Just beyond the dorms is Main Street in the actual town of Grant. I pull up to the stoplight and look around. It’s a cute street lined with a flower shop, a liquor store, a deli, a small grocery/pharmacy, and a hair salon. And then I see it—a coffee shop. And not some obnoxious chain coffee shop, but a real live, down to earth, unassuming coffee shop nestled at the end of the block in a brick building with big windows facing the street. And even though I’ve already had three cups of coffee this morning that I brewed in the Holy Grail at Maddie’s, I can’t resist checking it out. I tell myself I’ll just stop in and introduce myself, but as I pull to the curb out front I’m already debating whether I need a small or my usual large. Coffee is crack, I swear. I can’t resist it. I can’t say no. I begin to rationalize the visit by telling myself that they may be hiring. And I need a job, like yesterday.
The door is huge and intricately carved and looks like it must weigh a ton, so I grip the handle and push with all my might. I practically fall on my ass when the damn thing flies open, light as a feather. A bell clangs against the door. And it’s thunderous. Wide-eyed, I look around the shop. There’s a guy with his nose in a book sitting on the loveseat on one side of the room, a couple sitting at a small table on the other side of the room, and a guy behind the counter, and they all look up at the ruckus I’ve created. It’s instinct to try to quiet the bell and take the attention away from myself, but when I stretch my hand high above my head, I can’t reach it. I’m five feet tall and the bell is suspended at least a foot out of my reach. I smile sheepishly, and when the bell dies itself out I announce, “I’m here,” in little more than a whisper.
The dark smiling man behind the counter confirms it. “Yes, you certainly are.” He speaks with an accent, but I can’t place it yet. He’s probably around forty, with hair as black as coal, deep toffee colored skin, and huge, dark, smiling eyes. And his tone isn’t mocking, it’s kind and welcoming. I like him already. “You are new here, no?” He motions for me to come closer. “I’m Romero. Welcome to Grounds on Main, my friend.” He salutes at me and instead of being silly, it’s endearing.
I awkwardly salute back. “Um, yeah, and I’m Kate.” When did I transform into a bumbling, socially inept fool? I clear my throat and extend my hand to Romero. “I’m Kate Sedgwick and you’re right, I am new here.” I laugh. “Is it that obvious? Well hell, I’ve completely blown my cover. I was kind of trying to keep a low profile, but then I went and woke the dead with your bell.”
He laughs warmly. “No worries. This is a small community. I know everyone. But you, you I have never seen, Kate Sedgwick. You are from California?” When he says California, it’s like five separate words: CALL EE FOR NEE UH.
My eyebrows pinch together as I try to figure out how in the hell he knew that. “Yeah, that’s right.”
He sees my confusion and points out the front window at my car. “Your license plate. Where in California?”
The crease in my forehead relaxes. “Oh right, of course. I’m from San Diego, born and raised.”
His face looks truly pained. “Oh, Kate my dear, I wish you luck this winter. I am from El Salvador and I can assure you that Minnesota winters are not for the faint of heart.” Minnesota sounds like four separate words: MINN EE SO TAH.
I huff; he’s touched on my one true fear about moving here … the cold. “Yeah, I hear they’re a bitch.”
He chuckles and his eyes sparkle.
The guy sitting on the loveseat reading a book chimes in. “They are a bitch.” I look over and his nose is still in his book but he’s smiling. He has red hair and a thick beard. I can’t help but think he must be suffocating in this humid heat. His smile is innocent, youthful even. He has hipster written all over him. He doesn’t say any more so I return to Romero.
“So, Kate, what can I make for you?” Romero asks.
I glance up at the menu board behind him. I know I’ll be a regular here and I don’t want to insult him right out of the gate by not following protocol. I’m relieved when all the items are arranged by price according to small, medium, and large sizes.
“Maybe I can recommend something? Do you like light, medium, dark roast? Espresso? Cappuccino? Perhaps a frozen drink to cool you off?”
I’ve never been a coffee snob. Coffee is coffee. I don’t concern myself with the semantics. “Um, all I really want is a large cup of strong coffee.”
Apparently that was the right answer because he raps on the counter twice with his knuckles, a light tap. It’s a happy gesture that says I agree with you one hundred percent and I know just what you need. “Ah, you must try the house blend then.”
Yes, I must. Right now. “Sounds perfect.”
Romero tilts his head inquisitively. “Anything in the large cup of house blend aside from coffee?”
“No thanks, just black.”
His smile widens and he looks to the bearded guy on the loveseat again while pointing toward me. “You hear that Duncan? Just black coffee.”
Duncan smiles and raises the ceramic cup in his hand toward me like a toast. “I heard that, Rome. Welcome to the club, new girl.”
Romero’s wide smile is still shining, but he lowers his voice. “No one ever wants just the coffee black.” His accent is thick and I have to concentrate on every word to make sure I don’t miss anything. “They ruin it with extras.” He winks at me. “Very few of us know to enjoy the coffee black.”