CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
ONE SHOT.
Dark, viscous liquid poured into the glass.
With the final drops, golden crema swirled.
Pour into a warmed china mug. Add the perfect measure of aromatic vanilla.
And then the pièce de résistance...perfectly steamed whole milk.
Holly Hoffman stood back from the shiny new commercial espresso machine and let loose a deep sigh as the aroma of fresh ground beans surrounded her. She grabbed a damp cocoa-brown bar towel and wiped the steam wand.
The first vanilla latte purchased in The Wildflower Coffee Bar and Used Book Store was a veritable work of art, as it should be. Holly had been working toward this May 1 opening for six months. Six months of visiting coffee bean suppliers in the Strip District in Pittsburgh, training with the espresso machine company and dealing with her loving but definitely opinionated family.
The shop had been open ten minutes and already the line stretched out the door. Who would’ve thought so many coffee aficionados lived in the little central Pennsylvania community of Bear Meadows?
As Holly frothed a pitcher of nonfat milk, she looked around the comfortable surroundings created with the help of her sister-in-law, Carolyn. Four brown-and-yellow-plaid armchairs surrounded a low table in the corner. A matching couch and coffee table stretched along the wall lined with bookshelves.
Louise, Holly’s best friend since kindergarten, was intent on the cash register. She tapped up, down and across like a virtuoso pianist. Mrs. Hershberger stood on the other side of the gleaming white counter, squinting through rimless glasses at the extensive menu over the back bar.
“What’s the difference between a latte and a cappuccino?” Mrs. Hershberger asked. The recently retired teacher had already ordered a vanilla latte with whole milk...but she liked to learn new things. The summer before, she’d gone on an excursion to the Antarctic.
Behind her, Wendy Valentine gripped her briefcase to her suit jacket and drummed well-manicured nails on the leather. Smoothing her black pageboy, the local television star glared at Mrs. Hershberger as if staring would help her sort the coins she’d scattered on the countertop as she paid for her drink. But anyone who’d had Mrs. Hershberger for first grade—pretty much everybody in town under the age of fifty—knew the teacher didn’t like to be rushed.
Holly steamed milk in a shiny metal pitcher. The low rumble joined the buzz of conversation in the shop. Wendy would order nonfat milk, no doubt about it, which was why Holly had the milk almost up to temperature.
Behind Wendy was Holly’s landlady, Mayor Gold. She eyed the furnishings and lodge-like decor, probably wondering if she was asking enough rent. Carolyn, standing shoulder to shoulder with Holly, was already steaming soy milk. Everyone had heard Mayor Gold’s speech on eating lower on the food chain. Behind her, mailbag slung over his shoulder, stood Bill the mailman in his khaki shorts.
“Vanilla latte,” Holly shouted, unable to keep the sound of triumph out of her voice.
Mrs. Hershberger, standing with her back to the espresso machine, jumped. “You don’t need to shout, girl. I’m not deaf, you know.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Hershberger, that’s just how we announce your drink’s ready.” Holly smiled and lowered her voice. “Here’s your vanilla latte. You enjoy, now.” Apparently her parade-ground voice, courtesy of the military, was a bit too loud for the confines of The Wildflower. She would have to watch it.
Mrs. Hershberger gave her a wink, patted her hand and headed toward the tables along the windows.
Louise grabbed a ceramic mug and wrote V C N F on a yellow sticky.
Holly faced the espresso machine, feeling like Marshal Dillon on Main Street in Dodge City during the opening credits of Gunsmoke. She knew V C N F. They had been practicing all week.
Vanilla cappuccino, nonfat milk.
She glanced at the counter to her left, where Louise arranged cups with the precision of a drill sergeant. At least ten mugs with sticky-note orders in coffee shorthand sat in a row. Their eyes met over the mugs.
Louise’s red lips curved in a smile.
Holly knew what she was thinking.
They were officially in business.
* * *
JOHN “MAC” MCANDREWS sat in his patrol car across the street from Holly Hoffman’s new coffeehouse. A line of people stretched out the door and down the boardwalk, which ran from Megan Martin’s Hair Today to Sue Hunter’s The Cookie Jar. Not even eight o’clock on a Monday morning and a newcomer would think Bear Meadows was a bustling community. He sighed and rubbed his forehead where the pain of a caffeine headache lurked.
Mac debated getting in line. Up at five, he had left the house without making coffee, responding to a reported break-in. The Smith brothers again. Hawkeye had decided to visit the family hunting camp to get an early run at some turkeys but neglected to tell his brother. Skinny Smith, hearing someone walking around outside in the darkness, called the police on his cell phone. By the time Mac arrived, the seventy-year-old twins were already in the woods, the cabin empty.
Through the large windows, he observed Mrs. Hershberger set her cup on a table, then wave cheerily. Too bad she had retired. One of the few people in town not to have had her as a teacher in first grade, Mac had still, through a confluence of events, managed to be a recipient of the woman’s high expectations. Where would he be now without her influence? Probably in jail. He waved back.
Mac thought back to his last year of high school. He often sat with Chris Hoffman and the rest of his family as they cheered for Holly during the girls’ volleyball games. Mac would watch entranced as Holly made point after point, game after game.
She was a firecracker. Setter and team captain, Holly would prop her hands on flexed knees and fix her gaze on the ball as the opposing team prepared to serve. When the ball went into play, she hustled about the court, energy pouring out of her, dark ponytail flying. Nothing compared to her intense concentration. He remembered being the object of that concentration once. Her intense focus was hard to resist, all the more reason to
