The Perfect Blend (10 page)

The obvious under pressure

W
ill wrapped up class in an efficient six minutes and is presently stomping back to his office. Oh, no, you don't. You don't get to do that to my insides and then stomp away mad. I didn't set the price for fine espresso hardware. You can't take this out on me. Not now. Not after what I just figured out.

“Will!” I run down the hall after him, not caring that I've just used his first name in public. He doesn't even turn around. I'm not letting him get away. I hurl myself around the corner and catch his elbow. “Just slow down a minute, will you?”

He turns, his face unreadable.

“You're mad at me.” Yes, folks, I can usually be counted on to state the obvious when under pressure. Pressure is what makes good espresso, but it's not what makes good Maggie Black.

“I most certainly am not.” He starts walking again. Give me a break; a more obvious statement of untruth has never existed.

“It's not my fault espresso machines are so expensive, you know.” I start after him, almost running to keep up with his agitated strides. “Why is it okay for everyone else to splurge but not me? Jerry's tomatoes are worth their weight in gold but
I
have to make do with a mediocre espresso machine?”

“I never said that.” Will turns the corner into his office.

“You didn't have to. It was all over your face.” I follow right behind.

He plants his books on his credenza. “Why must you be so aggravating?”

“I'm not. You started it.” Juvenile as that sounds, it's absolutely true. “
You
posed the theory about when it makes sense to buy the very best. You asked me how much the machines cost. I told you. Then you got mad. How is that my fault?”

Will whips his tie off. “It's not. You, standing in my office, picking a fight about it—
that's
entirely your doing.”

“Because you got mad.”

“I did not get mad,” he growls. “I reacted. I expressed my…surprise.”

“If that's how Englishmen show their surprise, then remind me never to throw you a surprise party.”

“I highly doubt that's an issue.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

He stares at me. I am not leaving.

Will crosses his arms and leans against his desk. I lean against the door. I push out a huge breath and put my handbag and books down. “Round two,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “Why was the price such a problem?”

I see him force the same calm into his voice. “A coffeemaker really costs fourteen thousand dollars? And you need two of them?”

“It's not a coffeemaker. That twelve dollar hardware-store purchase on your kitchen counter?
That's
a coffeemaker. This is a precision industrial instrument. It's practically a work of art. Handmade. By world-famous guys in Italy. I could get by with one, but not if the location has a drive-through. I'm not crazy about drive-throughs, but if that's what the research says people want, then I guess I need to have one.”

He's impressed I'm actually doing research. For that matter,
I'm
impressed I'm actually doing research. Still, his expression holds solid doubt. “It's a huge percentage of your loan request.”

I slide into his guest chair. “Actually, the way I see it, my loan request will be larger after this class. There's a lot I didn't take into consideration.”

“I've been trying to make you see that all along,” he groans.

“So why is an expensive machine a problem if you say it'll lead to excellence in my coffee shop?”

“Because your coffee shop is already a huge risk. Pinning so much capital on one piece of equipment doesn't make sense for you.”

I don't buy that one. “But it does for everyone else?”

“Everyone else is not facing the same odds you are.”

I don't buy that one, either. “God specializes in the tough cases. I'm not worried. How can I make you see that I'm not worried about that kind of stuff?”

I suddenly see it. Partly satisfying, partly sickening, and completely clear: “You're protecting me.”

Yep. Did you see that look? I'm on to him. He probably didn't even realize it himself. His features darken. No doubt about it; that's the last thing he wanted to hear.

Will has no answer for that. He makes an exasperated sound, pushes himself up off the side of the desk and sits down behind it. As if he needs something solid between us.

I'm not backing down now. This isn't about coffee or machines or math or money. This is about something far more important and if I don't ask the real question, we're never going to get to the real discussion. “Why are you protecting me? Why am I the exception to the rule?”

“You're not.”

“I am,” I blast back, coming up on the edge of my seat.

“You most certainly are not.”

“I am and you know I am.”

Will throws his hands up in the air. “Fine. Fine. You win. You are.”

I sit back.

“I can't look at your case objectively,” Will blurts out. “I'm worried about you and I want to protect you. There. I said it. Are you satisfied?”

“We need to talk about this.” Unoriginal, granted, but my brain's going a hundred miles an hour right now.

“Aren't we doing that?”

The sort of helpless, cornered look on his face makes my pulse skip. A warm, gooey kind of skip that makes it impossible to stay angry at this aggravating man. “Look, we can argue about budgets and formulas all you want, but I think we need to talk about something entirely different.” In a fit of bravery, I add, “And you know what it is. And we'd better figure out what to do about it.”

Will stares at me. My pulse goes past skipping and stops altogether. His eyes look vibrant and powerful—like thunderclouds, both frightening and dazzling at the same time. After a long moment, he says, “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

You know, I've had it with his confounded British reserve. “Since when is this kind of thing ever a good idea? And there is a
this kind of thing,
Will. Let's not even try to pretend there isn't.”

“That's dangerous ground, Maggie.”

Fidgety, I get up out of the chair. “Yes, I know what you said after that rugby tutorial.” I'm pacing.
When did I start pacing? “But it isn't going away, is it? We keep ending up around each other even when we say we won't. I know we've said this is too risky to let happen, but I've got news for you, William Grey III, it's
already
happened. So what are we going to do about it?” I pick one of the dozen arranged pencils up off his desk and start twirling it in my fingers.

Will stands up to grab my twitching hands and snatch the pencil from them. “Then maybe we should try harder to stop it.” Suddenly, he realizes he's holding my hands. He yanks them back, stuffing them into his jacket pockets.

“Why?”

“I think that should be obvious.”

“Bankers shouldn't date their customers. Yes, I'm sure there's some handbook with a whole chapter on that. Okay, so
why
shouldn't bankers date their customers?”

“Conflict of interest,” He practically shouts.

“That's my call, isn't it? As for me, there's no conflict. I'm interested. It's weird, it's not at all what I had in mind, but there it is. I'm interested. You're interested. We can find a solution for the business issues when it comes to that. Let's let things get interesting and see what happens.”

Will looks a bit stunned. That might have been a bit too direct, even for me. “Look,” he replies, “it's not just ‘your call.' The bank needs to make sure an objective decision gets made. I thought we could just be careful about this but it's not working. I'm
afraid we'll end up doing something we'll both regret. And I won't let that happen.”

It's there, all over his face. He's made up his mind. Even if I want to cross this line, to take this enormous risk, it won't happen. That hurts worse than any rejection he could have handed me. I yank Will's office door open. It pops out of me before I can stop it. “Worth all the protection but none of the risk. You don't want to protect me, you want to protect
yourself.
”

I grab my bag and my books and walked out of there as fast as I can, waiting for some kind of reaction from him. Waiting, with some small tender part of me, for him to come after me and stop me.

He never said a word.

 

I cried when I got home.

It made me furious that I did, but I couldn't seem to stop. Stupid, isn't it? I feel horrible and I feel worse for feeling horrible.

I ranted to God about the whole mess. I railed to Him about how hurt and confused I felt. I pleaded for clarity and wisdom. By the end of an hour I was reduced to begging Him to make the whole thing go away.

No responses came to me.

The long shower didn't help. Nor the two
I Love Lucy
reruns. So why am I surprised when the entire package of chocolate-chip cookies fails to grant me any answers?

It's after midnight and I'm prayed out. There's
no hope for this tonight. I might as well sleep on it and see what the morning brings.

I'm just throwing away the pathetically empty cookie bag when my doorbell rings. Great. That's the third time this year Diane has locked herself out of her apartment when she gets off the evening shift at the hospital. I yawn and pad over to the door, reaching for the spare set of Diane's keys that I keep in a bowl nearby.

My eyeball practically glues itself to the peephole.

It's Will.

His shirt's untucked; his tie and jacket are gone. He's just standing there, hands in his pockets, looking supremely uncomfortable. He looks
mussed.

I gulp—probably loud enough for him to hear on the other side of my door, paw pointlessly through my hair, check my face for chocolate smudges and open the door.

“Hullo,” he says softly.

I lean my head against the door. “Hi, Will.”

“I…well…I don't like how we left off. May I come in?”

Our side of the pond

“S
ure. I'll put a pot of…” I was going to say I'll put a pot of coffee on, but somehow that seems like the last thing I should do. “Why don't you just come on in?”

I pull the door wide open and Will steps inside. “Thanks.”

A sour feeling about my last remark to him—the feeling that's churned in my stomach for the last couple of hours—rises and tightens in my chest. “Hey, look, I shot my mouth off and…”

Will looks at me. “Don't.”

“No, really, I'm sorry. It's just that this is so incredibly…awkward? Difficult? Weird? Take your pick. I'm at a loss here.” I motion toward my kitchen.

Will takes a deep breath as he pulls out a kitchen
chair and sits down. “Actually, I was thinking it was quite the opposite.”

“Huh?”

“Well, it seemed to me that you knew exactly what you wanted to do. I'm the one who seems to be saying one thing and doing another.”

I don't know who he's kidding—I haven't the slightest idea what I'm doing. I'm making this up as I go along. The television chatters softly from the living room and I can hear the ice-maker release its cubes inside my freezer. It's that quiet between us. I walk over to the fridge. “You want something to drink?” I say to fill the gap of silence.

“No. I'm fine, thanks.” He looks up to catch my eyes, suddenly looking older than he did mere hours ago. “Or rather, I'm not at all fine. I don't like how we left off.”

I guess we're getting right into it then, without the pleasantries. I suppose that's best. I sit down, my fingers fiddling with the ribbon edge of the place mats I got at last year's flea market. “I'm sorry about what I said.” It seems like the best place to start, because I am. It was a lousy thing to say.

“Don't be. You spoke your mind. I'm the one who hasn't been fair.” His face lightens just a bit, still tired but gaining warmth. “Although,” he shakes his head, “I must admit, you are far more direct than I ever counted on.”

The corner of my mouth creeps up. “America's a pretty in-your-face nation. And,” I sigh, “I'm a pretty in-your-face person from an equally in-your-
face family. Even the natives find me a bit intense.” I flatten my hands on the table to stop my infernal fidgeting. “I do owe you an apology for railing at you like that. You've been trying to do the right thing and I blasted you for it. It's just that I got excited when I finally understood the whole business thing. Then when it all fell to pieces…” I gesture vaguely, unable to describe the tornado of emotions that was tonight's class and its aftermath.

“It did. And I'm sorry about that.” Even though Will looks beat, it gives him an unfettered sort of calm. As if he's too spent to put up the usual front. “Some things are going on at the bank. There's a lot of…pressure right now.” Will spreads his hands on the table. “Look, Maggie, it was never my intent to hurt you. But surely you must realize that I'm not the kind of man who can ignore the rules.” His voice is different, and I realize I'm seeing Will Grey let down his guard. Intentionally.

“Are you sure there are rules, Will?” I say carefully, “Worthwhile rules?”

“I want you to know you…you
do
mean something to me. That I wish circumstances were different. I know you want me to dive into this,” Will continues. “Ignore the consequences, toss every rule to the contrary and start up with you. But can you see that you're asking me to jeopardize your financial future just because…?” he doesn't even finish the sentence.

I lean my head on one hand and out of the corner of my eye I catch the microwave clock click over
to 1:01 a.m. “Would it help you to know I'm not exactly sure what I want?” That's absolutely true. I don't do casual. I fling myself full-force into relationships, which is why I've got a hit parade of heartbreaks to show for it. I don't know how to deal with anything requiring this much caution.

Will clears his throat. “I don't know what to do. The right thing would be if we simply didn't talk to each other outside of class.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “And I keep saying I'm going to do that, but I don't seem quite able to follow through.” When his eyes land on mine, they seem a murky, heathered blue. Like the fog the morning after a storm. “I enjoy your company, Maggie. Immensely. But, I don't want to make promises I shouldn't keep or give you possibilities you shouldn't consider.”

“I'm a big girl, Will,” I reply, pushing out my breath and returning his questioning glance. “I know this isn't a clear-cut situation. I'm not ready to rush through this door, but I'm also not ready to slam it shut.” I hold his gaze. “I don't think you are either or you wouldn't be here. You'd be leaving some vaguely negative ‘it's not you, it's me' message on my answering machine.”

Will frowns his disapproval. “Is
that
the conduct of the average American male?”

I chuckle. “At least the ones I've had the pleasure of meeting.”

He takes on a very serious look. “That's not something I'd ever do.”

“I know that.” And I do. Just by the way he acts. This guy has a sense of honor—okay, maybe a little overblown into a protective-hero-complex, but honor just the same—that you just don't see much. Never, actually. The idea surfaces with a quiet pop, like a bubble. “I think I might know where to start. Have coffee with me. Let me show you what a top-flight espresso machine can do. If you still hate it, I'll shut up and you'll never hear about it from me again. But you need to taste what this thing can do.”

“Maggie…”

“Think of it as business research, if that makes it easier. Me flexing my very fine salesmanship skills here. One cup of coffee. Actually, three—I want to make you an espresso, a cappuccino and a latte.”

He wants to. And me? I want to be the one to brew the cup of coffee that wins Will Grey over.

“That's hardly a good place to start.” His words offer resistance, but there is no conviction in his voice.

“It's the best place to start, Will. Look at it this way—you're the ultimate wrong customer. You're the hardest sell I'll ever have in setting up this business. It's valuable experience for me to show you—to
sell
you on the machine.”

I can see the willingness hiding inside his eyes. Just a speck of silver in all that murky blue, but like a shiny dime at the bottom of a fountain, it glints for all the world to see.

I resort to the last weapon I have.

“Come on, Will, I dare you. Three cups of coffee. It's the only way you can really evaluate my budget and the cost of those machines.”

“Just three cups?” he turns the idea over in his mind, examining it.

“Not even three. More like two and a half, actually. Espressos are tiny.”

He narrows his eyes. “You can show me the exact machines you want and why they're worth the price?”

“Absolutely.” Well, I haven't asked my friend the executive chef for permission to work her machines, but we'll cover those tiny details later.

“And if I can't taste the difference, you'll consider a more moderately-priced set of machines.”

“Yep.” I put out a hand to shake on it.

Will takes my hand and the resulting
zing
could power half of Seattle. We keep our hands touching for several seconds too long, until Will pulls his hand back and runs it through his hair. “I have a strong feeling I'll regret this.”

I grin. “Not a chance.”

We fall awkwardly silent. Both our heads are spinning with the sensation of just touching, but neither of us is ready—or willing—to admit it out loud.

“Well,” Will stands up and holds his other hand stiffly to his side as if it might misbehave if permitted free rein. “It's late. I've loads to do at the office tomorrow. Call me with the when and where of our meeting, then?”

I can't help but smile. “By noon. I've got the place in mind already and it'll just take a phone call to set it up.”

“Right then.”

“Right then.”

“Good night.”

I pull my door open and lean against it. “Good
morning,
William Grey III.”

He laughs as he makes his way down my stairs.

Score one for our side of the pond.

 

Diane showed up at Carter's within thirty seconds of my Thursday's shift ending. I only called her four times yesterday. I thought that showed considerable restraint. You might even say British reserve. You know you're desperate to dish the dirt with someone when you'll even suggest going grocery shopping together.

“So,” Diane says, pulling open the door the to QFC market, “you're having a three-beverage relationship? I know I said he's a nice guy and all, but do you really think you can do this, Maggie? He's told you he doesn't like coffee. He's not going to start now just because he thinks you're cute.” She grabs two baskets and hands me one as the store loudspeaker announces how strawberries are currently buy one, get one free.

I shoot her a glare and draw an invisible box in the air. “Carefully drawn boundaries. That's the key here.”

Diane picks up two containers of strawberries. “One of these is yours.” We always share the buy-one, get-one-free offers when we can. She stares at
me hard. “Maggie, watch yourself. You don't do limits. You don't do moderation. This can't end well. You like this guy too much.”

I snag a bottle of coffee creamer and give Diane a direct look. “No, I think this is a smart move.”

Diane gives me a do-you-really-want-to-know-what-I-think-of-that? look as we head off to toward the frozen food. “When's coffee hour anyway?” she asks with her head inside the freezer door. “You want to come over and heat up a pizza tonight?” She holds up a frozen pizza.

“No, I want to finish my homework for class. And
coffee hour,
as you so delicately put it, is Friday at three-thirty.”

“So—” Diane smirks “—you've got a high-class place to take a high-class guy you're trying not to get too involved with to convince him over a beverage he doesn't like that you need a machine he doesn't think you can afford.”

“Yes, that's it.”

“Maggie Black, you are in trouble. Good thing this guy strikes me as noble. And Christian. And he has a dozen handsome, strapping male friends. I might be really worried otherwise.”

“Ha!”

“Mags,” Diane stops at the end of the aisle.

“Hmm?”

“I
am
worried. Have you prayed about this? Are you sure you know what you're doing?”

“Diane, I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm just taking this one cup at a time.”