Chapter 17
morgan
By now Morgan was used to being driven around, but being the passenger in an old truck with a bench seat and Jack Foxley behind the wheel made him a bit anxious.
When Jack took the first corner a bit too sharply, making the truck slide way into the intersection, Morgan gripped his cane tightly and didn’t say anything.
But he couldn’t help pushing his feet to the floor, slamming both imaginary brakes as Jack raced down Elliot Street all the way to where the Bean There was, in a long brick building that also housed a beauty salon and a curious little store that sold stamps and stationery and stickers.
The coffee shop was at the westernmost end of the building.
As Morgan could see when they got out of the truck, there was a little spot in front with three round metal tables that, in summer, would have chairs to sit on and umbrellas for shade.
Morgan would be gone before the umbrellas came out, though.
Wouldn’t he?
The air was frosty and utterly still as Jack came around to make sure Morgan didn’t fall on his ass. Morgan wanted to be more irritated about the courtesy than he was, but as he looked at Jack, all he wanted to do was ask questions. About Jack’s past, about what was going on with him.
Belatedly, he realized why Jack had chosen Nimble as his adventure name. Of course. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.
His mind conjured up various old-fashioned drawings of young, rosy-cheeked boys leaping over a candle’s flame, arms wide in an exuberant effort to keep their balance and not get burned.
Then his mind superimposed the Jack next to him atop that: his dark hair and wide smile, those green eyes glittering.
“We’re just getting a little bit of ground coffee,” Morgan said quickly, and Jack nodded and smiled, walking at Morgan’s side and opening the door for him. “Just a little bit,” he repeated. “And then we’re on our way again.”
Inside, the coffee shop was packed, customers at every table.
The place looked like it had been made over from an old soda fountain or something.
The long counter was covered in pale green Formica, with chrome trim around the edges.
The floor was a checkerboard of gray and white, and behind the counter were small glass containers of whole coffee beans.
Everything smelled amazing and was sparkling clean.
They made their way to the counter, Morgan doing his best not to be irritated as people moved aside for him and his purple cane.
He had been there once before to get a coffee, but he’d been in pain that day and still in shock at his arrival in the small town that he only wanted to see the last of. This time was different. His whole life was different in all kinds of ways, so maybe he was seeing the world differently, too.
“What can we do for you, gentlemen?” one of the men behind the counter asked.
He was wearing the same dun-colored apron as the other barista, and Morgan struggled to remember who was who.
If the man was wearing a name tag, it was hidden behind a fold of a cream-colored sweater.
Handmade, no doubt. One of the baristas was Shane and the other was Julian, but which of them wore the hipster goatee was beyond him to remember.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Malone,” the one with the goatee said. “How are things at the feed and grain? Can I get you your usual? White chocolate mocha, no whip?”
That’s what he’d ordered that first day, in a lather as he’d studied the overly detailed menu handwritten in white chalk on a large blackboard. Not his usual, for sure. He hardly knew what his usual was anymore, despite having been a regular at the Starbucks around the corner from his office.
“We’ve come for ground coffee. A small bag of whatever,” he said, then gestured to Jack, standing close at his shoulder. “This is my friend Jack.”
“Nothing to drink now?” the clean-shaven one asked, equally poised and polished as his coworker. “On such a cold day?”
Morgan was about to say no, so they could get what they’d come for and be on their way, but then he realized that Jack was studying the blackboard as if he’d be tested on it during the ride home.
That, indeed, he’d risen on his toes in those thin-soled boots of his, chin lifted, expression as open as that of a child at a toy-store window.
Morgan told himself that he wasn’t even considering stopping to have a coffee. That Jack, in his disreputable state, that flannel shirt hem hanging down from the bottom of his worn leather jacket, was not an eyeful. Except both those things were untrue.
Jerking his attention back to the barista, Morgan sighed, dredging up as much irritation as he could, though it wasn’t much. Why should he mind if Jack wanted a coffee? They’d been cooped up inside for days, so a bit of a treat was more than called for.
“Fine,” he said with a mock huff. “What do you want, Jack?”
He wanted to talk to Jack about Jack. About who Jack might be, now that he wasn’t Nimble anymore. But Jack’s focus was on the coffee selection, and Morgan couldn’t even begin to organize his own thoughts, so he looked at the blackboard as well and was once again overwhelmed.
“All right, I’ll have the white chocolate mocha, with no whip,” he said, defeated. “Jack will have what he wants, and he’ll tell you how much of whatever kind of ground coffee, also.”
Morgan reached for his wallet and pulled out his credit card, reflecting that Jack still had the handful of twenties he’d given him. Well, Jack could keep the money; every man should have some spending money in his pockets.
Taking a step back, he watched the two baristas at work, then realized that Jack was pointing and talking and that the baristas were filling up three one-pound bags, each with its own kind of ground beans. What were they going to do with all that coffee?
Then again, Jack had been through a lot that morning. He’d been ashen when the sheriff had brought him back to the feed and grain. Besides, having extra coffee on hand wasn’t the end of the world.
The barista with the goatee moved to a different part of the back counter, and Jack was now admiring his work as he took something that looked like a science beaker, curled a bit of paper into a cone and set it inside, and started slowly pouring hot water over it.
Indeed, the beaker was on a scale, and the water was being precisely measured.
Jack hadn’t ordered an ordinary coffee, but something fancy. He didn’t just love coffee; he was a devotee.
When the ceremony was over and whatever Jack had ordered had been poured into a tall white mug, and Morgan’s mocha was as well, he realized they were going to sit there to have their drinks.
Not, as he’d imagined, get them to go and rush to their next destination, a series of brisk stops before returning to the feed and grain.
Hurrying to get it all over with, as he would have done in Denver so he could get back to his job.
Compared to his time in Hysham, his life in Denver had been a race toward disaster.
It had dissolved in a flicker of a second when he’d been T-boned at that intersection.
The other car had been driven by a young woman going too fast, who had been horrified at the injury she’d caused.
She’d not been drunk or on her phone, just in a hurry.
Morgan, half conscious and being dragged away in an ambulance, had thought there might be a court battle over who would cover the costs—but when he’d woken up in the hospital, with Bradley hovering nearby, he’d learned that the other family’s insurance was going to cover everything.
That, in fact, the father had insisted on it, and that his daughter would have points on her license and was going to do community service to make amends.
It had been a brighter beginning to his recovery than he might have imagined. But things had gone downhill after that.
“Morgan?”
Morgan shook himself aware of his surroundings and paid with his credit card, then let Jack carry their purchases to a little Formica-topped table that had just opened up.
They sat down together, and the goatee-wearing barista came over with a tray of pastries, a pair of small white china plates, and tongs.
“Pick one,” he said. “It’s on the house.”
“Thank you, Julian.” Jack pointed to the biggest scone Morgan had ever seen, dusted with crystal sugar, with bits of raspberry poking out.
Morgan pointed to a half-white, half-black cookie and nodded his thanks as well. Julian was the one with the goatee, which was one mystery solved.
When Morgan took a sip of his mocha, the sugar and caffeine hit him all at once. His shoulders came down, and he let himself settle into the moment. In that fancy coffee shop that seemed too grand for so small a town.
“Guess you got questions,” Jack said, leaning forward to be heard over the chatter of other patrons.
“I got questions,” Morgan agreed, also leaning in. “You’re Jack now, not Nimble.” He opened his mouth to say more, to ask more, but Jack shook his head, his dark hair in his eyes, a smile curling his mouth.
“I’m the same as I was before,” he said. “Just Jack now.”
“Jack Be Nimble,” Morgan said.
Jack chomped on his scone with delight, sugar on his lips, a flush to his cheeks.
Morgan jerked his attention back to his coffee and overly sweet cookie.
“You couldn’t say who you were,” Jack said around a mouthful of pastry. “Star insisted, and it made sense. I sort of became him, became Nimble. But now you know me as me.”
“I don’t, actually,” Morgan said slowly. “But I’d like to.”
Jack’s eyebrows went up.
Morgan buried himself in his coffee, hardly knowing what he’d meant by that. But he did want to know who Jack was, what his thoughts were as he sat there, his fingers curled around that tall mug, strong and tender at the same time, like he was in love with his coffee and that moment.