I’m not cranking out coffees.”
“Are you kidding me? You made those?” Zara squeaked, stabbing a finger at my shoes as though I’d just claimed I’d singlehandedly built the Space Shuttle in my yard.
“Yup. I do belts, handbags, and custom shoes and sell them on Etsy,” I explained.
Zara blinked. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever met a shoemaker before.”
“Barista-waitress-shoemaker,” I corrected.
“They’re really beautiful. Can I ask how much you charge?”
I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. I always found it hard to answer this question, because I never know how people are going to react when I tell them the price I have to charge in order to cover overhead and labor. People are used to buying disposable, mass-produced fashion footwear, not hand-made, bespoke shoes built to last a lifetime.
“For a custom pair of boots like these, I usually charge four hundred and fifty,” I said.
Zara nodded slowly. “That makes sense. A lot of work went into them, right?”
I beamed at her, pleased she understood without me having to explain. “Days.”
Not to mention the years I’d spent perfecting my craft.
“So how does a person become a shoemaker, anyway?” Zara asked. “I’m guessing this is not something a person learns off the Internet.”
“They live next door to one when they’re growing up,” I said. “Mr. Zametti had a workshop in his yard, and I think he got sick of me hanging around and asking questions, so he put me to work. It was supposed to scare me off, but I loved it.”
“So this is your passion,” Zara said, her dark eyes bright with interest. “Is the dream to be able to make shoes full time?”
“I would love to be able to survive off the earnings of my Etsy store.” My declaration came out sounding weird and unnatural, like someone had coached me to say it for a class presentation. Maybe one day I’d get better at asking for what I wanted, but this was clearly not that day.
“I’m going to start saving my tips,” Zara declared, eyeing my boots again. “I want me a pair of those boots.”
We chatted about Bean business for a few minutes after that, Zara filling me on what I could expect from the coming week. I already knew that either she or Audrey would be there during my shifts this first week to make sure I was getting the hang of things. After that, I’d be tackling all the early opens alongside Roderick, leaving Audrey and Zara free to look after their young families.
“We had our best month ever last month,” Zara said as we collected our empty mugs and headed inside. “Long may it continue.”
She gave me a squeeze on the shoulder as I grabbed my bag and jacket, thanking me again for pitching in and helping save the day. Her praise—her acknowledgement—made me feel so good I couldn’t keep the smile off my face during the walk up the hill into town. Not a bad first day, even if it had started with a burst pipe.
It didn’t take me long to get to my place. I lived on a street just off the town green, in a two-story white clapboard house that looked exactly like the doll’s house my sister had when we were kids, down to the dark-gray shutters and the cute front porch. My apartment occupied the entire lower floor, with my upstairs neighbor, Marion, accessing her apartment via a staircase at the rear.
I let myself in the front door and dumped my things on my bed in the front room. I’d planned on having lunch before getting started on my latest commissions, but the coffee and muffin would keep me going for a while. I made my way down the hallway past the tiny pocket living space with its fireplace, through the even tinier kitchen, and out to the closed-in back porch. The afternoon sun was streaming through the porch’s windows, and the smell of leather, paints, and adhesive hit me in a warm wave.
I opened the backdoor to let in some fresh air, then got everything organized to work on the custom leather belt I was decorating for a commission. I’d exchanged a couple of emails with the customer before we’d settled on a design that incorporated apple blossoms and delicate leaves.
Dipping my finest brush into white paint, I went to work. The next time I looked up, the sun was low in the sky and I had a stiff neck from sitting too long in one position. The belt was done, though, the blossoms trailing in delicate swirls across deep, rich brown leather.
It was pretty frickin’ gorgeous, if I did say so myself, and I was confident my customer was going to be very happy with it. I spent ten minutes cleaning my brushes and tidying up my workspace, then locked the porch door and wandered into the kitchen to contemplate dinner.
A couple of hours later, I was in bed, my alarm set for five a.m. As I drifted off, it occurred to me that I hadn’t felt this good about my life in a long time.
Everything seemed to be coming together. It was tempting to be cynical and tell myself it couldn’t last, because if life had taught me anything, it was that what goes up must come down. But it seemed like a waste of a perfectly good natural high to rain on my own parade.
Maybe I was simply coming into my own. Maybe this was my time.
Whatever was going on, it would be stupid not to enjoy the ride while it lasted.
2
Haley
The ride lasted three weeks and two days and ended abruptly when I glimpsed the weekly receipts tally that Audrey and Zara kept in the drawer beneath the register. The tally was supposed to help us predict demand, but what it told me was that our coffee sales had dipped noticeably in the past coupl
e of weeks.
I frowned at the curling ribbon of paper, but the numbers didn’t magically rearrange themselves into a more acceptable total. Why on earth would the Bean be losing coffee sales for the past two weeks? It just didn’t make sense.
Unless the person making the coffees was doing something different, and the regulars didn’t like it.
The thought slid into my brain like a well-placed dagger, in the way of all self-defeating thoughts. Who better to know your weak spots than yourself, right?
A tight feeling in my stomach, I abandoned my opening routine to grind some beans into one of the Astra’s group handles. I tamped it down with my usual deft push and twist, then slotted the handle into the machine. Coffee poured into the cup in a smooth black stream, crema forming on the top. I waited until I had a full espresso shot before I flicked off the switch and considered the extracted fluid. I sniffed it. Swirled it around the bottom of the cup. Then I tasted it, and found the flavor to be almost exactly the same as the first cup I’d ever drunk at the Bean.
Just to be sure, I made Roderick a cappuccino—his drink of choice—and took it into the kitchen. The warm space smelled good, a mixture of yeast, sugar, and vanilla, wafted around by the heat of the oven.
“I need your opinion on the coffee,” I told him, handing the cup over.
He flipped a towel over his shoulder, then leaned a hip against the stainless-steel counter as he obligingly took a mouthful.
Sweetheart Page 1