The Perfect Blend Read online

  Coffee, Tea or Mr. ___? Why your date is like your favorite drink.

  We know you’d never do it, but fess up—haven’t you met at least one person you’d like to grind up (or cut up into tiny pieces) and boil?

  The intense and exotic seem attractive, but wouldn’t you rather face something simple and trustworthy first thing in the morning for the rest of your life?

  It doesn’t matter where or when you see him—you’re obnoxious and grumpy before, but energized and happier after.

  Eleanor Roosevelt had it right: the best way to really know what someone is made of is to see what they do in hot water.

  Books by Allie Pleiter

  Love Inspired

  My So-Called Love Life #359

  The Perfect Blend #405

  Steeple Hill Books

  Bad Heiress Day

  Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom

  ALLIE PLEITER

  Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and nonfiction. An avid knitter and unreformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a B.S. in speech from Northwestern University and spent fifteen years in the field of professional fundraising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.

  The Perfect Blend

  Allie Pleiter

  Lord, you have assigned me my portion

  and my cup; you have made my lot secure.

  The boundary lines have fallen

  for me in pleasant places; surely I have

  a delightful inheritance.

  —Psalms 16:5-6

  To Patrick & Donna

  May God grant you a long and

  wonderful life together

  This book was the “perfect blend” of many hearts and minds. Thanks to Ellie Hudson-Matuszak at Intellegentsia Coffee Roasters for lending both her passion and expertise in coffee. Tony Goodhew and Todd Gaiser provided a highly entertaining crash course in rugby. Ann Roth, Dawn Kinzer, Annette Irby and Evelyn Ray lent Seattle insight and hospitality. Leanne Larkin at the Hill House Bed and Breakfast served as my Seattle “home base,” putting up with endless odd questions. My education in Asian tea ceremonies came from the Urasenke Foundation Seattle Branch and from Regina at The Tea Box in Denver, Colorado. Sue McCown at Earth & Ocean offered food and dining inspirations, not to mention one killer chocolate dessert. Each of you—along with many others—made this work a delightful experience. To my friends and family, thanks again for keeping me sane and grounded (pun intended!) while God worked yet another of His wonders through my fingertips. I’m grateful to you all.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Letter to Reader

  Questions for Discussion

  Chapter One

  No?

  “No.”

  No? No?

  He said no. Well, they said no. They being the bank, no being “we won’t give you a loan.”

  His English accent did not soften the blow. This loan is step one to realizing my God-given dream. My purpose on earth. The reason God put me here. So, it stands to reason that I am not supposed to hear “no.” That’s not the way it works, is it?

  I twist my handbag strap between my hands. “No?” I counter, attempting calm despite the ice-water shock that just doused me. “Just like that, ‘no.’ Not ‘based on current trends in the beverage industry.’” As my nerves tense, my eyes shift around the cool tones of this all-too-corporate office. Steel door, glass panels, chrome hardware. It feels far too tight, too rigid in here.

  And him? He’s crisp and courteous, seated behind a large desk of blond wood and yet more chrome. Surrounded by neatly stacked files. With typed labels and color coding. The picture of efficiency. His pencils line up. Even his smooth blond hair looks as though it wouldn’t dare disobey orders. I cannot go to pieces in front of someone this executive-ish, even if he looks like he’s barely older than I am.

  “Just ‘no.’” I repeat, my jaw tightening.

  William Grey—the third, no less, according to his big shiny nameplate on his big shiny desk—arches a blond eyebrow at me. “Would you have preferred something less direct?”

  I do prefer directness. But I prefer direct positives, not direct rejections. They did actually read my loan request, didn’t they? I spent two whole weeks filling out their endless quadruplicate paperwork, laying out my dream to open a Christian coffeehouse in excruciating detail.

  I resist the urge to stand and plant my hands on his desk. “You guys did actually read my application, didn’t you? This is an educated ‘no’?” Direct, maybe, but that loan application was mighty compelling reading if you ask me. For years I’ve bumped around my life, taking this job and that, never finding what it was I was really meant to do. Then God flooded my brain with the idea one day last year and the world fell into place. My own personal burning bush, humming in every fiber of my being, driving me from that day forward with an irresistible force. Who could say no to something so important?

  Mr. Grey looks perplexed. Like a man collecting his thoughts to attempt an explanation of particle physics to preschoolers. “Us guys,” he mimics, the phrase sounding ludicrous in his accent, “do our homework on small-business loans. As a matter of fact, Miss Black,” he continues, holding up a file with the typed label Black, Margaret, “I read your application myself. We do read them, you know. Carefully. It’s not as if we sit atop a stack of money and flip coins to see which loans we grant.” Should I worry that I’m color-coded red? Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Red could mean urgent or it could mean stop.

  Based on that last comment, it might mean stop. Ouch! And here I was hoping Mr. William Grey III was actually a nice guy. He does have a velvety English accent that would sound so lovely saying the words, “Of course, Miss Black, we’d be delighted to loan you the money to open your coffeehouse.”

  He’s not saying that, though, is he? No, I’ve got someone out of Charles Dickens telling me he won’t be handing me the money I need.

  I clear my throat, ordering the lump inside to rise no further. “Can you at least tell me why you’re saying no?”

  “I’m not saying no, Miss Black, the bank is.”

  I roll my eyes, my disappointment getting the best of me. “What’s the difference?”

  He leans forward. “Believe it or not, it makes a rather big difference in this case. Are you willing to hear me out?”

  Behind me I hear the click of computer keyboards and hushed voices on telephones, the wheels of efficient, soulless commerce turning all around me. I just nod, even though what I want to say is: “You’ve got all the money. Do I have a choice?” Okay, Maggie, try to rein in the supreme disappointment and act like a rational adult here.
/>   “Excellent choice,” he replies to my nod. “Now, loosen that stranglehold you currently have on your handbag, take a deep breath and listen to what I’m about to propose.”

  The beige walls still insist on closing in. Ever have one of those high-emotion moments where your sense of humor fires up for all the wrong reasons? You know—weddings, funerals, bank rejections, first kisses, that sort of thing? Happens to me all the time. So, right now, my tension-fed sense of humor is misbehaving and decides to land on tea. As in Earl Grey tea. And suddenly I’m sitting in front of “Earl Grey” and that’s just too funny. A small laugh erupts from me before I can stop it.

  His lordship—oh dear, where did that come from?—widens his blue eyes. “Have I said something amusing, Miss Black?”

  You’d think that by now I’d have learned never to try and explain my weird sense of humor. “No, really, it’s just…” I notice the bland still life hanging behind his lordship, which of course contains a teapot, and the chuckle mutates into a jerky, nervous laugh. Come on, Maggie, pull it together. “No, you’ve said nothing that’s…” I can’t help myself. I’m laughing and he’s staring and this is going downhill fast. I imagine heads popping up over cubicle walls behind me like a field of prairie dogs.

  “Are you quite all right?” His expression is somewhere between amusement and concern.

  “Oh, no, I’m…fine. Well, not really, since you turned down my loan, but I mean….” I put my hand up in a just-give-me-a-minute gesture, which thankfully sends him over to his credenza for a glass of water.

  Mr. Grey sets the water in front of me and sits down. Oh, no, he’s doing that thing. That thing where men close their eyes and pinch the bridge of their nose. That I-don’t-want-to-deal-with-this-right-now expression. “Might we attempt a conversation, Miss Black?”

  I take a deep breath. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Nerves, I guess.” I’m giggling again and drown any further reply in a deep swallow of water.

  “Why don’t we try a visual?” he suggests, letting out a slightly exasperated sigh. Reaching down, he produces a Seattle Yellow Pages. “Would you like to look up ‘coffee’ or shall I?”

  I take the thick book from his hands and flip through to the pages marked Coffee Shops and Retail Coffee Dealers.

  It’s not hard to find. There are fifteen pages of them. I think I’m getting his point.

  “Would you agree with me that coffeehouses rather abound in this city?”

  “None like mine,” I fire back. What do you know? Getting my dander up is the surest way to squelch my nerves.

  “Would you like to know how many times I hear that exact sentiment?” He steeples his hands and I notice a thick, intricate school ring on his finger. Oxford? Cambridge? He does have a high-achieving, valedictorian air about him. Just the kind of hard-nosed realist to hand me eighty reasons why a Christian coffeehouse is too big a risk in a city already jam-packed with java joints.

  “But my coffeehouse is different. It really is,” I snap back a bit too sharply. I’m in no mood to hear his version of the Seattle-has-enough-coffeehouses speech. I’ve heard it dozens of times. But God doesn’t really need to care about rationales like that. He’s God. What He says goes.

  Grey looks at me intently. His eyes are almost too dark to be called blue; they’re more like a blend of blue and gray. His face, although sharp-featured, has too much warmth in it to be completely heartless. He’s actually trying to be nice, I think. Trying, but not really succeeding.

  “An astounding number of small businesses fail in their first year. The rates are higher amongst restaurants. The rates in an already saturated market are…”

  “Of no interest to me,” I cut in, trying not to sound frustrated. “I’m supposed to do this. I know I am. I’m not even asking you for a lot of money, I’ve already got more than half of what I need.”

  “With all respect, I don’t think you know half of what you need, Miss Black.”

  Wait a minute—is he telling me I’m not smart enough to open a coffeehouse? “What do you…”

  “Miss Black, will you let me finish?” His eyes shoot to the glass panel behind me, where I’m guessing heads really are popping up over cubicle walls.

  “Will you please consider the fact that no might just mean not yet?” He takes a breath, softening his tone. “The bank runs a small-business incubator—an entrepreneur school, if you will—for loan applicants with promising ideas but insufficient training.”

  “Entrepreneur school?” I don’t like the sound of this at all.

  “It’s a twelve-week small-business-administration course. Your loan application fee becomes your tuition and you come out of the course with a five-year small-business plan.”

  Twelve weeks? Of school? Wasn’t the first sixteen years enough? Granted, it was a sociology degree, but I remember taking math in there somewhere.

  As if sensing my doubts, Mr. Grey adds, “You also have your loan reevaluated. With a much higher chance of approval.”

  I narrow one eye. “So if I go to school for three months you’ll give me my money?”

  Something almost like a smile crosses his face. “Well, no, I’m not saying that. I’m saying you stand a much greater chance of getting your money.” He hands me a thick envelope.

  I picture myself slumped behind a desk, doodling on a syllabus while some retired banker drones on about compound interest and healthy earnings ratios. I can’t brew a blend strong enough to keep me awake for that. “Who teaches this course?”

  He wipes his hand down his face. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  You know, he’s making an effort here. It could be he’s really not such a bad guy—for a banker. A little tight around the edges, but appealing in a distinguished, Jane Eyre kind of way. The accent alone could get me through Accounting 101. Add a triple-shot caramel-hazelnut latte and I just might survive. I force a cooperative smile. “And who reevaluates my loan and the prize-winning business plan I’ll have when I’m done?”

  “I do.”

  Near as I can tell, His lordship holds all the cards. Or, in this case, all the cash.

  I’m impulsive, visionary and a bit rebellious, but I’m not stupid. I hold out my hand.

  “Mr. Grey, you’re on.”

  I know a fair trade when I see one. If it gets my coffeehouse open, I can endure twelve weeks of anybody.

  Right?

  Chapter Two

  Right?

  Wrong.

  I needed a wheelbarrow to get my books and manuals home from the first class. Professor Grey seems to think we don’t have anything better to do with our daylight hours than read textbooks. Hoards of textbooks.

  We’ve got class again on Wednesday and when I return to that austere little classroom on the fourth floor of the First Bank building, I’m bringing coffee. The stuff out of the vending machine could barely be called a liquid, much less a coffee. Not only that, but it’s part of my homework. Since Mr. Grey seems to enjoy visuals and we are supposed to bring in a description of what makes our business distinct from its competition, I’m going for the real thing. Refreshments are definitely in order. Can’t you just smell an A brewing here?

  “Mags? You still in there?” My best friend Diane raps on my head lightly. She’s helping me buy jeans for my brother John. John is just one of my three brothers—there are five of us Black kids, in case you were wondering. Now I know what you’re thinking: men’s jeans, two-minute acquisition, right? Not for John, which is why I brought Diane. John’s a clothing fanatic. Must have the coolest of the coolest. This might be to compensate for the hair: every single one of us is topped off with a head of unruly auburn curls. If you want a picture of the quintessential large Irish family, just line us up.

  Since I got stuck handling the siblings’ birthday presents for John (with five of us we’ve learned to trade off), I need Diane’s talent for choosing trendy clothing. I had sent her after four pairs while I had cozied up with Basic Concepts in Marketing.

&nb
sp; Diane taps the textbook with her free hand and I look up as she shows off her stack of jeans. Diane is blessed with razor-straight brown hair, doe eyes and a model’s figure, so she needn’t have such a keen sense of style—she looks great in everything. She’s the girl next door you wish really did live next door. “Looks juicy.” She squints over the complex graph I’m deciphering.

  “It’s boring, but necessary. Am I done yet?”

  Diane smiles. “You and your fellow offspring are all set.”

  “No, we’re all broke,” I correct her. “Have you seen how much the jeans are in this place? If John would only let me take him to the secondhand stores….”

  “He’d be you,” Diane counters. “Happy birthday to John from you,” she says, laying a pair of jeans over my textbook. She piles on the rest. “And from Cathy, Steve and Luke.”

  “So now, all I do is pay these ridiculous prices and then get Cathy, Steve and Luke to pay up. When did I become loan officer for the First Bank of Black Siblings?”

  This remark, mind you, proves my theory that I am spending way too much time thinking about high finance these days. It’s unnatural for live, vibrant human beings to spend so much of their energy on numbers. Art, love, faith, joy—these are the pursuits worth chasing. I don’t even think money’s worth chasing, unless it’s as a means to an end. Nicely behaving calculations? Not my thing.

  But definitely his lordship’s thing. As I stack up my purchases and fork over the unnatural sum required for four cool jeans, I think about William Grey’s obvious love of numbers. I thought I was signing up for a twelve-week stint of boredom, but he is actually trying to make it interesting. Which is, of course, a losing battle—I’d guess ninety percent of the class is there under the same loan blackmail I’m enduring. But this guy’s fascination with the subject is…well…compelling. I don’t remember the equation he was teaching, but what I do remember is the line he drew when he summed it up. A precise, energetic line that he spread across the whiteboard like a knight drawing a sword. Really, that’s what it looked like to me. Gallant math? I admit, it’s a stretch, but I’d swear that’s how William Grey sees it. As if he’s a valiant knight leading us all on a crusade to sound business practices. The man has more fun with math than I’d ever think possible.