Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“That was because all my other plans failed. Not because I like chaos.”
“You need to work on that need for control. Chaos can be fun.” Pausing at the base of the back steps, he narrowed his eyes as he took in my Beemer. “Okay, clearly, it was dark last night, and I was distracted because I missed your slick wheels.”
“Yeah. This model is a bit extra.” I rubbed the back of my neck, noticing for the first time what had to be his car—an ancient wagon with mismatched hubcaps covered in bumper stickers for every possible cause. “Please tell me we can take my car.”
“Gladly.” Turning, he held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. “I get to drive.”
“Says who?”
“Your scaredy-cat dog who is going to ride on your lap. I don’t trust her not to growl at me.”
“You just want to experience a car made in this century.” Laughing, I handed over my keys even if I wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t like I made a habit out of letting others drive. Especially not lately, with this being the last appreciable asset I owned free and clear.
Nevertheless, I slid into the unfamiliar passenger seat and loaded Buttercup onto my lap. I might have been gone from Safe Harbor for twenty years, but I hadn’t forgotten how to get downtown. Heck, we could have walked the scant few blocks.
“I know exactly what you’re doing,” I teased Sam as he took a longer, more indirect route to Safe Harbor’s downtown area, approaching from the west rather than east.
“Maybe.” Smiling, he took another turn down a side street before arriving at a single-story, older building with a simple Blessed Bean logo and sign. My friends had mentioned Sam’s endeavor enough over the years that I knew the name, but I hadn’t actually visited the vaguely-familiar structure myself.
“What did this place used to be?” I asked as Sam expertly parked between two newer-model SUVs. He handled my car like he drove six-figure machines on the regular, and why my suddenly alert libido took note of that fact, I had no clue.
“Way back when my dad was a kid, it was a dive bar. Then it had a short-lived stint as a failed diner. You probably remember it as Klassy Kurls—a combo beauty parlor and vintage clothing store.”
“Oh yeah. My mom didn’t care for the pair of old-lady friends who ran the place.”
Sam snorted loudly.
“What?” I turned in the seat to peer at him.
“Friends. Uh-huh. Even I, resident choir boy and preacher’s kid, knew they lived in a one-bedroom bungalow a few streets over. Sixty years they were ‘roommates.’” He made comical air quotes. “Died three days apart and left me this building.”
“They left you this building?” I gaped at him.
“I did all their lawn maintenance in high school and college, and as they headed toward ninety, I took on more and more odd jobs for them. Sienna used to work for them off and on too. They loved her.” Sam stared off at the horizon out the windshield, the sky a stark, cloudless blue. I had only the vaguest memories of his sister, who’d been far too glam for this sleepy town. She’d been five or so years older than me, more like ten years ahead of Sam. But I knew precisely how it felt to have a name in your head you seldom got to say aloud. I reached for Sam but was a moment late as he was already opening the car door. “Anyway. They knew I was working on my social work degree with an eye to running this sort of charity training at-risk young people and providing necessary services for them.”
“You don’t drink coffee, but you dreamed up a nonprofit coffee shop?”
“It’s Oregon.” Sam waved his hand like that explained everything. “Barista training for at-risk older teens and young adults gives them an employable skill. We get referrals from halfway houses and homeless shelters. Job training programs also bring grants and funding. When I inherited the building, Safe Harbor didn’t have a coffee shop, so it also provided a community service, a gathering place, and space where I can offer other services like art therapy nights or speakers about returning to college.”
“Wow.” Continuing to carry the dog, I followed him out of the car. “You seriously got the equivalent of venture capital funding for a dream you had in college. In the Bay Area, you could have been a legend.”
“Ha. A startup nonprofit is hardly in the same league as a tech giant.” A pink flush spread across Sam’s pale cheeks. “I’m just a guy trying to do what he can in a place he loves. The whole community came together to help with the renovation, and here we are.”
“Yes, indeed.” Still marveling at Sam making an entire organization appear out of a few good deeds and big ideas, I trailed behind him in the parking lot, then pulled up short. Inside the coffee shop, folks crowded around the front bar, several with payment cards out, waving and talking animatedly, while others stood in grumpy clumps, eyes narrowed like they were waiting for a reason to throw one of the colorful wooden chairs.