29
Grinders is a coffee shop owned by Robert, which shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. It isn’t like the coffee shops of Geneva, serious about espresso and cream and flaky pastries. Nor is it like the coffee shops of England, the uniformly eclectic chains of Costa or Nero.
Instead Grinders is on the first floor of a bright, butterscotch-yellow concrete house facing the sea. It’s across from the fish market gazebo, down from the “airport” and Junie’s shop. It’s probably the most lovely coffee shop I’ve been in in my entire life.
Outside there’s a line of blooming bougainvillea bushes, vibrant with coral and fuchsia flowers. The bushes shelter the deep wooden porch with its wide planks and lazily spinning ceiling fans. A band of sunlight crosses the worn planks and leads to the double front doors. They’re swung wide to let in the sea breeze and the salty, sandy smell of the water. In the back I have another door open so that the breeze rushes through, tugging at my hair and cooling my sweat-dappled skin.
The coffee shop is small—there are only four tables and a wooden counter with tall metal benches lining the windows overlooking the water. But the smallness is perfect. The tables and counter are made of sea-gray driftwood. The wooden floors are old, rubbed-down and smooth from years of sand-coated feet treading over them. The walls are painted a pale gray-blue, the exact color of the foam that caps the waves as they break against the reef.
There’s music, a collection of old jazz CDs playing on salt-battered speakers, currently tuned to the lyrics, “Never gonna die, baby, you know we’re gonna live forever.”
Behind the counter, at the espresso machine, with the perfume of Jamaican Blue Mountain beans rising around me and the crash of the waves filtering through the open doors, I can almost believe the lyrics.
Maybe the people here, in this world, do go on forever.
Robert leans his elbows on the counter, dropping his chin into his hands. The sun glints on his copper hair. He’s wearing his “I’m innocent and na?ve” expression—one that must’ve fooled a large number of people for him to keep using it.
He watches me with a quizzical smile, waiting, I think, for something. Although I’m not sure what.
I washed up after the fish market and changed into a yellow cotton dress. Junie came by the cottage ready to gather Sean. This is apparently a long-established pattern—she chatted about doing warm-up runs for when her baby’s born while she gathered a baby bag and filled it with crackers, purees, sippy cups, and nappies.
Then Maranda walked me to the coffee shop, telling me again that I was “late.”
Robert was inside waiting for me. Maranda left right away. I wish she hadn’t.
“Would you like a coffee?” I ask, ignoring the question in his eyes.
He sighs then and straightens to his full height. He’s tall, long-distance-cyclist-thin. He’s handsome. Whether he’s my taste or not, it’s empirically true. He has a perfectly symmetrical face with high cheekbones and a sharp nose. He walks with a loose stride, that earnest easiness. The only thing that gives away his true nature is his close-cropped hair, his clothing—linen dress shirts, crisp pants—and the flicker of shadow that sometimes breaks through his smooth gaze.
“Your coffee?” he asks, the edge of his mouth twitching. “Are you trying to punish me?”
I turn on the espresso maker and send a stream of steaming water through, cleaning and sanitizing.
Apparently, just like people here think I can’t swim, they also think I can’t make coffee.
“How about a latte?” I ask, tamping down the espresso and then placing two shot glasses beneath the machine.
He smiles at that, tight lines forming around his mouth. “If that’s what I have to do. I’ll drink a thousand terrible lattes to get back in your good graces.”
“If my coffee is so bad, why did you hire me?”
As soon as I ask the question I know the answer. An energy crackles off Robert—the same one that shot from him when he spun me behind the cottage, caged me against the wood siding, and cursed, “It hurts when I want to touch you, knowing that I can’t.”
I break the hold of his gaze and send the steaming water through the grind. And instead of looking at Robert, I set the metal pitcher under the spout and steam the milk.
The noise is loud. The hissing of the steam and the grinding of the machine interject into the heavy silence.
The bitter scent of the espresso and the warmed milk climbs up as I swirl the milk and froth into a mug.
Robert clears his throat, glancing behind him at the open doors. The sun is high overhead, white and hot. It’s nearly noon and the shadows have run away with the heat.
I push the mug toward him. It’s chipped. A generic white ceramic mug with gray scratches in the glaze. Robert ignores it.
Instead he stares at the curling of my blond hair around my ears and the perspiration lining my forehead. “I’m sorry about last night.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His mouth tightens. “Becca.”
“Apology accepted.”
He frowns, a hint of frustration in his eyes. “Can I see you tonight?”
“No.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“No. Not ever.”
“You said that before. Then you came. Is this a game? Is that what this is?”
I clutch the edge of the counter. “I don’t play games.”
“You play plenty of games.”
I shake my head. “You should go.”
His jaw tightens and he scrubs a hand down his face. When he looks at me again, his eyes are tired and his expression worn. “I don’t know what you’re playing at. But you’re not doing McCormick any favors. It’s because he’s my friend I’m telling you this. Stop making him believe you care. Stop giving him hope. It’s cruel?—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw the way he looked at you. Fifteen years he’s been your husband. He’s been your friend. Don’t make him think it’s more. Because when we leave it’ll destroy him. If you make him love you and then we leave— That’s not what I signed up for.”
“He already loved me. He loved me when we married.”
“Not like this. Not like what I saw this morning.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying”—Robert leans forward, his expression earnest, anguished—“leave him be. He doesn’t need the hurt you’re aiming to pile on top of him.”
I stare at Robert, stunned at the vehemence in his voice. Suddenly I wonder if he’s a part of my subconscious warning me about Max.
Is this what I’m doing to him?
I chose to give him hope. To see if love can grow.
But I’ve been worried that in the end it will only hurt him. Is Robert telling me my fears are founded?
“You’re hurting him too,” I say, my voice a whisper above the waves.
Robert’s shoulders slump and he looks down at the counter, a bitter twist to his mouth. “I know. I wonder, am I doing it to punish him or myself? Or is this truly just love? I tell myself he’ll thank me someday.”
The door bangs then. It slams against the plaster wall. I jump at the sharp, cracking noise, and Robert half-turns, looking toward the sunlit entry.
No one is there.
When he looks back at me his expression is earnest and innocently blank again, the heavy emotions blown away on the sharp gust of wind.
But I have something to say. “I told you before. I’m not leaving with you. I’m married. Whatever you feel, it has to end.”
Robert shakes his head as if he’s disappointed in me. He taps a long finger against the counter and then straightens, looking back at the door. “I’m working with McCormick this afternoon. We’re trimming trees. Essie says she feels a storm coming. Her hands are aching.”
“A storm?”
Suddenly he grins at me. A crackling, hollow-eyed smile. “Yes. A storm.”
And then he turns and strides toward the open doors.
“You forgot your coffee.”
He raises a hand—leave it.
I sigh and lean against the counter. I stare at the swirl of the foam and the rich caramel color of the espresso. After a moment of contemplation I lift the mug and take a sip.
The milk is light, creamy. The espresso is nutty and sweet, hinting at toffee and sugar. The coffee coats my tongue and I smile.
If nothing else, I can still make a fantastic cup of coffee.
I’m still smiling when Amy strides in, a bulky backpack slung over one shoulder. She looks around at the empty shop, slides onto a bench at the counter, and says, “Dad wanted me to give you a message.”