The Perfect Blend

by Allie Pleiter

  And that gets me wondering. Could someone that efficiency-minded grasp God’s economy? I know Christian bankers exist. I’ve never met one, but they’ve got to be out there. Maybe I’ll invite him to discuss tithing over lattes once I’ve got my place open.

  “So, have you told your parents?” Diane asks as we make our way to the car. Diane is the only person in the world I’ve told about my plans.

  “No. I’m waiting for the right time.”

  Diane snickers. “There’s no right time to tell your dad you’re dumping your money into a coffeehouse. Even a Christian coffeehouse. You know that.”

  “Thanks, Einstein.” I nod toward the jeans. “Dad already told John if he does anything other than go to college with Uncle Ian’s money, he’ll be chopped up into little pieces and told never to come home again.”

  “Well, it’s good advice.” Diane says, applying her big sister voice. “College is important.”

  “Uncle Ian’s words were, For each Black child to use to fulfill God’s purpose in their life.” The phrase has gotten a bit of use since Uncle Ian gave each of us Black kids a tidy sum of money last year, along with his admonition to use it for God’s glory. Uncle Ian is, by Dad’s standards, far wealthier than he is wise. He made a killing in some computer-chip thing, got in a car accident, then gave most of it away and went to live on an island off Jamaica to write the great American Christian novel.

  You can imagine how nuts this made Dad. He and Mom got their own little pot of fun money, too, that Dad promptly socked into municipal somethings without indulging in so much as a steak dinner.

  John, by the way, is thinking that God would be best glorified by an electric guitar and a new van—both apparently necessary for his garage band. Ah, high school.

  I can’t really talk, though, can I? I’m pretty sure Dad’s going to have a tough time swallowing the concept that God is best glorified in my life by a missionary mint mocha.

  Still, when I picture Higher Grounds—that’s the name I’ve already chosen for my business—I can see it clear as day. A place where faith is hip and relevant. The coolest spot ever for your singles bible study. Filled with color and sound and deep conversation. Walls crammed with great books and CDs that reinvent contemporary Christian music. Definitely not your mother’s prayer circle. Filled with funky mosaic tables and overstuffed chairs, with plenty of nooks and corners to hold great discussions. A showcase for rising local talent. And the best coffee this side of the pearly gates.

  Coffee’s a way to reach souls, I tell you. Especially in this town. Coffee’s my gift, my talent, my mission outreach. I want to brew coffee so fab that nonbelievers will put up with (and eventually be influenced by) the faith element, just to score the best cappuccino in town. They’ll keep coming back and I’ll keep telling them about faith and, bit by bit, God will do His thing in their hearts while I do my thing in their mugs.

  I can see every detail of the place when I close my eyes. Right down to the napkins.

  Now you see why I don’t need a five-year plan. I’ve already got one, clear as day, from God.

  Chapter Three

  If you brew it…

  If this is the birthplace of business, it’s no cuddly nursery. For all the creative minds they expect to be gathering in this room, launching exciting new businesses and inventing spectacular new products, they didn’t give a thought to the power of environment. This place is drab.

  Steel chairs cue up in neat lines on a thin carpet the color of granite surrounded by off-white, windowless walls. My high school chemistry lab had more personality. I feel as though I’m inhaling the blandness of this place every minute I sit through class.

  Tonight, though, is my chance to bring a little spark into this world. I hoist my bright red cup, complete with its mock-up of my company logo—coffee beans arranged in the Christian ichthus fish symbol—and toast the class. The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the room. Each bland gray desk now boasts a cup of coffee and a cherry cheesecake square resting on a bright red napkin. Soft “mmms” murmur through the classroom as nodding faces lick lips.

  “Because, you see, it’s the excellence and consistency of the brew, combined with an irresistible atmosphere, that will build a solid customer base. Location will be important, but brand loyalty is key to the coffee customer. Tell me, how many of you have a favorite coffeehouse?” All hands shoot up, except for—and you knew this one was coming—“professor” Grey back there filling his notebook with comments on my presentation. He leans back and crosses his arms across his chest. “And how often do you go elsewhere?” I ask. The class shrugs their shoulders and a few wag their heads—a general consensus that, all things being equal, no one likes to go elsewhere.

  Theory confirmed. Coffee brewed. Assignment aced. From the looks of it, I’ve got half the class ready to plunk down their money right now and I haven’t said one word about God, Jesus or the irresistible power of the Holy Spirit and brilliant espresso. You’re looking at a living, breathing, no-fail java-for-Jesus campaign.

  Mr. Grey clears his throat. “I must admit, Miss Black, you do craft a compelling pitch—even if I do prefer tea myself. I trust your paper is as inspired as your beverage service?”

  Tea? Paper? But he said to demonstrate how our businesses would be distinct. For my business, that can’t be put on paper—it gets poured into cups. I put it in the class’s cups. And they drank it. No, they downed it like the liquid gold it is. “This demonstration is my paper. You asked us to demonstrate our business’s unique qualities. I’m demonstrating. Do I really need the other kind?”

  Uh-oh. The furrowing eyebrow tells me Mr. Grey meant demonstrate on paper. And here I thought I’d taken the spirit of the assignment and gone one step further to demonstrate the very soul of my business.

  “Yes,” he says slowly, “you do.”

  “How you get customers into a coffeehouse is great coffee. That’s the marketing. That’s the advertising. There’s no complicated planning involved. This is Seattle. Even the preschoolers understand the concept of coffeehouses in this town.”

  “My assignment was a four-page marketing plan for your first eighteen months of operation demonstrating the unique niche of your business.”

  “And you’re drinking it.” Okay, he’s the only one not drinking it, but I think he gets my point.

  “I admit I may need to rethink my choice of verbs in the future, but I did quite clearly assign a paper. A paper, I’m now reasonably sure, you did not write.” There goes that eyebrow again.

  “Mr. Grey…”

  “I’d like to see you after class, Miss Black.”

  “But Mr. Grey…”

  “We’ll discuss this after class, Miss Black.”

  Ice. The air in here just dropped twenty-five degrees. This guy doesn’t just teach a class, he commands it.

  “Now,” he says, the civility instantly returning to his voice, “Mr. Davis, let’s hear your paper on your gourmet pasta-sauce line. I trust there’s no fettuccine involved?” How’d he turn off the ice so quickly? How’d he do that in two sentences?

  Jerry Davis, aspiring king of the Daviccio Pasta Sauce empire, rises from his seat. Actually, king might be overstating things. Jerry’s a small, round fellow. A nervous, shy man who acts as if he wants to be friendly but can’t quite work up the nerve. Round bald head, round glasses, round build. You know the type—the one guy so continually overlooked that he’s almost convinced he’s invisible? I have a heart for the Jerrys of this world. If Jerry could realize God loves him as much as the perfect, macho types, he’d gain some of the confidence he needs. God could do wonders with the tender heart I’m guessing is hiding under all that insecurity. But, like all the other Jerry-types I’ve met, he’s probably too shy to venture into a strange church.

  I could get him into my coffee bar, though, I’m sure of it. Higher Grounds is just the place for guys like Jerry.

  “No,” Jerry replies in a small, unsteady voice, “but I did bring a moc
k-up of the package label. I hope that’s okay? Nothing inside, it’s just a model. I didn’t cook anything. I wasn’t supposed to cook anything, was I?”

  “No, you weren’t,” assures Mr. Grey, who has also tried to bolster Jerry’s in-class confidence. “Let’s just hear your paper.”

  “Good coffee,” Jerry whispers to me as he takes tiny, rolling steps up the aisle to the class podium. It does not help my disposition, as you might imagine. Poor Jerry, I don’t hear his presentation. I spend the rest of class thinking about Professor Earl Grey, my botched assignment and what’s going to happen after class. This guy gets under my skin far too fast. I obviously misunderstood the assignment (or maybe took it one step further, depending on how you look at it). I shouldn’t be this annoyed.

  If self-control is a fruit of the Spirit, I need a couple of bushels to descend on me over the next forty minutes or…

  Or we won’t think about that. Breathe. Sip my coffee. Breathe. Sip. Try to listen to the nice pasta man talk about plum tomatoes….

  “Please, have a seat.” Ever polite, William Grey sets down my box full of coffee, cups and carafes. I notice a few more details in the office—I think they were always there but I was just too nervous to see them. There’s a plant in the far corner. Two trophies—football maybe?—huddle on one corner of his credenza. There’s a map of England on one wall.

  Now that I think about it, the Earl Grey joke isn’t really far off the mark. William Grey III is the kind of guy who would stand when you left the restaurant table and open your car door for you—part of an endangered species, really. He’s got a lot of class, so even if he plans to chew me out, chances are he’ll be civil about it.

  “Thanks,” I say, “Look, I…”

  “Please,” he interjects, holding up a hand while he reaches down to pull open a desk drawer, “let me do the talking this time. I believe you need to see this. It seems you are the kind of person who needs a visual.”

  Is that an insult? The way he said it, I’m not sure.

  To my surprise, he holds out a tin of brownies. “Taste these.” Brownies? What’s that got to do with anything?

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Humor me, Miss Black. Taste these.”

  I botch the assignment and he offers me chocolate-laden baked goods? I take one and nibble off a corner.

  My nibble quickly inflates into a full-fledged chomp. It’s one fine brownie. I mean really fine. It walks the delicate balance of gooey and cakey, of held together and melt-in-your-mouth. Wow. There’s some special flavor in there, something I’ve never tasted in a brownie before. Cinnamon? Maple? I’m not sure, but it’s wonderful. Hands down the best brownie I’ve ever tasted and I don’t hand out baked-goods compliments lightly.

  He breaks off a corner of one from the tin and puts it in his mouth. He takes the briefest of moments to savor it. It’s odd to watch—it’s not a business face at all, but an out-of-place expression of enjoyment. After a moment, he smiles.

  Oh, my. That smile belongs on a pirate, not a banker. Smooth, bright, and not at all what I’d expect on William Grey III. He’d better not do that too often, or I might have to start liking him.

  “Splendid, isn’t it?”

  “Um, yes. That’s a really good brownie.”

  “I’d venture to say it’s the best brownie in Seattle.”

  “I was thinking it’s the best brownie I’ve ever tasted.”

  “I’d agree.” He snaps the lid on the tin with a precise click. I take another bite. Splendid is definitely the word for it. I should get these in my coffeehouse—I’d walk ten blocks out of my way in high heels for these. “They filed for bankruptcy this morning.”

  “Huh?” I say. With my mouth full of brownie, too shocked to remember my table manners.

  “Tortoise Bakeries. Maker of outstanding goodies such as these brownies. Top-notch stuff. They filed for bankruptcy this morning.”

  “Oh.”

  “I could tell you dozens of stories like this one, but I think you need concrete evidence. Would you not agree this is one—what’s that word you use?—‘fab’ brownie?”

  “It’s terrific.” I don’t like where this is heading.

  “It’s not enough. What I’m trying to get you to grasp, Miss Black, is that outstanding product simply isn’t enough. The world’s best brownie will not keep a company afloat if no one knows about it. Word of mouth is powerful, I’ll grant you that, but you cannot build your business on it. Not while you’re paying rent and staff and buying supplies. This is not a case of if you brew it they will come.”

  “Mr. Grey, you possess a sense of humor!”

  “Miss Black, have I made my point?”

  God, in His infinite wisdom, sent me a banker who argues using baked goods. Like I said earlier, I’m rebellious, but I’m not stupid. “Okay, fine, I think I’d better write that paper.”

  His smile ignites again. “I knew you’d come round. Excellent. You’ve got twenty-four hours to turn it in. Actually,” he says, checking his watch—his very nice watch but I’m not noticing or anything—“more like twenty. I’ll expect it on my desk by 5:00 p.m. tomorrow.”

  “What? You’re kidding!”

  “You’ll find I rarely joke, Miss Black.”

  So much for his sense of humor. “I’ve got to work tomorrow. I’ll be up all night to get it done.”

  “Good thing you have plenty of excellent coffee on hand.”

  “You can’t!”

  “I’m extending you a favor, Miss Black. I’d take it if I were you.”

  How does he sound so civil and so mean at the same time? But what can I do? His lordship holds all the cards.

  “All right.” I shoot off my chair, snatch up my box of supplies and apply every ounce of will I possess not to say something nasty. “It’ll be on your desk by 5:00 p.m. tomorrow, Mr. Grey. If you’ll excuse me, it seems I have a whopping load of work to do.”

  “Miss Black?”

  I drag myself back around to face him. “What?”

  “You do make excellent coffee.”

  Yeah? Well, I’m gonna need it, aren’t I?

  Chapter Four

  Toads and rugby

  I fell asleep over my paper at 2:15 a.m. Still, I thought, I just might make it. Until I remembered the toad.

  Not just any toad, my nephew, Charlie the toad. More precisely, Charlie’s mom, my sister Cathy, whom I promised, in a fit of virtuous auntmanship, that I would come see Charlie in his toad costume. Today is Charlie’s vacation Bible school play, The Wetlands, God’s Delicate Treasure, and as his aunt and godmother I have-have-have to be there. I’ve seen the script. Cathy and I didn’t privately rename it Habitats for Insanity for nothing. It would have been hard to stay awake through it on a full night’s sleep, much less the night I just had.

  So, surrendering to the enormous pressures surrounding me at every turn, I called in sick to my afternoon shift at the flower shop where I work and spent half the morning applauding a toad.

  And the printer malfunction at 2:25 p.m.? Let’s not even go there.

  All of which is a rather lengthy explanation as to why I am currently sprinting down Thirty-Fifth Avenue. Racing the clock, highly nonathletic sandals in one hand and paper in the other, to get myself through the bank doors by 5:00 p.m.

  At 5:10 I hop through the lobby, bending over sideways to get my last shoe back on, and skid to a halt outside William Grey’s office door.

  William Grey’s dark, locked office door.

  Oh, come on. Who actually gets to leave their job at five anymore? Even in banking?

  “You must be Miss Black,” says a female voice behind me. I turn to see a woman who could be everybody’s grandmother looking at me from over a stack of files. “He waited as long as he could, but you just missed him.” She has a face that should be behind a plate of oven-fresh biscuits, not a pile of papers.

  I slump against the wall and nearly strangle my paper. “So close.”

  “And you
ran all the way here from the looks of it. That’s a shame.” For a moment I thought she was going to say dearie at the end of her sentence. I have been up too long. She motions toward her desk at the end of the hallway

  “It’s a shame all right,” I mutter. “A big, fat, sad turn of events, that’s what it is.”

  Grandma Biscuits applies a let’s just pretend you didn’t say that look to her face and offers me a chair. “Can I get you a glass of water?” she says, setting down her files. She’s dressed in one of those knit suits all older women seem to wear and she looks at me over bright silver half-moon spectacles.

  “Does it come with a few thousand dollars in start-up funding?”

  “No, but it could come with ice.” Her charm bracelet rattles as she holds up a single finger. “And a little useful information.” She bustles off to the water cooler and returns with ice water. “Bea Haversham,” she says, extending her hand along with the glass. “You must be Margaret Black.”

  “Maggie. Thanks.” I take the water. “Formerly of the small-business incubator program.”

  “The coffee lady.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “I have to say, that was one of the more interesting applications we’ve had in quite a while.” She peeks at me from over the top of her glasses. “You’re not one for filling out forms, are you?”