Mugs of Love Read online

  Mugs of Love Copyright © 2014 Norma Jeanne Karlsson

  Published by It’s Publishing

  Edited by Progressive Edits

  Formatted by It’s Formatting

  Cover Design and Layout by

  Ellie Bockert Augsburger

  Creative Digital Studios

  CreativeDigitalStudios.com

  Cover Photo © tanawatpontchour/ Dollar Photo Club

  Cover Photo © sripfoto/ Dollar Photo Club

  Cover Photo © Masson/ Dollar Photo Club

  ISBN e-book: 978-0-9911873-8-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Coming Soon

  Stay tuned

  About the Author

  To Chris.

  In a life too often marred with loss and heartache, you brought me joy and laughter. My world doesn’t work without you and it’s infinitely better because of you. This is for you, my friend.

  It’s the aroma that captures your senses first. Robust and rich, it lingers on your palate, while the warmth coats your lungs in comfort. It can draw you from a deep slumber or guide you through your day after a sleepless night. Your best friend, the place you have peace, if just for a moment.

  Coffee.

  No matter how you take it or if you use broken, choppy language to order it, coffee is a beacon. At the breakfast table in the morning, peering over the rim of a steaming cup, it’s when a wife basks in the glow of her life being even more full than she thought it could be as she watches her husband straighten his tie. In the hustle and bustle of a busy city, surrounded by buzzing controlled chaos, with a line out the door, it’s the moment a businessman takes to give himself a break from his hundred-hour workweek. A small shop where a young woman fidgets and frets over her bangs as she waits for her first date to show up, her latte being set down in front of her calms her unnecessary nerves.

  At least I hope it does. She doesn’t need to be nervous. I offer her a kind smile and a squeeze on her shoulder as I make my way back behind the counter. She takes a deep breath and then a careful sip, a small smile cresting her lips as a tall man looking like something out of a Jack Kerouac novel passes the large picture window. He strides through the glass and heavy cherry wood door, a smile mirroring hers on his lips.

  They fit together. She’s petite with kind, caramel eyes, dressed in a simple cream sweater dress. He unwraps his wide checked blue and grey scarf, pushing his thick black-rimmed glasses up his nose as he bends to kiss her already blushing cheek.

  He offers to get her something and she declines, indicating toward her latte. He brushes her arm tenderly before heading toward me.

  “What can I get you?” I ask in my usual pleasant voice.

  He clears his throat and takes a deep breath. He’s nervous.

  “A latte please,” he murmurs, thumbing the edge of his black leather wallet resting on the bar.

  “I’ll bring that right over to you.”

  “Can I,” he whispers before pausing. “Can I wait here for it?”

  “Of course you can,” I assure him with a soft smile.

  The tension drops away from his shoulders beneath his burgundy cable knit sweater as a relieved smile kisses his pale lips. I peer over his shoulder to see his date breathing a little easier too.

  I turn away from him and go about pulling my shot of espresso, the grinder buzzing loudly, drowning out Frank Sinatra. I like jazz and big band piping through the speakers. Not overbearingly, just enough to leave my small shop in a hum.

  While I steam the milk, I decide the nervous guy needs an arrow. I gave his date a heart so it only seems fitting. I set about swirling the foam around the mug. Latte art has become kind of an obsession for me. I love what I do and I think a little pizzazz shows my customers that I take my job seriously. Or I could be a very strange woman with too much time on her hands. Either way, I like seeing a tulip or a swan or a rosette floating at the top of a cup. It makes me smile.

  “Here you go.”

  I slide the heavy white mug toward the nervous guy and ring him up. When I pass him his change, I give him a wink with a knowing smile. He snickers at me as he grabs his drink and makes his way back to his date. I love this part. Watching a new love blossom. There’s nothing quite like it. That anticipation, build-up, unsureness, all peaking just before someone laughs and all the tension melts away for an easy first date to take place. It’s beautiful.

  I’m a witness to this experience often. Since opening Emily’s Coffee & Cakes five years ago, I’ve become the first date hotspot in Bluffside. It’s a gorgeous small town atop the Missouri River, towering over valleys of trees and fields. In the autumn, it smells crisp and clean while the foliage decorates the landscape in ambers, coppers, crimsons and golds. That’s my favorite time of year. This time of year, actually.

  I’m always busy here. The population of Bluffside is enough that you don’t know everyone in town, but all the residents feel familiar. There’s a small university here that brings in new blood every school year so there’s a good amount of change. I love it here. It’s my home now.

  My timer dings in the back and I head through the swinging dark green doors into the kitchen.

  “You want me to take over out there?” Jordan asks, wiping his mouth after devouring the last of his mid-morning snack.

  “For a bit. I need to switch these muffins around and make another loaf of pumpkin bread. I can’t believe we’ve gone through eight already today,” I respond, pulling the cranberry white chocolate muffins out of the oven.

  “You’re so full of it,” Jordan scoffs, coming around the large white marble worktable in the center of the small kitchen.

  Jordan started working for me his junior year at Bluffside College. He needed something to do according to him and I needed help like you wouldn’t believe after only a week of being open. I never expected for the shop to be so popular in the beginning, but it was, from the first time the bells chimed over my door. It’s only grown from there.

  “You’re the one who’s full of it, Jordan. Full of at least a loaf on your own.”

  I wave a spatula at him like an old schoolmarm. I’m only three years older than he is, but I feel like his mother half the time and his big sister the rest of it.

  “I can’t help it if your baking makes all of my self-control wither away. It’s your fault really. So make two loaves. Then we won’t run out.”

  He smirks at me over his shoulder, his bright blue eyes shimmering with mischief as he pushes through the swinging door.
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  “Brat,” I mutter and go about making two loaves.

  Usually Jordan handles the counter alongside me. I bake in the morning before we open and when we run out for the day, that’s it. I had to set that boundary in the beginning to avoid working myself into the ground. But, the residents love the pumpkin bread and I feel like I shouldn’t run out of it. So I’m breaking my own rules and baking during the day until I get a handle on the demand for the season. The muffins are a treat for me. And treats don’t fall under the rules. At least that’s what I tell myself when I end up making treats most days.

  Once I’ve slid the loaves into the oven, I arrange the now cool muffins on a thick, white ceramic platter and carry it back out front.

  There’s a line to the door and my cute nervous couple has their fingers intertwined on the table, smiling and sipping. Love it.

  “Chai latte and a green tea, Em,” Jordan calls over his shoulder as I’m covering the muffins with a glass dome.

  “Do you have pumpkin bread?” the customer asks as I start making the order.

  “Sorry. We’re all out,” Jordan apologizes and I smile at the guilt laced in his voice.

  “It’s my favorite. Well not my favorite. I like the chocolate torte too. Oh and the strawberry shortcake in the spring. Ooh…the peach cobbler in the summer too!” she exclaims excitedly, making my smile hurt my cheeks.

  I turn around and slide her drinks toward her. She’s a regular, a professor I believe. Anna.

  “I’ll have some more pumpkin bread in about an hour and a half, Anna,” I say as Jordan takes her money.

  “I’ll wait. Thanks, Emily,” she responds with warmth in her voice like that just made her day complete.

  I switch spots with Jordan, taking orders, and we get the line thinned out. There’s still a steady stream of customers throughout the afternoon, not a table to be had, but no one forced to wait around either. My nervous couple orders more lattes and pumpkin bread after two hours of bonding. I give them double hearts this time and they both gift me with snickers as I slide the mugs of love in front of them.

  “You’re such a sap,” Jordan chastises me as I move back behind the counter. The butcher block has been in this shop since it was built in the early 1900s. It’s been refinished countless times, but the gleam and warmth it bestows is still breathtaking.

  I elbow Jordan and set about rearranging the dwindling cakes and pastries in the glass display case at the end of the counter.

  “Em, you gotta admit you have the rosiest outlook on life.”

  “You’re just a grump,” I huff, pushing the last two pieces of pumpkin bread to the front of the tray.

  “Who the hell calls someone a grump at your age? You’re twenty-eight going on ninety.”

  “Fine. You’re a dick, Jordan. Is that better?” I sneer, standing up and smoothing my messy charcoal grey apron down my thighs.

  “Did you just call me a dick?” Jordan asks aghast, his big blue eyes popping out underneath his curly blond mop that needs a cut.

  I raise a brow at him and cross my arms over my chest. This is the sister brother part of our relationship. He pushes me until I push back and then he acts surprised.

  “I thought you only cussed when you drank tequila. Have you been sippin’ the sauce in the kitchen?”

  “Yes, I have to in order to work with you every day,” I snark.

  He wraps his long, muscled arms around my shoulders and pulls me beneath his chin.

  “You wouldn’t know what to do without me,” he murmurs into my hair.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I say with a sigh, squeezing around his trim waist.

  Jordan’s my best friend. He’s probably the best friend—other than my mother—I’ve ever had when I think about it. We bicker and tease almost constantly, but when it comes down to it, we love each other fiercely.

  I moved to Bluffside from the suburbs of Kansas City after my mother passed away. She battled breast cancer for almost a decade. I’m proud to have stood by her side through the war, but I couldn’t stay there anymore once she was gone. It stung too deeply within the walls of our house without her there. I make the three-hour drive to visit my grandparents and my dad every couple months. They understand why I left. Before I had Jordan as my best friend, it was my mom.

  She was always my mother, caring and supportive, firm and protective, but I could talk to her like she was my peer. Even as a teenager, I spent my weekends with her laughing and messing around. When she was sick, she never lost her spark. There was always a brightness behind her greenish gold eyes. Until she took her last breath, it remained. And when that left, a piece of me died.

  Jordan brought the light back for me. I really wouldn’t know what to do without him. He knows it too as he squeezes me firmly into his chest. A throat clears and I turn away from Jordan’s embrace to greet the customer.

  “What can I get for you?” I try not to sound terse as I ask. I don’t like Sarah. She runs a boutique down the street from the shop. The clothes are cute and trendy, just like her. I went into her store along with every other one on Crest Street—the main road that runs through downtown where all the shops are located—when I first opened. I took everyone some cupcakes and coffee. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood with a basket over my arm and my red scarf pulled up over my head.

  Sarah took one look at me and turned her nose to the sky. Her words were polite enough, but the look on her face was like I’d just peed on the floor. I offered her my treats and hightailed it out of there. When I came out of the yarn store across the street, I saw her throwing the cupcakes in the trash. I felt more like the Big Bad Wolf then, but I didn’t say or do anything. I just made my way to all the other shops. Those were darn good cupcakes!

  There’s always tension when we’re in a room together now. I don’t shop at Tailored and she rarely comes in here for coffee. When she does, I let Jordan deal with her. No such luck today.

  “A non-fat, decaf, sugar-free caramel latte to go,” she says like I should have her order memorized.

  “Should just order water,” I hear Jordan grumble under his breath from behind me as he grinds.

  I hide my smirk while I ring her up. Feel free to order your coffee as you like it. I like a good old Americano and I don’t care what other people drink. Whatever floats your boat. Jordan on the other hand feels that if you’re ordering coffee and telling him everything you don’t want in it, you shouldn’t be ordering coffee.

  “So, any big plans for the Fall Festival?” she asks, clicking her manicured nails on the butcher block while flipping her silky chestnut hair over her shoulder. How can someone so pretty be so ugly inside?

  I heard her in here one day on the phone. She was talking about one of her employees gaining weight. Alicia Graves is a sweet girl from town. She worshipped Sarah and always wanted to work for her from the time Tailored opened, from what I’ve been told. Alicia weighed maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. I have no idea what Sarah was talking about that day. But a few days later, Alicia was out of a job. I’ve seen her around town. She looks like a skeleton and small town rumor is that she has an eating disorder. Should I blame Sarah for that? I don’t know. But I do.

  There’s venom beneath that stunning façade. I’m not fooled by it.

  “The usual. Baking raffle, cupcake decorating, coff—”

  “Tailored is offering a full makeover. You should enter the raffle,” she cuts me off abruptly.

  I take a calming breath and push my fisted hands into my apron pocket. She’s trying to get a rise out of me. I won’t give her the satisfaction. The smirk on her red painted lips is all she’s getting from me.

  “That sounds great!” I exclaim, knocking her back a bit with my enthusiasm. “Are you entering too?”

  “Uh, no. I’m the one offering it,” she scoffs.

  “I just assumed you’d have a professional offering their services.”

  Her smirk is gone now.

  “Here you go,” Jordan says, sliding
her cup toward her.

  He swings a protective arm over my shoulder, waiting for whatever snide comment is going to come back at me.

  “I’m a professional, Emily. I can see you wouldn’t understand that. If you ever want some tips on bringing your shop up to date, let me know. I’d be happy to offer you some advice on current trends. Something less nineties. Make sure you enter the raffle. With a new look, maybe Adam would want you back.”

  Jordan clamps down on me with his long fingers and I can feel the rage wafting off him. He’s going to say something foul and cruel. This isn’t the place for that. She’s not worth it.

  “Thanks for the offer, Sarah. Have a good day,” I say politely.

  A triumphant smile breaks across her lips as she wiggles her fingers at me before leaving.

  “She’s a fuckin’ bitch. Don’t let her get to you,” Jordan whispers in my ear. “You’re stunning and Adam’s a worthless piece of shit.”

  I nod. He kisses my hair and stomps away into the kitchen. He’ll go out back and smoke now. Then he’ll plot how to get back at Sarah. I may be the big sister, but he’s the protector.

  The nervous couple stands up and hugs tightly, the young woman sinking into the guy’s chest with a contented look on her soft features. The guy strokes her back a few times before helping her into her coat. He ties her bright yellow scarf around her and kisses her forehead before moving out the door.

  She stands stock still for a few moments until he’s out of sight and then she makes my day and anything Sarah said fade away. She does a happy dance, wiggling and shaking with glee. The smile beaming from her face is intoxicating. So much so that I feel my heart grow a little. Unadulterated joy working its way to my bones and a grin on my face. Mugs of love worked their magic today.

  This is my favorite part. Her face is a mask of pure bliss. It’s not fake or forced; it’s natural and genuine. I draw on the warmth every day, no matter if I’m sweating from hundred degree temperatures or freezing in the winter’s bitter cold. Because even if it’s sweltering or frigid, I’m numb inside. An unfeeling being, moving through the world interacting with few and feeling nothing.