Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Tristan Jones drove through Clear Creek in his rental car, marveling at how little the town had changed. Not that he expected it to. Clear Creek had a stubborn way of staying exactly the same, and that was one of the reasons his family loved it.
It reminded him of the small coastal town he lived in now in Cornwall, England. Quaint, windswept, and perpetually smelling of salt and scones. A film crew seemed to show up every other month, and though he didn’t mind the bustle, his heart was in the sea.
After all, that’s what he’d gone to school for: marine biology. He didn’t see himself raising horses like the rest of his family. So he’d packed his bags, left the famous Jones Ranch behind, and headed overseas to build a different kind of life.
Eight years later, he was back, and his parents weren’t about to let him forget how long it had been.
He’d barely been home a day and already his mother was driving him half mad.
So, he’d slipped out for a drive, just to breathe.
Maybe grab a coffee somewhere quiet before the next round of family “catch-ups.”
When he spotted Pleasant Beans, he smiled. The sign looked freshly painted, but the cozy little shop was exactly where he remembered it. If he knew Clear Creek, chances were good it was still run by the same people too.
He parked, got out, and inhaled the crisp morning air before stepping inside. The smell of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon hit him first. The chatter of customers, the soft scrape of chairs on wood floors, it all was oddly comforting.
“Welcome to Pleasant Beans!” chirped an elderly thin woman behind the counter. She was well into her seventies, with more silver than gray hair pulled back in a bun, and a bright smile that made up for the chaos behind her. “What can I get ya?”
He smiled back. “Hi. Do Tilly and Jack still own this place?”
“Yep, they sure do! But they’re in Hawaii right now.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “First vacation they’ve taken in years. Good for them, I say. Now what’ll it be, young man?”
“Just a black coffee, please.”
“Thank goodness for that,” she said with exaggerated relief. She turned toward the back. “Irene! One black coffee!”
A muffled voice answered, “What size?”
The woman turned back to Tristan. “What size you want, child?”
“Medium’s fine.”
“Medium, Irene!” she hollered.
“Coming right up, Grandma!” came the reply from somewhere down the hall.
Tristan blinked. Grandma?
A shorter, elderly plump woman with salt-and-pepper hair came stomping up from the back. Her expression could curdle cream. “Who wants the coffee?”
“He does!” the first woman said, pointing at Tristan.
The shorter one squinted at him. “You sure you don’t want none of them fancy drinks, mister?”
He chuckled. “No, just a black coffee’s fine.”
“Well,” she said, crossing her arms. “We got light roast, medium roast, dark roast, and extra-dark roast. I wouldn’t advise that last one, gave poor Wilfred a terrible bellyache.”
“That’s because he drank three cups before breakfast,” Grandma griped. “That’s his own fault!”
“Well, if you’d make it weaker, maybe he wouldn’t have,” Irene shot back. She eyed Tristan. “What’ll it be?”
“Dark roast,” he said quickly.
“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll go get it.”
Tristan watched her stomp back down the hall, frowning at the row of shiny coffee dispensers beside the counter. “Why is she going to the back to get my coffee?”
“Oh, on account of we’ve got coffee pots back there,” Grandma said cheerfully. “Fresh brew in every pot. None of that fancy push-button nonsense.” She leaned on the counter. “By the way, I’m Grandma. And you are…?”
“Tristan,” he said. “But my friends call me TJ.”
“TJ, is it? What’s it short for?”
“Tristan John.”
“And your last name?”
“Jones.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Jones, huh? You part of the Jones Ranch outside of town?”
He grinned. “How’d you guess?”
“Oh, child, any Jones around here’s usually one of those Joneses.”
He studied her, amused. “Do you live around here?”
“Well,” she said, tilting her head. “Recently, I guess you’d call us. We’re actually covering for Tilly and Jack while they’re off in Hawaii.”
“Ah. They went to Hawaii, did they?”
“The big island,” she said. “At least, I think that’s what they called it.”
Before he could reply, Irene reappeared, clutching a medium cup like it had personally offended her. She set it down on the counter with a thud. “One medium dark roast!”
“Thank you,” Tristan said, smiling. Where did Tilly and Jack find these characters?
Irene grumbled something that might have been, “You’re welcome.” Then turned on her heel and stomped off again.
“Don’t mind her,” Grandma said. “She’s always like that. Comes across a little crotchety, but she’s a sweetheart.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Tristan said, taking a sip of the coffee. It was rich, smooth, and perfect. “Wow. This is really good.”
“‘Course it is,” Grandma said proudly. “Nothing like coffee made the good old-fashioned way.”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“We make coffee the way we like to make it, and that’s that. Nobody’s complained yet. Of course,” she added under her breath. “This is just our first day.”
Tristan nearly choked on his sip. “Your first day?”
She waved him off. “Details, details.”
He smiled, paid for his coffee, and moved toward the tables. He thought about checking the bakery case but decided against it. His mother had made enough food to feed a cavalry regiment the night before; he was still full.
TJ sat near the window, savoring the warmth of the mug in his hands, the low murmur of voices, and the clatter of cups behind the counter. For the first time since landing, he let himself breathe.
He watched as two old men came in, nodded politely to Grandma, and disappeared down the back hallway. He didn’t recognize them, but there was something vaguely familiar about the older woman behind the counter. Probably a regular from when he was younger.
His thoughts drifted to his family. His brothers still helped run the ranch. And his parents? They were still trying to marry them off. Especially their mother. Now that he was back, she’d be after him.
He could almost hear her now: You’d be happier if you settled down, Tristan. A man can’t live on saltwater and science forever.
He chuckled softly and took another sip. The coffee was good. Real good. Strong enough to wake a horse, smooth enough to make him forget, for a moment, that he was the family’s lone academic black sheep.
For now, Pleasant Beans would do just fine.
A young woman stepped out from behind the counter, a rag in hand, and began wiping down tables.
Tristan watched her work her way toward him. There was something familiar about her, maybe they’d gone to school together? An underclassman, perhaps?
When she reached his table, she paused, smiling. “Hello. Enjoying your coffee?”
“I am,” he said.
She straightened a little. “Oh! You’re British. Are you visiting?”
“I am. My family lives here.”
“They do?” Her brows lifted. “Who are they?”
“The Joneses,” he said. “Of the Jones Ranch.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! You must be Tristan, right? You live in England.”
He smiled. “That’s right.”
“And you’re…,” his face scrunched up before he snapped his fingers. “Lila Comfort if I remember right. But, you weren’t in my class…”
“No, I was a freshman when you were a senior.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded toward the counter. “So, do you work for Tilly and Jack?”
“Temporarily.” She set the rag on the table. “I’m sort of supervising. I normally work at the Van Cleet Hotel.”
He chuckled softly. “Of course you do. Everyone in this town works for a family business. It’s practically the law. But you’re a Comfort? You mean your branch of the Comforts still work at the hotel?”
She popped one shoulder in a shrug. “That’s Clear Creek for you.”
“Which Comfort line are you descended from?”
She grinned. “If you’re going all the way back, Rosie and Zachary Comfort.”
“Oh wow.”
“Let me guess: Seth and Eloise?” she said.
“Nope.”
“Constance and Ryder?” she guessed this time.
He pointed at her. “Bingo.
“That explains the accent.”
Tristan chuckled again.
“How long have you been away?” Lila asked.
“Forever, it seems. Eight years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“It is,” he said. “First time back.”
“Your mom must be thrilled.”
“‘Thrilled’ might not be the word,” he said dryly. “Exhaustingly delighted, maybe.”
Lila laughed and gestured to the empty tables. “So that’s why you’re hiding in a corner?”
He pressed his lips together then cringed. “Something like that.”
She leaned against a chair. “Well, if you’re here for quiet, you picked the wrong coffee shop. The people running this place aren’t exactly… how do I put it… mechanically inclined.”
He arched a brow. “Oh?”
“They refuse to use the espresso machine,” she said, exasperated. “They’re brewing coffee in old percolators in the back. I’m trying to teach them to use the equipment, but you’d think I was explaining rocket science.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish.” She lowered her voice. “I’m the only one who can manage the cappuccinos and lattes, and I barely know what I’m doing myself. But people love the coffee, so I can’t exactly complain.”
He laughed outright, warm and amused. “That’s different. I like it.”
She tried to laugh with him, then stopped mid-chuckle, as if realizing it really wasn’t funny. “For me, maybe not so much.”
“Well,” he said, still smiling, “I’m sure you’ll whip them into shape. Someone’s got to.”
“I hope so. After we close, I’m giving them a crash course in espresso basics. Maybe pour-overs if they don’t rebel first.”
He nodded. “Pour-overs I can understand. Tea’s more my speed these days. Living in England will do that to you.”
She wrinkled her nose playfully. “So you’re one of those now. The tea people.”
“Afraid so,” he said, grinning. “Coffee’s become a treat.”
“I’m the opposite,” she said. “Coffee’s the fuel of life.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re running the shop.”
She smiled. “Tristan, it’s nice to see you back.” With that, she crossed the shop and disappeared behind the counter.
He watched her go, amused and slightly intrigued. She had an easy laugh, a confident way of moving, and a touch of chaos about her that he found oddly endearing.
He took another sip of coffee and leaned back, thinking about the conversation with his brothers the night before.
Something about an upcoming harvest festival.
His mother had wanted them to participate, perhaps set up a kissing booth.
He’d laughed then, along with his brothers.
But knowing their mother, she’d make it happen if she could.
An older man appeared with a broom, shuffling toward the tables.
“Howdy,” the man said. “Name’s Wilfred.”
“Morning,” Tristan replied.
“Lila tells me you’re a Jones. Descended from Ryder and Constance, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Thought so.” Wilfred nodded. “I’m sure she told you why we’re here. We’re covering for Tilly and Jack. If she didn’t, folks’ll tell you anyway. Everyone wants to know where those two ran off to.”
Tristan smiled into his cup. “I can imagine.”
“Yep,” Wilfred went on, sweeping steadily. “Everybody in this town fits somewhere, like gears in a clock. When a cog’s missing, the whole thing creaks. But it’s a good system. Comes in handy when someone goes missing. The whole town turns out to look for ‘em.”
Tristan thought about that. He’d lived in plenty of places since leaving home, but none had that kind of closeness. Clear Creek always had. “So, do you live around here?”
“Nope. Came to help out with the inn, and now this place.”
“Oh, right,” Tristan said. “My mother wrote that someone bought the Clear Creek Inn.”
“That’d be Talia and her husband Grayson King,” Wilfred said. “We refurbished it last year, then sold it to them. They’re off vacationing with Tilly and Jack right now.”
“That’s nice,” Tristan said. He ran a finger up and down his coffee cup.
Wilfred chuckled. “You looking for something to eat, son?”
Tristan glanced toward the bakery case. “Do they sell anything besides pastries?”
“Nope, just the baked goods, and the occasional ham and cheese croissant. But if you give my wife half a chance, she’ll start cooking meals back there.” He lowered his voice. “She loves to cook, but there’s no stove. Just them hot plates for keeping coffee warm.”
“Lila mentioned that.” Tristan tried not to laugh, pressing his lips together.
Wilfred finished sweeping, then straightened. “Well, if you need a refill, holler.”
“Will do.”
The older man disappeared toward the back. For someone who looked like he might creak when he moved, he was surprisingly quick on his feet.
Tristan leaned back again, the last of the coffee warm in his hand. He thought about staying for another cup, but the image of his mother waiting at home, arms crossed, questions loaded, made him grin. He’d stalled long enough. Time to face the music.
Or, in his mother’s case, the matchmaking.