hilled wind slammed Chris in the face when he stepped out of his warm house and down his porch steps. The sun poked over the horizon, casting the neighborhood in a golden glow. From the looks of it, a nasty storm was brewing. He paused in front of Ainsley’s yard. Light radiated from the kitchen and a back window. Other than that, there was no sign of her long, blonde curls and soft, heart-shaped face.
Most likely, she’d already left for work.
He continued on, past two-story brick houses with shake roofs and detached garages. Smoke pumped from a few stone chimneys, dark plumes dissipating into the pale-blue sky.
On the corner, a man wearing a gray beanie pulled over his ears, tufts of black hair peeking out, hacked at an overgrown flameleaf sumac. He littered his lawn with the bright-red foliage. A few feet away grew large clumps of purple fountain grass, their feathery tips waving in the wind. An old woman sat in a rocker on the porch, a crocheted blanket draped over her shoulders. Watching the man, she sipped from a mug.
Chris thought of his mom. Hopefully the staff at Shady Lane would keep their eye on her tonight. He didn’t need her wandering the streets of Kansas City, disoriented, during a storm. Didn’t need her wandering the streets period, but tonight even more so.
A sudden urge to drive to the nursing home, scoop her up, and bring her home, swept over him. Reality followed on its tails. What did he know about Alzheimer’s, other than the articles he’d read? His mother required more care than he could provide—more than Shady Lane provided as well.
His old pastor would’ve told him to trust in God, to surrender his mom into God’s care. But that kind of trust was easier preached than followed. “Achoo!” A sneeze sounded to his left.
He turned to find an old man huddled in a thin, torn blanket. The man held his gaze then buried his face in his knees.
Entering the café, Chris paused, cold wind pressing against his back while forced heat flooded his face. He glanced at the clock on the far wall then back at the shivering man. Most likely, customers wouldn’t start streaming in for some time yet. Even so, he had plenty to do before opening.
His tasks could wait. Chris faced the man and opened the door wider. “Good morning. You want a cup of coffee?”
The guy looked up and scrunched his face. A moment later, he clutched his blanket around his neck and jumped to his feet. “Ye-e-e-s sir!” His teeth chattered.
He entered, carrying with him the stench of urine and body odor. Still shivering, he stood in the center of the café, eyes darting back and forth like caged crickets.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Chris disappeared behind the counter, reappearing with a handful of rags. He placed them on a nearby table. “If you wanted to clean up, run some warm water over your hands and face, bathroom’s that way.” He pointed toward a short hallway edging the north side of the café.
The man looked from the rags, to Chris, then back at the rags. With one swift movement, he grabbed the mound of cloth and dashed into the hall.
Chris smiled, humming softly as he rounded the counter. He pulled a gallon of vitamin D milk from the fridge, poured it into his mixer, and added two scoops of protein. After making a vanilla latte, he topped it with whipped cream. He grabbed two scones from the bakery case and set them where the rags once lay. Next, he found a small pocket Bible and a gospel tract and set them beside the scones.
After making himself a cappuccino, he popped a gospel CD into the surround sound stereo system and started unloading boxes.
Feet shuffled across the stained concrete, paused, then shuffled again. Chris glanced up and smiled. The man sat at the table, scone in hand, watching Chris. The guy left as soon as he finished eating, and Chris paused, books in hand, to offer up a silent prayer.
Lord, thank You for giving me an opportunity to demonstrate Your love today. Please watch over my new friend.
He distributed books among the shelves lining the far wall, placed a few along the window sill, and the rest on tables. Hopefully his patrons wouldn’t hot finger them, but that was the risk he was willing to take. It’d be rather ironic, really, for someone to steal a Bible. Almost comical.
Next, he called the local paper to find out why his print ad and coupon hadn’t run.
“Your name again?”
Chris gave it along with that of his coffee shop. A keyboard clicked in the background then stopped.
“Yes, I see it now. It looks like you missed the deadline, but we’ve got it lined up for this Sunday.”
“Great, thanks.” Better late than never, but a print ad alone wouldn’t cut it. Nor were his social media efforts. It didn’t help that all his “friends” lived on the West Coast. They could share coffee shop updates nonstop; it wouldn’t bring people in. Next step, canvassing the area, especially local businesses, with flyers and two-for-one deals.
By the time his employees arrived an hour and a half later, most of the reading items had been distributed and he was halfway through his third CD.
Lawrence walked in and scowled. “Oh, man! Not the Jesus music, dude.”
Chris centered a checkerboard on a back table. “Give it a minute, l-man, see if it doesn’t grow on you.”
“Like cancer, you mean? Or the bubonic?”
Candy waltzed in a moment later smacking a wad of gum. “Whoa, what happened in here?” She moved to the closest table, picked up a pink-and-blue devotional, then set it down. “Did I miss the April Fool’s memo or something?”
“No joke.” The twinsy girls, self-named for their tendency to dress completely alike, down to nail color and hair style, stood shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed.
Chris chuckled. “Good morning, everyone. Feel free to make yourself a cup of coffee. We’ll open in about twenty minutes.”
“Yeah?” Lawrence rounded the counter. “And we’ll close almost as quickly, if you don’t turn that Sunday morning garbage off.” He grabbed a coffee mug from the rack. “Oh, wait, I get it. You’re turning the place into a comedy club. Right.”
“Better watch it, l-man.” Candy lowered a brow. “You’re liable to get yourself fired with that kind of lip.” She angled her head and twirled a lock of hair with her finger. “As for me, I don’t care what kind of music you’ve got going, or . . .” She glanced at a box of a board game on an adjacent table. “What silly games you want people to play, so long as I get mine. It’s all in the green, baby.” She rubbed her fingers together and laughed.
“Great. We have an understanding then.” He straightened a few sugar packets and moved to the condiment bar to check napkins and cinnamon shakers. “Almost forgot. Have you all liked our new Facebook page?”
They responded with blank stares. “If you could do that, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Dude, no one’s going to pay attention to that.” Lawrence ran his hand along the top edge of his Mohawk. “You want to bring people in, you need to do some sort of promo. A photo thing. Like . . .” He drummed his fingers on a nearby table, jerking his head one way then the other as if his brain cells moved in time to high-tempo music. “Like maybe a ‘Show us why you love coffee’ campaign.”
“Oh, I get it! That’d be perfect! People could send in photos of themselves in their nighties or up late studying—”
“Except we close at 10:00 p.m.” Lawrence cracked his knuckles one by one. “But I like the jammies thing.” He raised an eyebrow, giving Candy a suggestive smile. “So, Miss Lolly-dolly, what kind of pic you gonna send in? Cuz I’m thinking you’ve got some slinky-dinks that would bring folks in for sure.”
Chris cleared his throat. “Pictures probably aren’t the best idea. But if you have any other ideas—G-rated—shoot them my way. In the meantime, I’ll continue pursuing the regular, old-school marketing channels.”
He started to return to the counter when the door chimed open.
Stepping inside the Java Bean, Ainsley paused to take in the dramatically different atmosphere. The psychedelic artwork had been removed, replaced with softly hued paintings of children running through meadows and horses grazing in green valleys. Christian rock poured over her, adding an extra lift to her heart. The furniture had been rearranged, and a few softer pieces had been added.
The tables were lined with a rather odd assortment of board games and reading material—odd, yet inviting, in a childish sort of way. Standing in the center of it all wearing a sheepish grin and holding a coffee-stained rag stood Chris Langley.
Nervous energy nibbled at her gut.
“Ainsley, good to see you.” He looped his thumbs through his leather belt. “Let me guess, vanilla latte, skim milk, no whip.”
A smile tugged at her mouth despite her best efforts against it. He remembered what she’d ordered the last time she was here?
With Richard.
Forcing the thought aside, she inhaled the rich scent of vanilla and fresh brewed coffee. “That does sound tempting.” She pulled off her gloves and tucked them into her purse. “Is that what you recommend?”
“Actually, I recommend pumpkin spice.” He led her to the counter, void of customers.
A man with the Mohawk shuffled forward. “Hey, y’all, we got a customer. Alert the press.”
Ainsley surveyed the sparsely populated dining room. “Are things that bad?” Eyes wide, she sucked in a breath of air. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”
Chris flicked a dishtowel against his free hand. “No worries.” He glanced toward the entrance. “Guess the customers weren’t a fan of Praise-turnative.”
“I see.” She cocked her head, listening to Chris Tomlin’s rich voice pouring through the speakers. It was one of her favorite songs. “Well, I find the changes you’ve made absolutely delightful.”
Chris grinned, looking like a little boy who’d made his first basket. “Do you? Well then, I hope you’ll stick around and enjoy the ambiance.”
Her stomach did an odd flip. “I . . . no . . . I’m sort of in a hurry.” She turned back to the man behind the counter. “I’ll take a . . .” Her cheeks warmed as she fumbled in her purse for change. “Skim mocha, please.”
Five minutes later, with steaming drink in hand, she sat in her car, staring back at her rather confusing neighbor. Richard was right; there was something different about him. But not in the way he’d insinuated.