Chapter 2
POPPY
“The Matcha Monster is back,” Ethan says as he pokes his freckled face around the corner of my office at the back of the storage room.
I swivel my chair toward Ethan and let out a sigh.
“We have to stop calling her that,” I answer with a lighthearted chuckle.
He’s been around the café long enough that he knows all the regulars as well as I do, though there are some that require the right kind of touch.
The Matcha Monster’s real name is Maryann, and even though she’s infuriating every time she comes into the café, she’s a regular, and therefore a valued, customer. “Same thing again, today?”
Ethan nods.
We have a routine, Maryann and I. She orders her usual: a matcha latte, no foam. Absolutely no foam.
She holds the to-go cup when I pass it to her and then hands it back with a wordless scowl. She claims she can feel the foam. That the cup is lighter because I haven’t scraped enough of it off.
I remake it, repeating the same exact steps as the first time, and eventually Maryann leaves. She’s never completely satisfied, and that’s what grates on my nerves the most.
I’ve never figured out how to get Maryann to leave happy. And I can make everyone happy. Even the most irritable customers leave Thistle + Thorne satisfied.
Maryann is the greatest obstacle of my career. Aunt Dahlia even warned me about her when I took over operations of the café. She was my aunt’s Everest, her white whale. And now she’s mine.
In some ways, I’m honoured I get to carry on my aunt’s legacy, and it eases the weight of the grief that has sat heavy on my heart for the last few months since she passed.
But enough is enough. Today is the day. I’ve decided. This needs to come to an end. Maryann and I are going to have a little chat, and I’m going to make damn sure that she leaves with a big, dumb smile on her perfectly made-up face.
I round the corner out of the back and pop out behind the counter. I’m grateful for the chance to step out of my office, for a break to take in the warm earthy scent of brewed coffee, the subtle sweet notes of warmed pastries, and the crackling of the fireplace in the corner.
The café is relatively quiet, only a few of the regular customers sitting at tables and quietly working on their laptops, and Maryann.
Her platinum blonde blow-out is even crazier than usual today. The volume is unbelievable. I swear, each day her hair gets bigger, like every time she wins one of our petty skirmishes, she gets more powerful, she levels up.
“Maryann!” I exclaim, plastering on a friendly smile. Kill her with kindness. “Lovely to see you this morning. How can I help?”
She slides her matcha latte across the counter towards me, and nods at it. We stare at each other with a mutual understanding and barely concealed disdain.
“Too much foam?” I ask, grinding my molars together.
“See for yourself,” she snaps.
I lift the plastic lid off the cup and inspect it for any signs of bubbles. Maybe one or two linger around the edges, tops. But my smile never falters.
“I’d be more than happy to fix this for you, Maryann.”
Her scowl softens ever so slightly.
“Hey, have you ever tried this with oat milk?”
Her blow-out bobs as her head shakes slightly, those bright blue eyes narrowing with skepticism. I’ve never offered her anything different before.
“No,” she says, but the word is laced with a barely-there curiosity.
“I think you’ll like it. It doesn’t taste much different than regular milk, and it doesn’t get as foamy.”
I know Maryann’s not exactly wrong when she picks up her latte and feels the bubbles.
The more bubbles, the lighter the cup. And milk does a funny thing when it’s steamed—it keeps making foam.
So, between the time that I skim the last of the bubbles off the top and the time I hand it to her, more foam has already formed.
Oat milk doesn’t do that.
“Would you like to try it today?”
“It’s made of… oats?” She wrinkles her nose.
“Yeah, you’ll be surprised how creamy it is.”
She squints as she considers.
“Tell you what, if you hate it, I’ll remake your usual, and both drinks are on me,” I add.
Maryann nods in acceptance of my offer, and I get to work making her an oat milk matcha latte.
I dip the steamer in the milk and tilt the jug until I hear that satisfying hiss, only letting it do so for a second or two before I set it down to heat up. When it’s done, I pour the smooth green liquid into a paper cup, scrape off any visible bubbles, and hand it to her.
Maryann picks it up, bobbing it up and down as if checking the weight. The first, and most difficult, inspection passes, and my shoulders relax a little. Then she brings it to her mouth slowly, for the taste test.
She smacks her lips together a few times, concentrating on the flavour for a few torturous seconds. I mutter a silent prayer that today might be the day that I conquer the Matcha Monster.
“It’s fine.”
Excitement bubbles up within me.
“Really?”
Fine, in Maryann-speak is like a normal person explaining that it’s the best matcha latte they’ve ever tasted.
Her hot pink, normally pursed lips soften. “Yes.”
I might be imagining it, but I swear I notice the corners tick upward. Mine do the same.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Any time. I’m glad it’s to your standards.” I offer her a soft, restrained smile as she walks out of the café, oat milk matcha in hand.
As soon as the door closes behind her, Ethan comes out of his hiding spot in the storeroom.
“Oh my god,” he exclaims. “You did it. You really did it. The oat milk worked.”
“The oat milk worked,” I repeat, as if I’m trying to believe it myself.
Now my smile takes over my face, and the excitement bursts out of me in a squeal. A few of the other customers glance towards us as Ethan and I throw our hands up in a double high-five, interrupting the quiet.
Wow, what a high. This is why I love what I do. This is what I live for. Making customers happy, especially the most difficult ones.
Ethan and I are still beaming at each other, over the miracle that we both witnessed, when the bell above the door chimes behind me, the cold gust of air as it opens making me shiver.
My stomach drops, dread washing over me. Maryann must be back. She’s taken a few more sips and she hates it. We’re back at square one. I ready myself to face her, schooling my expression from one of pure elation to professional pleasantry, and I spin on my heel.
A mix of relief and newly budding anxiety war inside me when I see that it’s not Maryann standing in the door, but a man in an ill-fitting grey suit.
His thin, wispy comb-over sticks up when he takes off his hat and approaches the counter. I recognize him from somewhere, though I can’t quite place him.
“Poppy Thorne?” He asks, his voice wary and shaky.
“That’s me,” I answer. And suddenly at the sound of his voice, I remember how I know him.
“We’ve met once before, I’m Craig.” He holds out a sweaty palm for me to shake. “I’m the lawyer taking care of your aunt’s will.”
“Craig, right,” I squeak out.
I never committed his name to memory, my grief too fresh at the will reading to pay attention to anything else.
There was never a doubt in my mind that I’d get the café, my aunt had raised me, after all. My father was only present for the day I was conceived, and my mother realized not long after that she wasn’t cut out for motherhood.
My parents’ absence should have affected me more.
I should have more of a complex that comes with abandonment as a child.
But the truth is, my aunt made sure that my childhood was never lacking in love.
I grew up in the apartment above Thistle + Thorne, always welcomed home with a hug and a hot cup of cocoa.
I try to think of somewhere private to go and talk, since I don’t know the nature of his visit, and I don’t exactly want to discuss matters regarding the café in front of any customers.
But my apartment has been in complete disarray from the last few days—my most recent arthritis flare up was nearly debilitating, and I still have piles of laundry and dishes waiting to be done.
I’m used to it by now. I was diagnosed with Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis as a pre-teen, and suffered the symptoms long before anyone ever knew what it was.
My doctors tell me I’m special. A special case, that is, where the juvenile part of my diagnosis doesn’t really mean anything, and my arthritis has continued to attack my body well into adulthood.
Which means occasionally, everything piles up, and between managing the café and the plant shop next door, I’m also catching up on the household chores that didn’t get done. I’ve been putting them off, so any amount of energy I do have, I can use for work.
The small table by the window of the café will have to do.
Craig is rifling through the black leather briefcase he brought with him and pulling out an assortment of loose papers when I take the seat across from him, and set down two cups of fresh coffee between us.
I chew my bottom lip as I wait for him to fill me in on why he’s here. I thought we’d settled Aunt Dahlia’s will weeks ago, so my nerves are roiling around in my gut.
It had been fairly cut and dry, her will was straight forward and to the point. Aunt Dahlia never had any children, and I know she saw me as one, so virtually everything came to me.
We had a special relationship, her and I.
She was larger than life, a force to be reckoned with.
And while I was often misunderstood for my quirky interests and strange hobbies, Aunt Dahlia embraced my love of horror movies, my obsession with knitting, and she never made me feel like I had to be anyone but myself.
I loved her so much, and grief stabs at my chest when I think about her now. I’m honoured to carry on her legacy with the café. All I’ve been waiting on is the official transfer of the deed.
So now, my hands are clammy at the fact that Craig has come here, weeks after everything was settled.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here, Ms. Thorne,” Craig says, now that he’s finally organized and ready to get down to business.
I nod, waiting for him to elaborate.
“As you know, we’ve been in the final stages of transferring over the estate.”
I nod again, this time a little more impatiently.
“There was a small oversight when we reviewed your aunt’s will. One small issue to resolve before everything can go through.” His tone is hesitant, as if he’s not sure how to explain the dilemma.
“Sure, what do I need to do?” I ask. I don’t care what it will take at this point; I just want to see the deed to Thistle + Thorne with my name on it.
“You’ll need to get married.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you right.” Wren turns away from the tacky Christmas sweater rack she was flicking through. “Married? In ninety days? You have to be joking.”
“Nope, not joking,” I say, my disdain for the whole unfortunate set of circumstances evident in my tone.
The three-month timeline was yet another kick in the teeth.
I’m nearing thirty, and I’ve never had a boyfriend.
I couldn’t be further away from getting married if I tried.
But the lawyer explained that I’ll need to find a husband in ninety days, or else the café will get auctioned off as part of the estate.
“I guess there was some clause left over in the deed from when it was first built. Back when it wasn’t even a café. It said that whoever was in possession of the building needed to be either a man, or a married woman.”
Wren shakes her head. “That’s so fucked up…”
I pick up a sweater with kittens in Santa hats and hold it up to show her. Our annual Friendsmas dinner is coming up in a few weeks, and we’ve spent the last few hours shopping for our secret Santa gifts and vintage sweaters from the Shirt Shack. My favourite tradition.
“Cute,” she says, “very you.”
I tuck the hanger under my arm and continue looking through the rack in case I find something I like better.
“So, what are you going to do?” Wren asks, her smooth dark hair swishing across her back as she turns towards the rack of sweaters.
“What is there to do?” I don’t ask the question in the hopes of getting an actual answer. I’ve been wracking my brain ever since Craig walked out of the café, having turned my life upside down. So far, I’ve come up with nothing.
Wren abruptly stops browsing again and whips around.
“You’re going to fight it right? This is grounds for a lawsuit, Pops.” Her dark brown eyes widen in shock.
“Oh, sure, because that’s easy.” I’m not normally one to sass my best friend, but my frustration with the whole situation has been mounting.
Because I’m watching my dream of owning Thistle + Thorne slip away with every minute that ticks by.
“Unless you’re secretly an estate lawyer and you’re offering to do it pro bono, then no, I don’t think I’ll be fighting this. ”
Aunt Dahlia wasn’t exactly financially savvy, and most of her money ended up tied up in the café. Her estate consisted of the deed for Thistle + Thorne, and the two-bedroom apartment above it. That’s it. Not a penny more to her name.
Her philosophy in life was to enjoy the money you had, while you still could. Can’t take it with you, she’d sing-song as she filled our apartment with knick-knacks, and her closet with gaudy sequinned dresses.
“Okay, so, what then?” Wren throws her hands up, exasperated. “You’re just going to let them auction it off?”
A sharp, stabbing sensation needles my ribs. I’d thought about the prospect of losing the café, but it hadn’t occurred to me what would happen to it.
Would it be sold off to someone who cherished it as much as I did? As much as Aunt Dahlia did? Or would the new owner renovate it and rid it of all its charm? Or worse, demolish it and build an entirely new, modern structure in its place?
“No…” I can’t speak past the lump in my throat, and I turn away, pretending to look at a different rack of sweaters so Wren can’t see how my eyes are watering.
“Then I guess you better get on the dating apps,” she says, and I give her a resigned nod as I try to focus on our Christmas shopping.
Anything to distract me from my growing panic at the thought of dating.