Chapter 4
As the sun rose, Jo rode her beach cruiser toward the diner. This time, she took the beach route, watching the white gulls soar over sparkling blue waves as a pink and yellow sunrise lit the sky.
She passed several runners, including Deb Whitaker, a successful interior designer on the island, running on the beach with her dog, Duke.
A morning like this set a good tone for the day, Jo believed. She stashed her bike in the hallway outside her small office and checked her email. The only messages at this time of the morning were usually from her food vendors.
A woman in her twenties approached her. “Good morning, Jo.”
“Hi, Candy. How was business yesterday?” Jo had taken Sunday off, although she’d worked on her business plan most of the day at home, getting a lot done on her quiet patio.
“We had a good day,” Candy replied. “I printed out a report for you on your desk.”
“Thanks.” Jo was pleased that Candy was already excelling in her new position.
In her office, she slipped into her red-and-white striped Cuppa Jo’s shirt, admiring the new shirt in her narrow full-length mirror before she went out. The new outfits for her staff were also part of her next-level plan.
Which had seemed easy before she got to the execution part. She was more than a little concerned about how it was going. In fact, if she couldn’t find solutions fast, she was in danger of falling behind on her loan payments. Everything took longer and at a greater cost than she’d planned.
Behind the red Formica counter, Jo began what she did every morning before the breakfast rush. She checked the commercial brewer’s temperature, met with her staff, and oversaw produce and other food deliveries.
Her shoes squeaked on the clean, black-and-white tiled floor.
In the kitchen, the grill was heating for the rush of bacon and eggs. She’d already assembled bananas, leafy greens, and protein powder for smoothies. Deb would be in for hers soon after her run.
Behind the counter, the small countertop roaster was warming up. Sleek and compact, it was nothing like the loud industrial drum roasters the big operations used. Jo had chosen it for that reason. She wanted her customers to smell beans roasting while they ate their breakfast.
It was part of the Cuppa Jo’s experience.
The steady hiss of the brewer was the only sound in the place. She liked this quiet time of the day.
The only other person in the dining area was Hugo, his lean frame slouched in a booth near the window with textbooks, a laptop, and a cup of coffee.
Her kid brother had driven from San Diego, taken the ferry, and crashed at her place after school on Friday. She usually saw him when he needed to do laundry or have a good meal.
The door chimed, and Rocky Bay walked in wearing running shorts and a tank top that showed off well-built shoulders. He was up early for someone who didn’t have to report to a job.
“Good morning,” she said. “Welcome back to Cuppa Jo’s. The shake machine lasted all night, thanks to you. You brought it back to life.”
“It wasn’t much. I was happy to help.” Rocky slid onto a counter stool. He looked like he’d already been for a run. “Please tell me you have coffee ready.”
“I have the best coffee in town, and it will only take a minute.”
She scooped beans into her Lavazza coffee machine, a sleek Italian model she bought at a deep discount from a restaurant in San Diego that was closing. It soon yielded a rich brew with hints of caramel and roasted almonds.
She placed the cup in front of him. “See what you think. If you don’t like this, I have others.”
Rocky wrapped both hands around the red cup with a Cuppa Jo’s logo and took a long, slow sip. He closed his eyes. “Wow, that’s another good brew.”
Jo smiled. “One of my new ones.”
“I lived on coffee in graduate school,” he said. “I had so much bad, burned coffee that I became quite discerning. It drove my roommates nuts.”
He sipped the coffee, and his eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise. “I didn’t expect anything this good.”
“Glad to see you savoring it.”
Jo prepared a cup for herself and lingered with him. She didn’t have to be anywhere for a few minutes, and he was her first customer.
Hugo looked up from his booth. “She’s not kidding. She spends a fortune on the best beans she can find.”
“Don’t you have to drive back to school today?” Jo asked.
“I have a ten o’clock class, so I’ll wait until traffic eases.”
Rocky swiveled to see him. “Hey, Hugo, good to see you again.”
The two spoke a little while Jo listened. With his easy manner, she imagined Rocky could befriend almost anyone. He was good with people.
Hugo had risen early and come to the diner before it opened. He liked to study here because it was quiet and he could make all the coffee he wanted or forage for breakfast. The kitchen staff didn’t mind, and they often cooked for him.
He’d worked here during high school, and sometimes he’d pitch in when it was busy to help Jo.
Hugo returned to his studies, and Jo nodded in satisfaction. Her brother was on a partial scholarship and turning out better than she could have hoped, especially considering their absent parents.
Jo had looked after Hugo since he was in middle school. Their grandmother had helped a lot before she moved into the independent living home.
Now Hugo was living in a house with roommates in San Diego. He returned to Crown Island whenever his laundry was dirty, or he needed a quiet place to study.
If Jo never had a family of her own, she’d always have Hugo. She had done more to raise him than their parents had.
Rocky took another sip of coffee, and this time he really tasted the flavor. His expression shifted.
“No wonder you do a good business. This is your house brew?”
“My new one. I call that the Queen’s Blend. It’s Colombia Huila and Guatemala Antigua, fifty-fifty. The Colombia gives it some sweet floral notes and a toffee finish. The Guatemala adds touches of cocoa and caramel with a touch of spice.”
“The Queen’s Blend,” Rocky repeated. “After Crown Island, right?”
“It’s more than that. The beans I use come from women-led farms. The Colombia is from a women’s cooperative there called AMACA, which advocates for women’s land ownership and financial independence.
The Guatemala is from a woman-owned estate in Antigua.
Every bean in that coffee you’re drinking was grown, sorted, and processed by women. ”
Rocky looked at her with heightened interest. “They’re the queens of coffee. You made deliberate, supportive choices. Very admirable.”
“Everything about this coffee is deliberate.” Jo lifted her chin.
“Did you know that women do up to seventy percent of the field labor in coffee worldwide? They grow, pick, and process, but historically, they own almost none of the land and businesses. Women-led collectives and owners are changing that, and I want to support that change on this side.”
She hadn’t planned to say all that to him. But Rocky was leaning in and listening, and he seemed to understand her point of view.
“Do you buy direct?” Rocky asked.
“Are you asking about my supply chain?”
When he nodded, Jo looked at him with a slow smile. Most people who sat at her counter wanted to know what the special was. But Rocky, fresh out of USC with an MBA, wanted to know about her supply chain. She hadn’t even heard that term until she took night classes.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I like learning about what makes successful businesses run. What gives them an edge in the market. Strategy and operations, that sort of thing.” He raised his cup. “And I’m drinking the best coffee I’ve had in a while.”
Jo refilled his cup. She didn’t talk about this with most people. Blue’s eyes glazed over whenever she brought it up. That was part of the problem between them.
She’d left Blue once before because she wasn’t ready to commit. Memories of her parents screaming at each other were still vivid in her mind. Then, she’d chosen to return. Now, who knew what was going on between them?
Here she was, pouring coffee for a man who asked more questions about her business than Blue ever had. Maybe that wasn’t fair. Even though Blue didn’t understand what drove her, he professed to love her.
Jo lifted her gaze to Rocky.
“People think direct trade means you wire money to a farmer and a pallet shows up at your door. It doesn’t work that way. There is international shipping, FDA compliance, customs, shipping logistics. When you’re a small business importing from Colombia or Guatemala, there’s a lot to consider.”
“How do you buy your beans?” Rocky asked.
“I use a specialty broker out of Oakland that oversees the ocean freight and customs clearance. They store the green beans in a temperature-controlled warehouse, and I buy my bags out of that warehouse as I need them.”
“So you don’t have to interact with the growers?”
“I chose to, because I want to know I’m helping support their efforts.” Jo tapped her fingers on the counter. “I’m part of a women’s restaurant owners organization. Some of us flew to the farms and met the women at the cooperative.”
Rocky seemed impressed. “That’s a very cool thing to do.”
“It is.” That was the first time Jo had been out of the country, and she’d loved the experience.
“We taste the coffee at its origin and set the price. Above market, always, so they can support their families and growth. The broker handles the logistics, but I choose the farm and dictate the terms. It’s legally imported through Oakland.
But morally and operationally, it’s direct trade. ”
Rocky sat back. “That’s a sophisticated model.”
“That’s women working together.” She winked at him. “Catch up.”
Grinning, Jo picked up a rag and wiped a spot on the counter. “When I bought this place, I didn’t know any of this. I was twenty-two with very little experience, but I knew I had to make more to support Hugo and myself.”
“Was it like this when you bought it?”