Love Inspired December 2014 - Box Set 2 of 2: Her Holiday Family\Sugar Plum Season\Her Cowboy Hero\Small-Town Fireman (57 page)

“You're right. I'm just in early for my meeting.” He took another long, slow sip of coffee. “Pity I can't put one of those machines on my boat—the last batch of investment bankers I had out were all complaining about having to forgo their usual grande-soy-mocha-whatevers.”

“Not the supermarket coffee from a thermos type of guys, huh?” She raised an elegantly arched eyebrow.

Dylan winced at the thought of the can of supermarket coffee grounds in his kitchen and the dented old thermos currently rolling around the passenger seat of his truck in the parking lot. “This is exceptional coffee,” he admitted. “If you ask me, a lot of that other stuff is just high-priced hype.”

“Well, lots of it is.”

“Not this.”

She planted her elbows on the counter, pleased at the compliment. “No, sir, not my coffee.”

Dylan stared down at his cup, now nearly empty. He considered asking for another. The lady really did make a mean coffee. He took another sip. He'd never have thought to put cinnamon in there. And what had made him consent to one of those fancy drinks now that he'd retooled his tastes back to “black, one sugar” java? “You can make these to go?” Karl's never really did a “to go” business, but she looked ready to try new things.

“Absolutely. I mean, a couple of national chains have built a fortune on it—why not Karl's?” She shrugged. “Gordon Falls is just catching on. Or catching up.”

There it was, that ever-so-slightly judgmental tone he'd see every now and then from charter customers.
Nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live all the way out here.
It didn't take a marketing genius to see she wasn't terribly thrilled to be here. Which was funny to him, because Dylan had moved heaven and earth to be here. “Gordon Falls has lots of other charms.”

“Yeah.” She clearly didn't hold to that theory. He could spot that bored look a mile off.

Well, Chicago had bored
him
. Wouldn't she be surprised to discover he'd been one of those blue-suited, briefcase-toting caffeine junkies rushing to make the seven-ten downtown? He'd bought into the whole upwardly mobile mind-set, working long hours and hitting all the right societal notes. He'd even found himself the perfect partner in Yvonne, sure she was the love of his life.

Then the
love of his life
left him high and dry for someone with what she deemed were faster prospects for success. Ditch your future fiancé for his boss? Who did that? How had he not seen that icy vein of ambition in her before she'd slit it open right in front of him?

He could almost be thankful. Almost. With the life sucked out of him like that, it had only taken Dylan three weeks after Yvonne's grand exit to realize how much he had bought into a giant lie. He hated corporations. And suits. And cubicles in high-rise buildings. He'd never truly wanted any of it, just thought it was what he was supposed to want. Half of what he'd done, he'd only done out of Yvonne's urging for what he ought to be.

Startled out of his corporate stupor, Dylan woke up to what made him truly happy. He slogged it out six more months in that suffocating office to scrape together the boat, the money and the contacts to kiss Chicago goodbye and launch his charter fishing business. He hadn't ventured the three hours back to Chicago since. He owned one suit for weddings and funerals, and hoped to never touch another briefcase again. The fancy coffee, however...that might be worth revisiting.

“I don't think I've seen you before,” Karla remarked, straightening up off the counter. “What time do you normally come in?”

“I'm not much of a regular, and if I do get here it's rarely before ten-thirty.”

“Well, that explains it. I'm usually done by eleven.”

“Are you the only one who makes these?” He was pretty sure he knew the answer. Emily, the other server, was a nice enough lady, but he doubted the fifty-year-old ex-librarian cared to learn barista skills.

She smirked. “Let's just say I don't think you'd want Emily's version of a cappuccino.”

He nodded in agreement.

“Karla?” someone called from the room full of tables behind him.

With the tiniest glimpse of weariness, she grabbed the glass carafe again from the brewer behind her and walked toward the sea of customers. Dylan took another exquisite sip and watched her move through the tables, efficient but not engaged, feeling his curiosity rise and stretch like a lazy cat. Or was that caution getting his back up?

Karla returned. “So...what brought you in today?”

“That tourism meeting.” He checked his watch. It was only ten minutes until his meeting with Cindi the tourism rep—Cindi with an
i
, for crying out loud, with a flighty personality to match the alternative spelling. If he wasn't eager to go before, now he felt certain Cindi was too young, too perky and too cheerful to come up with anything truly effective. “Like I said, I need some new ideas to grow my charter fishing business.” He'd gone through his savings faster than he'd expected launching this business, and pretty soon the boat loan payments were going to start becoming a challenge if things didn't pick up.

“What about applying a little added value? You could bring your customers in here. End their experience with a nice, home-style breakfast and some killer coffee.”

While Dylan abhorred business school buzz-terms like “added value,” the simple idea sounded ten times better than the unimaginative set of bullet points Cindi had emailed to him yesterday. “You know, it'd be nice to end the morning on a high note even if the customers came in empty-handed. Only I can't exactly pull the boat up to Tyler Street, you know?” Karl's Koffee sat right in the middle of Gordon Falls' main thoroughfare, Tyler Street. The shop was, in many ways, the social center of the town—at least for the locals. Tourists tended to breakfast at their inns or the more upscale restaurants.

Karla pulled a ballpoint pen from her apron pocket and a napkin from the canister on the counter. “Solvable...” One eye narrowed while she began making calculations, rapidly scratching numbers on the napkin.

“Hey, coffee here?” a call came from a table to his left.

Without looking up from her calculations, Karla held up one finger, “In a second...”

A disgruntled sigh from the customer made Dylan wince, then let out a breath as Karla circled a number at the bottom of the napkin. She slapped down the pen, reached behind her to the coffee brewer—again, almost without looking—and then stared at Dylan. “Stay,” she commanded with a pointed finger just before dashing out toward the diners.

Woof
, Dylan thought, annoyed.
What am I, a puppy?

Still, he did stay. He told himself it was to finish off the great coffee, but the command still stung. Today's charter had been hard to take—a herd of accountants bent on upstaging one another the entire morning. As much as he chafed from the upscale customers, they were essential to his business. These past ten minutes had been the most pleasant of his day: it was nice to have someone take his satisfaction into consideration instead of the constant press of “customer service.”

Returning, Karla slid the carafe onto the brewer so fast it nearly sloshed out the top. She had energy to spare, this woman. Eyes bright, she spun the napkin to face him. “How many trips do you have the rest of this month?”

Dylan squinted in thought. “Eight.” That hurt to admit; it needed to be more like ten or twelve.

“Easy deal. You pay a flat eight dollars a head, I take orders in advance that you phone in from the dock, and they have perfect specialty drinks and such waiting for them when they arrive. That's if Grandpa approves it—” she parked her hand on her hip with an air of determination “—which he will.”

Dylan had to admit, it solved a multitude of problems. His customers got a good send-off no matter what they caught—or failed to catch. If he was smart and applied himself, he could roust up some repeat business while they sipped. And good old Karl got some extra business. Maybe “added value” wasn't as evil as it sounded. “You're one sharp cookie, Karla Kennedy.”

The corner of her mouth curled up into the cutest little grin. “Just for that, there's free lunch in it for you—well, late breakfast anyway—if you like.”

Dylan liked that idea so much he ordered scrambled eggs and toast while he phoned Cindi to cancel their meeting.

Chapter Two

“L
ooking good there, Grandpa!” Karla called to her grandfather and his physical therapist when she came in the front door of his house an hour later.

“That's what I told him,” Rosa, the therapist, said, frustration clipping the edge of her words. Her grandfather was impatient and used to activity; ensuring that he got his rest was no small feat. The only thing harder than getting him to take it easy was coaxing him to do the required exercises to heal his hip. That lion-tamer of a job required patience, diplomacy and a thick skin. Medical progress aside, it seemed to irk Grandpa that Karl's Koffee was actually surviving without him behind the counter.

“We miss you at the shop,” Karla confessed, momentarily unsure if that would make it better or worse. “Everyone's asking how you are.”

“How do they think I am?” Grandpa snorted. “I'm stuck using this stupid walker like some old coot.”

Karla detoured into the living room to kiss her grandfather's cheek. “Yeah, but you're
my
old coot. It won't take long before you'll be kicking me out of here and running Karl's like always.” That was a bit of an overstatement. While everyone agreed her grandfather would be back at his namesake shop sometime in the future, only Karl believed he'd be “running it like always.” He'd needed to slow down even before the broken hip ground him to a halt.

Rosa raised one eyebrow while Grandpa merely growled. Evidently today's therapy session had been particularly prickly. Karla escaped to the kitchen, where she slid her handbag and a box of Danish from the shop onto the counter. Mom's tired eyes matched Rosa's as she looked up from the sink. Her parents, who lived twenty minutes west of Gordon Falls, were staying with Grandpa off and on until he could safely be on his own. The doctors thought that would be two more weeks. Grandpa thought it should be two more hours—hence Mom's weary expression.

“Everyone having fun today?” Karla teased.

“Oh, loads.” With her father trying to keep regular hours at his shelving business during the day, Karla knew her mother's days with Grandpa could get long indeed. Mom nodded toward the living room, whispering, “Rosa is a saint. I'd have throttled him by now. If your father hadn't left an hour ago, I think they would have come to blows.”

She knew the feeling. Kennedys—and those who married them—were doers. Action people, thinkers and planners. Grandpa's extended convalescence was taking its toll on everyone. Somehow, for reasons that weren't too hard to guess, all this was opening up an old Kennedy family wound. Karla's father, Kurt, had declined to take what Grandpa saw as his place behind the counter at Karl's. Dad's choice not to follow in his father's footsteps had always been a wedge between them. Karla's stepping in to run Karl's Koffee, even as reluctantly as she had, just seemed to drive that wedge an inch or two deeper. Add a painful surgery, long hours of fidgety Kennedys sitting around hospitals and living rooms, and combustion was unavoidable. Karla didn't opt to live in the apartment above the shop rather than here at Grandpa's house for no good reason—she'd leave that volatile situation to her parents, thank you very much.

“Your books came.” Mom gestured toward the kitchen table. “Weighed a ton. I thought online classes didn't need all those textbooks.” Karla had enrolled in an online restaurant management certificate program even before Karl's fall. Now she was doubly glad to have the business-related work keeping both her future plans in motion and her mind occupied while all the way out here in Gordon Falls.

Karla began opening the box. “I got a few extra books from the entrepreneurship program. Business stuff.” Pulling off the packing tape, she removed the filling to see
Restaurant Ownership
,
The Chef's Guide to Marketing
, and
Culinary Management
alongside the two workbooks needed from her online courses. The used texts had clearly seen wear and tear, but they were half the price of the new ones. Plus, if she was fortunate, they came with highlights and notes from their previous student owners.

“Ambitious,” Mom remarked from over Karla's shoulder. She lowered her voice. “Karl could probably tell you half of what's in those books.” She winked. “Or so he'd boast.”

“Aren't we done yet, Rosa? My hip is yelling at me.” Grandpa's groaning echoed into the kitchen from the living room.

“A saint, I tell you.” Mom was laughing, but probably only because she was picking up her car keys. “I'm off to the grocery store. Do you need anything?”

Oh, there was a long list of what Karla needed, but Halverson's wasn't likely to carry any of it. “No, I'm going to place an order with the restaurant supply place this afternoon after I talk to Grandpa about something.”

Mom raised a curious eyebrow. “You can tell me about it later, okay?” She ducked her head into the living room. “Karl, be nice to Rosa. She's here to help.”

Karla heard her grandfather grumble something about the nature of helpfulness, punctuated by a yelp that generally signaled his descent into the recliner chair. His therapist walked into the kitchen, returning the blue cardboard folder that held the papers showing Grandpa's daily exercises to its spot on the counter. He was supposed to do exercises twice a day when Rosa wasn't here, but often refused. “Two more weeks.” She sighed. “Remind him he can go out and about after two weeks but no driving for another month.”

“We'll see about that!” Grandpa yelled from the living room. “Morehouse is a tyrant, I tell you.”

Karla offered Rosa a shrug. “Dr. Morehouse is on your side, Grandpa,” she called into the other room. “Try to remember that.”

“See if you can get him to keep his feet elevated with ice on that hip for twenty minutes twice this afternoon. After those exercise he
claims
he does, but doesn't.” She looked at Karla. “I told your mom just what I told him—he's doing better than expected. He'll make a full recovery if we can just keep him from overdoing it.”

Grandpa was the king of “overdoing it.”

“I'll do my best. You take care. Want a Danish?”

Rosa sighed, took a Danish and headed out the door.

The minute the door closed, Grandpa was making noises in the living room. “Can we go out to lunch today? I won't tell a soul.”

“Everyone will see you and rat you out.” Karl Kennedy could no more walk down the streets of Gordon Falls unrecognized than Karla could whip up a soufflé over a candlestick. The man's coffee shop was the unofficial town hall. It was part of the charm—and the pain—of being here: everyone knew Karl, and everyone knew she was Karl's granddaughter. She was starting to really miss Chicago's anonymity.

“No one will tell on me. Call Vi. She'll come spring me.” Violet Sharpton had come to visit Grandpa multiple times in the hospital and stopped by every other day. While she was as feisty as Grandpa, Vi wasn't a likely conspirator for anything that would endanger his recovery.

“Dad would have my hide,” she replied as she walked into the living room with a cheese Danish on a napkin. “You know that. And Mrs. Sharpton wants you to get better, so I doubt she'll help you cheat. We'll order out from Dellio's, how about that? Besides, I struck a deal at the coffee shop today and I want to tell you about it.”

That got Grandpa's attention. “What kind of deal? You bringing in some other fancy machine no one knows how to work?”

It was true; no one else seemed to be able or willing to work the cappuccino machine. One high school student managed a brave attempt, but it ended in an incident so awful the entire shop staff had made a pact never to tell Karl how hazelnut syrup got into the heating vents. The other waitress, Emily, had nearly refused to touch the machine.

Karla sat down on an ottoman opposite her grandfather. “We're going to supply breakfast to Dylan McDonald's charter fishing customers once or twice a week. I worked out a package deal for the next month.” She laid out the terms of the agreement as Grandpa ate the Danish. “We shook on it, but I told him it wasn't official until I got the okay from you.”

“We're catering to McDonald's fishing boat?”

Grandpa's idea of catering would come something closer to a thermos of coffee and a box of doughnuts. “No, they'll place their espresso drink orders with Dylan as they pull into the dock and then I'll have it all set on a table when they walk in. Dylan will pay up front eight dollars a head. I figure some of them might end up staying and ordering a full breakfast if things go well.” She smiled. “Everybody wins.”

Grandpa grinned. “Well, look at you striking deals and making partners. Kennedys can do, I tell you.” It was the unofficial Kennedy Family Motto. The old man winced and shifted, rubbing his hip. “McDonald. The fireman with the fishing boat business, right?”

“That's him.”

Grandpa's gray eyes twinkled. “About your age, isn't he?”

She swatted her grandfather's good leg. “Nice try, old man.” Age was the only thing she had in common with Dylan McDonald. Right now her focus was on her principal interest, not Prince Charming. She hoped one or two of the executives Dylan claimed to serve might prove useful business contacts. A woman on her way up in the world had to look for opportunities everywhere she could. If the deal with Dylan found her a commercial real estate broker, a potential investor, or just a handful of likely customers, she'd be thrilled.

As for the flannel-shirted, fine-looking fireman? She could always use a friend all the way out here, but she wasn't casting a line for anything more.

* * *

Dylan laughed to himself the next morning as he watched Karla continue her one-woman caffeine campaign. She was persistent, he'd give her that much. Violet Sharpton scrunched her face up after sipping whatever coffee Karla had put in front of her. “I thought you said there was chocolate in this.”

“There is.” Dylan saw Karla's face drop.

“Well, what else is in there messing everything up?”

“Espresso.” Karla had to have known Violet was a tea drinker, didn't she? She wasn't that new to town. Still, the froth he saw on the edge of Violet's mug told him Karla had been trying out a new concoction on the old woman. Not that Violet wasn't a fan of new things—she was one of the most adventurous senior citizens Dylan had ever met—but some leaps were just a bit too far. “It's a strong, Italian kind of coffee.”

Violet put the cup down. “I have teenage grandchildren—I know what espresso is. But I could have told you up front I'm not one of those caffeine junkies.” She offered Karla a forgiving grin. “You're a sport for trying, though. Your grandfather could use a kick in the gastronomic pants once he comes back. Never tries anything new.”

“Karl says he knows what people like,” Dylan offered as he walked up to the counter.

“This ‘people' don't much care for that.” Violet nodded toward the brew.

“She made a pretty good latte for me yesterday.” The remark returned a bit of the smile to Karla's face.

“Well, then, you youngsters go on ahead with your fancy drinks and leave the basics to the old folks.” She put a hand on Karla's. “Nothing personal, hon, but I'll be glad when your grandfather's back up and running.”

“We all will,” Karla replied with a hint of weariness in her voice, making Dylan suspect Karl wasn't a model patient.

“Maybe I'll come by this afternoon. Bring him some homemade soup or such.”

Karla took the cup and saucer back with an air of defeat. “He'd like that. He always perks up when you visit. No charge for the mocha, I'll just get you a tea. Milk and sugar?”

“Lots of both. Tell your mom I'll be by around three-thirty.” Violet slid from the counter, standard stoneware mug in hand with a tea tag peeking out the top. “New ain't always better,” she said before moving to a table filled with women her age.

He sat down where the old woman had been. “On a crusade?”

“I don't know why.” Karla wiped off the counter in front of Dylan. “It's not like Grandpa's basic brew is bad or anything.”

“You just have sophisticated tastes, that's all. I heard a group of the high school kids going on yesterday afternoon about there ‘finally being decent lattes around here.' That has to count for something.”

A little glow of pride brightened her cheeks. “No kidding?”

“No kidding.” He produced an envelope with ninety-six dollars cash inside and placed it on the counter. “And here's the money to prove it. Next week's coffee catches, paid in advance.”

Karla narrowed one eye. “Coffee catch?”

“I had to call it something. My sister came up with it. A ‘Coffee Catch' to round off your fishing trip.”

“Please tell me you didn't spell it with a
K.
”

He laughed at her obvious disdain for Karl's signature gimmick. “I suppose you're entitled to be tired of that.”

“Like you wouldn't believe. Here, it's cute. But back in Chicago, it's all ‘how do you spell your name again?'” She pulled in a deep breath as she slipped the envelope into the cash register. “Another cinnamon latte?”

“Nah. Surprise me again.”

The look in her eyes was worth whatever drink came next, even if he had the same reaction as Violet had. She really liked doing this. “Sweet or salty?”

“Karla, check please,” called someone from one of the front tables.

“Sure thing,” she called back drily. “In a second.”

“But I'm in a hurry.” The whine in the customer's voice would have irritated anyone.

Karla shut her eyes. They were clearly running shorthanded without Karl—who had seemed to never leave the place—and it showed in the way she applied a smile as she pulled a stack of tickets from the pocket of her apron. “No problem, Mr. Sullivan. You'll be out of here in a flash.”