Six

Many hours later, the sun sank into the Hudson River, and the polar vortex dropped its unseasonably cold temperatures over the city like a frost giant’s blanket. Glacial gusts whipped off the Atlantic and through our West Village streets, turning mounds of plowed snow into curbside blocks of ice.

As I sprinkled our sidewalk with a fresh layer of rock salt, I shivered and nodded at the few pedestrians hurrying to their destinations. Wherever they were going, it wasn’t our coffeehouse.

With no customers left inside, I locked our doors for the evening. Then I climbed the spiral staircase to our second-floor lounge, where the hearth was still blazing. Our second floor was more private. I didn’t want late-night passersby gawking at tonight’s staff meeting through the French doors, especially if our conversation became tense or emotional—which was more than likely.

My crew had put fresh logs on the flames, and seeing their familiar faces in the firelight’s warm glow touched something inside me. These talented baristas had worked hard for me and stood by me. They always had my back, and I had done the same for them.

Together, we celebrated good times and struggled through tough times. It had made us more than coworkers. We’d become a family, just as Matt said, and I couldn’t bear the idea of letting any one of them go.

For tonight’s special meeting, I asked Esther to brew up some late-harvest beans that Matt had sourced in Peru and I had freshly roasted.

Beside the steaming French presses, I laid out a tray of assorted cookies and treats, which my crew had already started nibbling as they openly admired the artwork I’d brought down from our attic this morning—not that I thought changing up the wall art would make a difference to our bottom line. But I routinely refreshed our shop’s displays, and I saw no reason to stop.

Of course, after today’s “incident,” we roped off the second floor, which meant the only other person to see my handiwork was Mr. Scrib. And I never got his opinion (for obvious reasons).

Clapping my hands, I finally called the group together for my straight talk about our financial woes, their future employment, and (with luck) the miracle marketing idea that could solve both. My reasoned managerial speech boiled down to a single sentence—

“We’ve got to solve this problem fast, or everyone is going to feel the pain.”

It was Nancy who jumped up first. With youthful enthusiasm, she flipped back her blond braids and faced our group. “I think loyalty cards could bring in a lot of business.”

“Loyalty cards?” Esther looked skeptical.

“Loyalty cards are great because they reward repeat customers,” Nancy argued.

“But we need new customers,” Esther pointed out.

“Yes, and if we show our appreciation, word will get around, and we’ll attract new business. Just imagine a Village Blend loyalty card with fancy lettering and our logo on the front. It would be amazing!”

“How do you propose our loyalty cards work?” Esther asked.

“We could give out a card on the first purchase of the week. If the customer makes so many purchases by Friday, they get something free.”

“No, no,” Esther pressed. “How do they work?”

“You would punch a hole in the customer’s card—”

“Oh, no.” Esther raised her palm. “That can’t happen. If I wanted to punch tickets, I would’ve become a conductor on the Long Island Rail Road. You should see their benefits package!”

“Then we could do it digitally,” Nancy insisted. “With a mobile phone app.”

Dante paused from devouring his second slice of Double-Chocolate Espresso-Glazed Loaf Cake. A transplant from Rhode Island with an athletic build and razored head, Dante depended on our paycheck to survive in the city as a fine artist. He painted murals on concrete and plywood fences as well as traditional canvas. He had even designed the tattoos on his muscular forearm. And here at the Blend, espresso was his canvas for award-winning latte art.

“Everybody gives out loyalty cards,” he said. “If we decide to give them out, we have to do things differently.”

Esther folded her arms. “Define differently.”

“I can’t, and that’s the problem with loyalty cards.”

“Glad we agree, Baldini,” Esther replied. “Because I’m against anything that involves punching tickets.”

“Enough with punching down on my hole punch idea!” Nancy cried.

“How about special deals?” Dante suggested. “One for every day of the week. Like that ice cream chain.”

“That’s good!” Nancy clapped. “We could start with Mocha Monday, Breakfast Blend Tuesday, Flat White Wednesday…Then something else that starts with a T for Thursday, and for Friday…”

As her voice trailed off, she scanned our blank faces. “Come on, coffee peeps. Help me out here!”

Esther groaned. “What’s next? Macchiato Monopoly?”

Nancy’s eyes lit up. “Wow! I never thought of game tickets—”

“Forget game tickets,” Esther said. “Cheap ploys won’t work. Premium coffee drinkers are more sophisticated than most consumers—”

“And gimmicks will cheapen the Village Blend brand,” Tucker Burton cut in, speaking for the first time.

My lanky, floppy-haired, Louisiana-born assistant manager loved the Village Blend and adored the theater. Since he had performed in dozens of off-off-Broadway shows and directed countless cabarets, his solution was not a surprise.

“We should try entertainment. Maybe a live musician—”

“Like a folk singer?” Nancy said. “A guy or girl with a guitar or banjo?”

“Banjo!” Esther smacked her forehead. “Does this look like the Magic Kingdom’s Country Bear Jamboree!”

“Steve Martin plays the banjo!” Nancy pointed out. “And he attracts huge crowds.”

“Slow down,” Tucker said, waving his hands in the air.

“No banjos!” Esther insisted. “And no stand-up comics. Can you say cancel culture? Hello, stupid joke. Goodbye, Village Blend!”

“That’s why I said banjo! You don’t need a trigger warning with a banjo!”

“Will you two SHUT IT!” Tucker shouted.

They did.

Then the entire room fell into an awkward silence.

I just knew this discussion was going to get emotional.