The Perfect Blend (5 page)

This is America

“D
elicious. Satisfying. Friendly. Quality. Intriguing. Addictive. Energizing. Regal. Attentive.
Crud!
”

I'm pacing around my living room, a cup of my best dark roast displayed smack in the center of my coffee table, cataloguing my three words.

Or trying to.

The exercise isn't working. I stop, I sip, I inhale the potent aroma that is a Maggie-brewed cup of java and I picture my ideal customers' response. I see them, hands cradled around the mug, lifting the brew expectantly to their lips in that spectacular moment that is any coffee-lover's first sip of the day. That's the moment I live for. That's the moment my three words should describe. I totally get the purpose of this task.

It's the customer in my imagination that keeps
messing things up. Every time I picture that customer relishing that sip, within minutes that customer becomes Will Grey. How annoying is it that
he
keeps invading my retail daydreams? I shake myself like an athlete, take another long sip and try again.

“Dynamic. Must-have. Blissful. Surprising. Crisp. Multilayered. Guarded…”

Guarded? Who'd ever drink guarded coffee? Nobody wants crisp, multilayered, guarded coffee. It sounds like you're drinking a well-behaved salad, for crying out loud. Will knew how hard this would be. I bet everyone else did this exercise in twelve minutes, but he knew I couldn't just crank something like this out. It's torture, I tell you.

You know, he may even think he's given me a light load. After all, I guess this
is
a simple exercise for business-types. But for an artistic personality, this is asking the world. Now, if I'd had fifteen words to pick, I'd be fine. But narrowing my life's passion down to three words is excruciating. I've been at this for three days and that sheet is still blank. I start back at work tomorrow and if I keep this up I'll be spouting adjectives while I hand customers their floral arrangements. Can you imagine what Nancy will do if I suddenly blurt out
addictive
while handing someone their Boston fern?

 

By Wednesday at five-forty-five I still hadn't filled in those blanks. I had to be at class in fifteen minutes, I was all dressed, and had almost talked
myself into believing the entire world was not staring at my wounded face. Still, I couldn't haul myself out the door.

I tried to convince myself that perhaps it was some sort of post-rugby stress disorder, that I wasn't as recovered from my injuries as I thought. Yeah, I didn't really believe that, either. You and I both know I'm just plain chicken.
Why, Lord?
I gulped out in a desperate prayer.
Why is this so hard? Why am I making such a big deal out of three little words?

God, in His infinite wisdom, decided that now would be a good moment for an appalling self-revelation. Don't you just hate it when He picks moments like this to dump a bucket-load of unwelcome truth on your head?

It's not the homework assignment.

It's the assigner.

I'm not freaking out at three little words, I'm freaking out at the prospect of seeing Will Grey in the classroom again. At seeing him all suited up and tutorial. I've seen a sliver of the man out of his work mode and I don't know how to deal with him in a purely work setting anymore.

Slow down, Maggie, be careful. You don't know nearly enough about the kind of man Will Grey is to be thinking this way.

Let's try logic. Let's turn Will's assignment on its ear. Imagine, if you will, that God just gave me a sheet of paper and asked me to list the ten qualities I'd want in a guy.
My
ideal customer, as it were. The list would go something like this:

1. Godly
   
2. Energetic
   
3. Daring
   
4. Adventurous
   
5. Visionary
   
6. Handsome
   
7. Artistic
   
8. Unconventional
   
9. Romantic
   
10. Caffeinated
    

Okay, the last one's not really a priority, but you get my drift. Do you see reserved Will Grey in there anywhere? I don't. I see the
opposite
of Will Grey. Come on, the man's barely caffeinated—and that was the
least
of my priorities.

So why am I still sitting at my kitchen table at 9:30 p.m., staring at an unfinished assignment sheet, eating the last of my coffee ice cream?

That's it. I've got to get out of here. Go take a walk or something. Shake off this weird paralysis that has suddenly taken hold. I grab a sweater, some big sunglasses to cover my injuries—even though it's dusk, stuff twenty dollars into my pocket and head out the door.

I turn the corner and slam, headfirst, into Will Grey. Ouch! Why must every encounter with this man be so painful? “You! Oww. Why does your shoulder have to be right where my forehead is?” I wobble a bit and my glasses fall off.

“Miss Black!” Will gasps, grabbing my shoulder
to catch me. “Oh, you're all right. You are all right, aren't you? You weren't off to find the nearest hospital?” The man's state of alarm looks odd on him. He's usually such an in-control kind of guy.

“I'm…okay…I think.” I touch my forehead and blink my eyes a bit. The world spun out of focus for a few seconds and I might have added a new bruise to my already stunning collection, but for the most part I think I'm okay.

Will takes his hand off my shoulder. I hadn't realized it was still there. Okay, I had, but let's not talk about that at the moment. “You weren't in class.”

“Uh…yes, I know.”

“I was worried something might have happened to you. You should have people checking up on you, you know. Head injuries can develop complications a few days later.”

Develop complications?
Oh, I think we can safely say we've developed complications. I walked out of the house four minutes ago to escape my problems, not slam headlong into them.

A sudden, terrorizing thought strikes me. “You didn't tell the class what happened, did you? You didn't explain why I wasn't there?”

Will blinks at me. “I
don't know
why you weren't there. Which is why I'm here. But, no, I found it best to leave the telling to you. Or, the not telling. You don't owe your classmates any explanation.”

“Oh, good.” I say, leaning up against the wall. I'm surprised at how relieved I am to hear that.

“But,” says Will, leaning up on the wall beside me, “you do owe
me
an explanation.” He crosses his hands over his chest and looks me over. “You're obviously well enough to be up and about. Why weren't you in class?”

Got any ideas how to answer that one? I stall for time. “I just sort of…panicked, I suppose.” Then the answer comes to me. “It was that assignment. That's a mean trick to play on someone like me. You can't just boil a life's passion down to three words like that. It's impossible. I've been working on that nasty thing for hours, but the paper's still empty. Not that I don't have words. I've got a list of thirty-seven words taped to my refrigerator. I just can't boil it down to only three.”

Will unfolds his arms. “Now do you see what I mean?”

“Okay, fine, you were right. But that's what I pay you for. You're the teacher, it's your job to be right. Right?”

Will shakes his head, as if his proper British brain just doesn't know what to do with me. He freezes, one hand in the air, eyes squinted shut, and you can just see the guy think. Or count to ten to calm down. I'm not sure which until he pops his eyes open and starts to undo his tie. “Have you eaten?”

“If you count ice cream as dinner, yes.”

“I was more thinking along the lines of
actual food.
”

“Well, then, I suppose no.”

“Right then. Let's go get your massive list, and we'll discuss tonight's lesson over a sandwich.”

You gotta love the way this guy speaks. American guys would say, “let's go grab a burger,” but no, we're “discussing over a sandwich.”

I start walking back to my door. “You English and your sandwiches.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You know,” I'm laughing as I turn my key in the lock. “Sandwich.” I broaden out the
A
in sorry attempt at British. “Cucumber, Earl of, that sort of thing. It's just so funny.”

“I hardly see the humor in eating a sandwich.” Will follows me up the stairs.

“I know and that's what makes it so funny.” I unlock my apartment door, “Hang on, I'll be right back.” I snag the list off my fridge, pretend I'm not really checking my hair in the mirror, snag an even bigger pair of sunglasses even though it's dark now and head back to the front door. “List in hand. Let's go have a sandwich.”

“Perhaps I should have a hamburger now. Or fried chicken. Something less British.” He's got the same expression my brothers have before they launch into a load of teasing.

“Oh, no, I'd like a sandwich.” I put on my glasses even though it makes things so dim I have to squint and squinting hurts a bit. I make my way down the stairs, holding the railing tight because I can't really see the stair edge with these glasses on. At the
bottom, I turn to find him standing halfway down the stairs, staring. “What?”

“You know, I suggested a sandwich because I
thought
it might be less complicated than going for a coffee.”

“Coffee's not complicated.” I give him a let's-go gesture and he comes down the last of the stairs to hold the entrance door open for me. Great. It's even darker outside now, so I have even
less
of an excuse to be wearing sunglasses. “Coffee's the most basic thing in the world,” I continue, happy to have a safe topic of conversation on which to park my nervous energy. “It's complex, but not complicated. There's a difference. Roasting fine Kenyan coffee beans is complex. You, you're complicated.”

“Complicated, am I?” From behind the protection of my enormous shades, I risk a glance at his face. I thought I'd find the glowering teacher who's stared me down in class. That's not who I see at all. I see a surprised, somewhat intrigued man with a disarming glint in his eyes. There's a word for the way he looks, but I can't quite think of it. A spark behind his eyes that makes you want to spar with him because you know it will be so much fun. I should back down, apologize, pretend I meant to say something different, but his demeanor (or is it mine?) just won't let me.

“Highly,” I reply, enjoying this.

“Well, one certainly can't resist an explanation for that. Will I be sorry if I ask exactly how it is that I am complicated? Or don't I want to know?”

Come on, there's not a woman on the planet who could resist an open door like that. I place my right hand in front of my face as if spreading out a marquis. “William Grey III. Banker. Three-piece suit. Files with typed labels. A dozen freshly sharpened pencils lined up on his desk. Efficient. Organized. Driven.”

Grey looks a little disturbed to know I saw the dozen lined-up pencils, but seems to be enjoying my description.

We turn the corner and I raise my left hand, creating another marquis. “Will Grey. Rugged. Gets dirty for a good cause. Competitive. Heroic. Captain of the guard. Capable, I'm guessing, of very good pranks in school. But never caught.”

One look at Grey and I know I've nailed it. I'm good that way. Intuitive. That's important in the coffee business. You've got to know how much cream is too much, how much sugar is not enough. When the woman who says to only put a “smidge” of whipped cream on her latte really means for you to pile it on.

Will chuckles. “Once,” he says, looking at me sideways. “I was caught only once.”

“And what did little Willy Grey do to get caught at boarding school?”

He raises an eyebrow. “And just how do you know that the incident in question was at boarding school?”

I point to his finger. “The ring. The attitude. Plus, I read enough to know that all proper English lads
get into mischief at boarding school. Besides, I imagine after you got caught the first time, you made
very sure
you were never caught again.”

Will stares at me. “You're rather frightening, you know. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“My three brothers tell me all the time.”

Will's eyes pop. “Three. Brothers. Well, that certainly explains it.”

Now it's my turn to stare. “Explains what?”

“You are, without a doubt, the feistiest person I have ever met.”

I can't resist. “Will I be sorry to ask why?” I mimic his earlier response. “Or don't I want to know?”

Will grins, pulls open the restaurant door, and says, “Yes, I'm quite sure now coffee would have been less complicated. Even with you.”

I don't even want to get into what happened in the pit of my stomach when he said
you.
Let's just say it was
complex.
Determined to keep off that particular subject, I redirect the conversation. “We're not talking about me, we're talking about what you did in boarding school.”

“No, I was talking about you and why you missed class. You steered the conversation away from that subject and onto the topic of my childhood misadventures.” Will points toward an open booth near the window. “And don't think you'll get away with it. I'll be happy to recount the terrible fate of Madam Fraser's liberated rabbits
after
we've covered the topic of Maggie Black's ideal customer impression.”

A spindly, underfed college student sulks over and plants a pair of menus onto the table. Unable to read anything in these glasses, I pull them off and begin looking for the dessert page. He's about to launch into his rendition of today's specials when he gets a clear look at my face. My face, which I've forgotten I've just unveiled. “Whoa, lady, duck next time, okay? Man, what hit you?” he says, cringing right down to his snake tattoo and rock concert T-shirt.