Small-Town Fireman

Chapter Two

“Looking good there, Grandpa!” Karla called to her grandfather and his physical therapist when she came in the front door of his house an hour later.

“That’s what I told him,” Rosa, the therapist, said, frustration clipping the edge of her words. Her grandfather was impatient and used to activity; ensuring that he got his rest was no small feat. The only thing harder than getting him to take it easy was coaxing him to do the required exercises to heal his hip. That lion-tamer of a job required patience, diplomacy and a thick skin. Medical progress aside, it seemed to irk Grandpa that Karl’s Koffee was actually surviving without him behind the counter.

“We miss you at the shop,” Karla confessed, momentarily unsure if that would make it better or worse. “Everyone’s asking how you are.”

“How do they think I am?” Grandpa snorted. “I’m stuck using this stupid walker like some old coot.”

Karla detoured into the living room to kiss her grandfather’s cheek. “Yeah, but you’re my old coot. It won’t take long before you’ll be kicking me out of here and running Karl’s like always.” That was a bit of an overstatement. While everyone agreed her grandfather would be back at his namesake shop sometime in the future, only Karl believed he’d be “running it like always.” He’d needed to slow down even before the broken hip ground him to a halt.

Rosa raised one eyebrow while Grandpa merely growled. Evidently today’s therapy session had been particularly prickly. Karla escaped to the kitchen, where she slid her handbag and a box of Danish from the shop onto the counter. Mom’s tired eyes matched Rosa’s as she looked up from the sink. Her parents, who lived twenty minutes west of Gordon Falls, were staying with Grandpa off and on until he could safely be on his own. The doctors thought that would be two more weeks. Grandpa thought it should be two more hours—hence Mom’s weary expression.

“Everyone having fun today?” Karla teased.

“Oh, loads.” With her father trying to keep regular hours at his shelving business during the day, Karla knew her mother’s days with Grandpa could get long indeed. Mom nodded toward the living room, whispering, “Rosa is a saint. I’d have throttled him by now. If your father hadn’t left an hour ago, I think they would have come to blows.”

She knew the feeling. Kennedys—and those who married them—were doers. Action people, thinkers and planners. Grandpa’s extended convalescence was taking its toll on everyone. Somehow, for reasons that weren’t too hard to guess, all this was opening up an old Kennedy family wound. Karla’s father, Kurt, had declined to take what Grandpa saw as his place behind the counter at Karl’s. Dad’s choice not to follow in his father’s footsteps had always been a wedge between them. Karla’s stepping in to run Karl’s Koffee, even as reluctantly as she had, just seemed to drive that wedge an inch or two deeper. Add a painful surgery, long hours of fidgety Kennedys sitting around hospitals and living rooms, and combustion was unavoidable. Karla didn’t opt to live in the apartment above the shop rather than here at Grandpa’s house for no good reason—she’d leave that volatile situation to her parents, thank you very much.

“Your books came.” Mom gestured toward the kitchen table. “Weighed a ton. I thought online classes didn’t need all those textbooks.” Karla had enrolled in an online restaurant management certificate program even before Karl’s fall. Now she was doubly glad to have the business-related work keeping both her future plans in motion and her mind occupied while all the way out here in Gordon Falls.

Karla began opening the box. “I got a few extra books from the entrepreneurship program. Business stuff.” Pulling off the packing tape, she removed the filling to see Restaurant Ownership, The Chef’s Guide to Marketing, and Culinary Management alongside the two workbooks needed from her online courses. The used texts had clearly seen wear and tear, but they were half the price of the new ones. Plus, if she was fortunate, they came with highlights and notes from their previous student owners.

“Ambitious,” Mom remarked from over Karla’s shoulder. She lowered her voice. “Karl could probably tell you half of what’s in those books.” She winked. “Or so he’d boast.”

“Aren’t we done yet, Rosa? My hip is yelling at me.” Grandpa’s groaning echoed into the kitchen from the living room.

“A saint, I tell you.” Mom was laughing, but probably only because she was picking up her car keys. “I’m off to the grocery store. Do you need anything?”

Oh, there was a long list of what Karla needed, but Halverson’s wasn’t likely to carry any of it. “No, I’m going to place an order with the restaurant supply place this afternoon after I talk to Grandpa about something.”

Mom raised a curious eyebrow. “You can tell me about it later, okay?” She ducked her head into the living room. “Karl, be nice to Rosa. She’s here to help.”

Karla heard her grandfather grumble something about the nature of helpfulness, punctuated by a yelp that generally signaled his descent into the recliner chair. His therapist walked into the kitchen, returning the blue cardboard folder that held the papers showing Grandpa’s daily exercises to its spot on the counter. He was supposed to do exercises twice a day when Rosa wasn’t here, but often refused. “Two more weeks.” She sighed. “Remind him he can go out and about after two weeks but no driving for another month.”

“We’ll see about that!” Grandpa yelled from the living room. “Morehouse is a tyrant, I tell you.”

Karla offered Rosa a shrug. “Dr. Morehouse is on your side, Grandpa,” she called into the other room. “Try to remember that.”

“See if you can get him to keep his feet elevated with ice on that hip for twenty minutes twice this afternoon. After those exercise he claims he does, but doesn’t.” She looked at Karla. “I told your mom just what I told him—he’s doing better than expected. He’ll make a full recovery if we can just keep him from overdoing it.”

Grandpa was the king of “overdoing it.”

“I’ll do my best. You take care. Want a Danish?”

Rosa sighed, took a Danish and headed out the door.

The minute the door closed, Grandpa was making noises in the living room. “Can we go out to lunch today? I won’t tell a soul.”

“Everyone will see you and rat you out.” Karl Kennedy could no more walk down the streets of Gordon Falls unrecognized than Karla could whip up a soufflé over a candlestick. The man’s coffee shop was the unofficial town hall. It was part of the charm—and the pain—of being here: everyone knew Karl, and everyone knew she was Karl’s granddaughter. She was starting to really miss Chicago’s anonymity.

“No one will tell on me. Call Vi. She’ll come spring me.” Violet Sharpton had come to visit Grandpa multiple times in the hospital and stopped by every other day. While she was as feisty as Grandpa, Vi wasn’t a likely conspirator for anything that would endanger his recovery.

“Dad would have my hide,” she replied as she walked into the living room with a cheese Danish on a napkin. “You know that. And Mrs. Sharpton wants you to get better, so I doubt she’ll help you cheat. We’ll order out from Dellio’s, how about that? Besides, I struck a deal at the coffee shop today and I want to tell you about it.”

That got Grandpa’s attention. “What kind of deal? You bringing in some other fancy machine no one knows how to work?”

It was true; no one else seemed to be able or willing to work the cappuccino machine. One high school student managed a brave attempt, but it ended in an incident so awful the entire shop staff had made a pact never to tell Karl how hazelnut syrup got into the heating vents. The other waitress, Emily, had nearly refused to touch the machine.

Karla sat down on an ottoman opposite her grandfather. “We’re going to supply breakfast to Dylan McDonald’s charter fishing customers once or twice a week. I worked out a package deal for the next month.” She laid out the terms of the agreement as Grandpa ate the Danish. “We shook on it, but I told him it wasn’t official until I got the okay from you.”

“We’re catering to McDonald’s fishing boat?”

Grandpa’s idea of catering would come something closer to a thermos of coffee and a box of doughnuts. “No, they’ll place their espresso drink orders with Dylan as they pull into the dock and then I’ll have it all set on a table when they walk in. Dylan will pay up front eight dollars a head. I figure some of them might end up staying and ordering a full breakfast if things go well.” She smiled. “Everybody wins.”

Grandpa grinned. “Well, look at you striking deals and making partners. Kennedys can do, I tell you.” It was the unofficial Kennedy Family Motto. The old man winced and shifted, rubbing his hip. “McDonald. The fireman with the fishing boat business, right?”

“That’s him.”

Grandpa’s gray eyes twinkled. “About your age, isn’t he?”

She swatted her grandfather’s good leg. “Nice try, old man.” Age was the only thing she had in common with Dylan McDonald. Right now her focus was on her principal interest, not Prince Charming. She hoped one or two of the executives Dylan claimed to serve might prove useful business contacts. A woman on her way up in the world had to look for opportunities everywhere she could. If the deal with Dylan found her a commercial real estate broker, a potential investor, or just a handful of likely customers, she’d be thrilled.

As for the flannel-shirted, fine-looking fireman? She could always use a friend all the way out here, but she wasn’t casting a line for anything more.

* * *

Dylan laughed to himself the next morning as he watched Karla continue her one-woman caffeine campaign. She was persistent, he’d give her that much. Violet Sharpton scrunched her face up after sipping whatever coffee Karla had put in front of her. “I thought you said there was chocolate in this.”

“There is.” Dylan saw Karla’s face drop.

“Well, what else is in there messing everything up?”

“Espresso.” Karla had to have known Violet was a tea drinker, didn’t she? She wasn’t that new to town. Still, the froth he saw on the edge of Violet’s mug told him Karla had been trying out a new concoction on the old woman. Not that Violet wasn’t a fan of new things—she was one of the most adventurous senior citizens Dylan had ever met—but some leaps were just a bit too far. “It’s a strong, Italian kind of coffee.”

Violet put the cup down. “I have teenage grandchildren—I know what espresso is. But I could have told you up front I’m not one of those caffeine junkies.” She offered Karla a forgiving grin. “You’re a sport for trying, though. Your grandfather could use a kick in the gastronomic pants once he comes back. Never tries anything new.”

“Karl says he knows what people like,” Dylan offered as he walked up to the counter.

“This ‘people’ don’t much care for that.” Violet nodded toward the brew.

“She made a pretty good latte for me yesterday.” The remark returned a bit of the smile to Karla’s face.

“Well, then, you youngsters go on ahead with your fancy drinks and leave the basics to the old folks.” She put a hand on Karla’s. “Nothing personal, hon, but I’ll be glad when your grandfather’s back up and running.”

“We all will,” Karla replied with a hint of weariness in her voice, making Dylan suspect Karl wasn’t a model patient.

“Maybe I’ll come by this afternoon. Bring him some homemade soup or such.”

Karla took the cup and saucer back with an air of defeat. “He’d like that. He always perks up when you visit. No charge for the mocha, I’ll just get you a tea. Milk and sugar?”

“Lots of both. Tell your mom I’ll be by around three-thirty.” Violet slid from the counter, standard stoneware mug in hand with a tea tag peeking out the top. “New ain’t always better,” she said before moving to a table filled with women her age.

He sat down where the old woman had been. “On a crusade?”

“I don’t know why.” Karla wiped off the counter in front of Dylan. “It’s not like Grandpa’s basic brew is bad or anything.”

“You just have sophisticated tastes, that’s all. I heard a group of the high school kids going on yesterday afternoon about there ‘finally being decent lattes around here.’ That has to count for something.”

A little glow of pride brightened her cheeks. “No kidding?”

“No kidding.” He produced an envelope with ninety-six dollars cash inside and placed it on the counter. “And here’s the money to prove it. Next week’s coffee catches, paid in advance.”

Karla narrowed one eye. “Coffee catch?”

“I had to call it something. My sister came up with it. A ‘Coffee Catch’ to round off your fishing trip.”

“Please tell me you didn’t spell it with a K.”

He laughed at her obvious disdain for Karl’s signature gimmick. “I suppose you’re entitled to be tired of that.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Here, it’s cute. But back in Chicago, it’s all ‘how do you spell your name again?’” She pulled in a deep breath as she slipped the envelope into the cash register. “Another cinnamon latte?”

“Nah. Surprise me again.”

The look in her eyes was worth whatever drink came next, even if he had the same reaction as Violet had. She really liked doing this. “Sweet or salty?”

“Karla, check please,” called someone from one of the front tables.

“Sure thing,” she called back drily. “In a second.”

“But I’m in a hurry.” The whine in the customer’s voice would have irritated anyone.

Karla shut her eyes. They were clearly running shorthanded without Karl—who had seemed to never leave the place—and it showed in the way she applied a smile as she pulled a stack of tickets from the pocket of her apron. “No problem, Mr. Sullivan. You’ll be out of here in a flash.”

“I’ll hold my answer till you get back,” Dylan said, watching her walk away. She seemed out of place, and yet oddly not. As if she was resisting any settling into the little town. It made sense: she had big ambitions written all over her, and Karl’s Koffee was only a holiday spot for someone with those kinds of aspirations.

He spied an open backpack on the counter behind the cash register, and got a confirmation to his guess. Culinary Management was prerequisite reading for someone itching to get much further than waiting tables in Gordon Falls. Should it surprise him that someone as clever as Miss Kennedy had designs on moving up in the world? Ambition wasn’t the root of every evil—he had to keep reminding himself of that. Not everyone on their way up stepped on anyone to get there. Still, her apparent drive made it easier to ignore her pretty eyes and engaging personality—once burned was enough for him.

“Well?”

Karla’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Well, what?”

“Sweet or salty?”

He’d totally lost track of the question. “Um...both?” It was true, he didn’t really have a preference. “Does it work that way, like sweet-and-sour pork?”

“Only sometimes.” She squinted her eyes in thought, her fingertips drumming softly against the counter. “Are you willing to stray from coffee?”

He pulled back. “Like how?”

“Chai tea. A little spicy, but with milk and honey. Very global.”

That was a joke. He plucked at the ripped sweatshirt he was wearing. “Dylan McDonald, international man of mystery?”

Her laugh was engaging, a musical sort of giggle, soft and light. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“No offense, but it sounds like a girlie drink.”

Now it was her turn to balk. “Tea? England’s male population and half of the Middle East would take issue with your narrow-minded attitude, bub.” That last word had a decided “I dare you,” flavor to it.

Okay, he could have a little fun with this. “Fine. I am man enough to try chai whatever it is. But I’m not holding out a lot of hope here, and there had better be some serious caffeine in that cup.”

She began working the dials on the espresso machine. “Oh, this’ll get your motor humming. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find some Japanese matcha. That’s got more kick than most espressos.” She leaned in. “And it’s green. Kind of like algae.”

“Now you’re scaring me.”

A few minutes later, Karla slid a tall mug in front of him. It did smell exotic, but not necessarily in a good way. Dylan was beginning to think this little game wasn’t going to end well.

“Go on. Try it.” Her eyes were wide and persuasive.

He took a sizable gulp. Closing his eyes, he took a moment to explore the many different tastes the drink combined. “Wow,” he said after a considerable pause. “That is...really...”

Her eyes popped even wider and she leaned on the counter with both elbows.

“Awful.” He set the cup down on the counter and pushed it back toward her.

“Oh, don’t hold back on my account, Captain McDonald, tell me what you really think.”

“I think it tastes like something fish would enjoy, not fishermen. Unless I’m hosting a fishing bridal shower, let’s leave this one off the Coffee Catch menu. And the Machu Picchu algae? Let’s skip it.”

“Matcha,” she corrected, then added a playful “coward,” as she snatched back the full mug. The sparkle in her eye undercut any force she tried to give the barb.

“Purist,” he corrected right back. “Tea’s not my thing, never has been. If it’s any consolation, I liked yesterday’s contender much better.” Just because her pout was so disarming, he added, “And the captain part. You can keep that.”

“Aye, aye, sir. From now on, all beans, no leaves.”

It took him a second to work out that she meant all coffee and no tea. “Steady as she goes. How about you just give me a regular coffee today—black, one sugar. You can surprise me again next Wednesday when I bring in the first customers.”

“One boring regular coffee, coming up. On the house, on account of your recent culinary disappointment.” She pulled one of the stoneware mugs from the shelf behind her, unceremoniously dumped in the sugar and filled it with coffee. With a mile-wide smirk, she scribbled for a second on a meal ticket before placing it facedown beside the mug in front of him and sauntered away to tend to a table.

Smiling, Dylan turned the check to face him. “Kaptain Koffee” was written in an artistic hand, with a little fish-and-bubbles doodle running up the side so that the “$0” was the last of the bubbles.

Karla Kennedy sure knew how to bait a hook.

Chapter Three

“And that’s one half-decaf soy with extra cinnamon.” Karla set the final beverage in front of Dylan’s six fishermen as they sat at the coffee shop’s front table the following Wednesday morning. Dylan had phoned in their orders fifteen minutes ago, and true to her expectations, each man had requested a highly specialized drink.

She was proud of herself; they might not ever have ventured into Karl’s on their own, which meant her marketing idea had worked. Even at someplace as nondescript as Karl’s, she had a knack for finding customers and giving them what they wanted. The affirmation bloomed a wonderful optimism in her chest. Grandpa always said skills were one thing and anyone could learn them, but the “sense” to run an eating establishment was an inborn gift. Today told her she had that gift.

Karla smiled to herself. The first official Coffee Catch was an odd sight indeed. While Dylan referred to them as fishermen and requested she do the same—evidently Kaptain Koffee had a knack for customer service even if he did hate marketing—Karla found that a generous term. Calling the collection of well-groomed men in front of her “fishermen” was like calling a guest at a dude ranch a “cowboy.”

These six sure didn’t fit any image Karla had of guys who normally cast hooks into water. All in their forties and dressed in upscale sportswear, this crowd looked as if they belonged on yachts at some oceanfront resort. She practically needed a calculator to add up the premium logos, brand names and expensive gadgets these guys touted. If they fished, it sure wasn’t to put dinner on the table. Still, she was glad to have them in Karl’s. These were exactly the type of customers she wanted to serve when she opened her own place.

A man in a sky-blue polo shirt and preppy plaid shorts arched his eyebrows after taking a sip of his double-shot latte. “Hey, this is good.” Karla chose to ignore the surprise in his expression. Hey, she wanted to say, you have not left the civilized world that far behind. Which really was a case of the pot calling the kettle black—she’d had to drive forty minutes away to get all the supplies she needed to stock a full espresso bar and had been known to gripe about Gordon Falls’ “overwhelming quaintness” entirely too often. Hadn’t she just referred to her stint in Gordon Falls as “exile” last week?

“I told you I wasn’t exaggerating,” Dylan said, coming to her defense. His stained denim shirt looked especially ragged next to his current customers. His eyes were bright, even if his morning stubble gave him the scruffy, unkempt air. He smelled of soap and salt but still a bit of fish, as if he’d tried hard to clean up for his appearance in the shop but hadn’t completely succeeded. He tucked his hands in his jeans pockets and glanced around the group. “Not a bad way to end a morning on the river, don’t you think?”

“Makes up for the massive one that got away,” Mr. Double Shot said, pushing his expensive sunglasses up on top of his head to give Karla a million-watt smile. Had she seen him on television? One of those trial lawyers with commercials and 1-800 numbers? He had that look of a man in search of his next deal. Dylan said they came from Chicago. Maybe he could be a future customer—lawyers liked power breakfasts, right?