Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Georgie
The line at the truck has been steady since seven, which is everything I hoped for when I suggested moving the truck to the factory lot.
My first few weeks on Maple Street, I could have read half a novel between customers on a Wednesday morning.
Now I have a stream of customers and am trying to keep track of everything at once, including wiping down the steam wand before milk builds up and affects the flavor profile.
Mama always said the little things matter, and you’ve gotta respect your customers enough to remember that nothing that affects them is little.
I keep the line moving at a good pace, thanks to a recent shift from one-at-a-time service to assembly line style when we’re busy: I take orders in a batch first, take payment, then make the drinks.
“Medium oat latte, two sugars,” I say, sliding it across the window with a quick smile at the customer. All of our drinks have names, but some people feel too silly using them. When that’s the case, I match their tone. “Have a good day!”
I give out another few drinks before taking more orders. When the next customer steps up, I lean down close enough to the outside to get a whiff of fresh air. Instead, I get a nose-full of diesel from the delivery bays across the parking lot.
I’ll take the smell of espresso, thank you very much.
The factory runs 24/7, but there’s a shift change at seven AM, which is the first rush of the day.
The people starting a shift are eager for caffeine to keep them up, but I discovered a number of those ending a shift need to stay up for a few more hours.
I stood outside the front doors one day offering free shots of espresso to the departing workers.
“Just in case you need to run errands or get kids off to school.”
The exhausted shift workers were over the moon, and I’ve since added a lot of loyal customers to my lines.
Even Marlowe was impressed.
When she saw the numbers a few weeks ago and I explained what I’d observed, she said, “Well, wasn’t that lucky?”
She’s not one for compliments, but she cares the best she knows how.
“Can I get a black coffee?” a guy in his late twenties asks.
“Sure. What size?” I ask.
“Large. You’re cute, by the way.”
“Thanks. Medium roast or dark?” I ask. I’ve been fielding flirts since I was sixteen, and the best approach is to keep going. He laughs, but something tells me he’ll leave a decent tip.
The line finally starts to calm when I spot the VP I’ve coordinated with at the window.
In a baseball cap and a flannel shirt over a T-shirt, Rusty looks more like a farmer than your typical VP.
“Hey, Rusty. Can I get you anything?”
“Can I have a peach protein cozy, but can you make it cold?”
“An iced cozy?” I say before I realize what I’ve said and that no one but Logan would get this joke. Do Logan and I already have an inside joke? The idea makes me have to wipe the grin off my face. “Silly joke, sorry.”
There’s no one behind him, but I spot a couple of people hovering near the parking lot, so the rush isn’t completely over.
Rusty shrugs off my comment. “You’ve been busy. I saw the line forming before you’d even opened.”
“The shift-change crowd has been great,” I say.
“Have you thought about coming here on weekends?”
“I have. The farm store’s open on weekends, though, so I’ve actually been hoping to set the truck up there.
Although, I guess I could maybe start here on Saturday and Sunday mornings for the shift change and then head over there for the midmorning crowd.
It’d be the best of both worlds, if I can manage it. ”
He nods slowly. “That’s good thinking. You know, the field workers at the farm start earlier than the factory crew does. They’d probably appreciate something before the heat sets in.”
I look up from the machine. “How early are we talking?”
“Before sunrise, some days.” He scratches his brow.
“But usually around five, five thirty. We’re in our busiest stretch right now, and the crew is worn down.
I’ve been thinking about ways to boost morale.
If we covered your expenses for a flat fee, would you be willing to come out to the farm lot in the early mornings for the rest of the season? ”
“I’d need to run it by Marlowe,” I say, “but that sounds like something we’d want to do.”
He nods. “Good. Run some numbers and let me know what a fair rate is.”
I nod, and then something overtakes me—the thought of bringing Marlowe an idea, the possibility of her being impressed by something I did—and I hear myself say: “Would there also be any chance of getting a spot at your Food Truck Fridays? And the Fall Festival?”
Rusty’s eyebrows go up. My heart hammers in my chest.
“Huh.” He considers it. “I’ll talk to Tripp. But I think we could make it work.”
I keep my expression professional while internally freaking out that Rusty is going to check with Tripp Carville—the CEO of one of the largest commercial farms in the region—about giving Meant to Bean space at the Fall Festival.
This could change everything.
I take his payment while we finish talking. When he taps his card, his wedding ring catches the morning light—a thick, simple gold band, always polished in spite of how dusty his hands often are from work. It’s like the symbol of his marriage matters more than his personal comfort.
That, I think. That is the goal.
Someone who treats his vows like they’re worth more than gold.
Okay, so the ring is gold. But still.
I get a flash of Logan at my booth last night—still in his jersey, still in his cleats—holding my Frost collection like it was worth a lot more than the ninety-nine cents I paid for it at Goodwill.
I shake it off. I barely know him.
I whip up Rusty’s cold peach cozy—I really need a new name for this thing—and hand it across the window.
“Good seeing you, Georgie.”
“Thanks, Rusty. If I figure out how to clone myself to run both locations, we’ll see each other even more,” I joke.
“No, you’ll need to hire some more help and eventually get another truck,” he says simply. “And when it pays off, you hire more and more. That way, you can put your energy somewhere else.”
The thrill this idea sends through me—
I shut it down before it can stir parts of me that cannot be awakened if I want to be happy.
I’m content with what I have. My family’s coffee shop in Mullet Ridge is enough. Expanding to Sugar Maple is already more than I ever expected to be able to do.
Dreams are wonderful, and all, but they’re dangerous.
Rusty waves and walks back to the factory as the last two customers who’ve been lurking come over.
Somehow it’s already quarter till. That means in only a few minutes, I’ll be driving to Mullet Ridge, wondering if Logan will actually be there and wondering what I’m going to say about “Mending Walls,” which I thought about far too much last night when I should have been doing homework.
I make a cortado and a vanilla latte, check the clock, and … close enough.
I step out of the truck and put up my sign.
On Break—Back at 10:00!
I give myself an extra fifteen minutes of buffer on the sign to be safe.
I’ll keep the machine running until I pull up to Meant to Bean.
That’ll give me twenty-five, maybe thirty minutes before it loses temperature, which means I’ll have exactly enough time to get there, have far too quick a conversation with Logan, and then I’ll get back before the lunch-adjacent crowd starts showing up wanting something iced.
The drive from the factory lot to Meant to Bean’s parking lot is ten minutes if the light on Broad street is green.
I hit it red.
And I fidget the whole time.
I park on the back edge of the lot, nose out, the way my dad always parks when he comes into town.
The comparison makes me squeeze the steering wheel. I’m parking here because it’s shaded and because Marlowe can’t see me from the street if she drives by. Not because I’m like him.
I jump out of the truck and stop with my hand on the door.
I’m still wearing my apron.
I stare down at the branded apron. If I walk in there wearing it, he’ll know immediately this is what I do for work, and I don’t know why it matters, except that yesterday he asked if I worked at a library or a bookstore and I didn’t answer, and it feels—not deceptive, exactly, but like I was hiding something.
I’m not ashamed of Meant to Bean.
I may or may not be ashamed of the fact that my dad turned it all over to my stepmother and I have no idea how to get back what my mother supposedly left me until the loans against it are paid off.
But I’m not ashamed of Meant to Bean.
If I’m tossing my apron back into the truck, it’s only because I don’t want to confuse any customers.
The metal handle isn’t as hot as it was last night. I pull the door open and the AC and the smell of the place hit me at the same time—dark roast, old wood, and the faint sweetness of the sweet alyssum from the window boxes.
I hold my breath before turning to look at the booth.
It’s empty.
My favorite smells turn sour in my lungs, and I exhale.
I should’ve known.
I know I shouldn’t be so defeatist, and I’m not—not really. I am a realist, though. I could tell myself he’s running late or remind myself that being hopeful isn’t a recipe for heartache.
But experience has told me otherwise for so long, I wouldn’t believe it, anyway.
It’s all going to be okay. If he does or doesn’t show, it’ll all be okay.
That’s right. It will all be okay. Those words have proven true my whole life—through losing Mama, through my dad marrying Marlowe, through him working away from home as often as possible, and through years of watching Marlowe run my family’s business and living a life that fits as well as my pair of Chuck Taylors.
Manageable, but pinched.
Whether this works out or not, it’ll all be okay.
I know that.
I’ve lived that.