5 From the Grounds Up Read online

  Sarah was holding the bottle by the neck like she wanted to slug me with it. 'For the third time, what meal?'

  'Tien Romano was there and she knows what I like. Chicken with lemon grass, grilled beef, spring rolls and . . .' I was counting them off on my fingers and I wiggled my pinky. I knew there was one more. 'Oh, and pho--that's the beef rice noodle soup.'

  'Not the one with beef balls in it, I hope.' Sarah seemed somewhat appeased but still borderline grouchy. 'I don't do testicles.'

  There were so many ways to reply to that.

  With the wine bottle still in Sarah's hand, though, I wasn't taking any chances. 'They're not that kind of "balls". They're made from ground beef.' I hesitated before adding, 'You can also get shrimp balls.'

  'Must be microscopic.' But Sarah finally cracked a grin.

  I sat down at the kitchen table as she opened the wine. 'Courtney and Sam?' I prompted.

  'Don't remind me.' Sarah pulled wine glasses from the cupboard and brought them to the table along with the bottle. 'They're shopping.'

  'Shopping.' I gave it a beat. 'I hope you didn't give them your credit card.'

  'Do I look like an idiot?' She poured a glass and took a slug. 'Besides, they have their own.'

  'Even worse.' Since Sarah looked like she had no intention of pouring a glass for me, I helped myself. 'What are they shopping for?'

  'Clothes to wear on the Cape. They say a Wisconsin wardrobe won't be "suitable" for a Massachusetts summer.' Her fingers drummed the table, the way they had the steering wheel of her car. 'Then they're spending the night at a friend's house.'

  'We do have summer, even in Wisconsin,' I pointed out. 'And swimsuits and shorts probably aren't a whole lot different here than they are there.'

  Sarah didn't answer and I reached across the table and patted her hand. 'So it looks like they're going?'

  'I told you that this morning,' she said, pulling back. 'Weren't you listening?'

  'Yes, I was listening. But it sounded as if you hadn't made up your mind yet.'

  'About what?' Sarah was acting intentionally obtuse.

  'About the kids spending the summer in Cape Cod, of course.'

  She shrugged. 'It's their family. If Sam and Courtney want to go, I can't very well stop them.'

  She took a sip of wine, then set the glass on the table and stared at it. 'I don't know why, Maggy, but I have a bad feeling about this, like something awful is going to happen. I'm afraid that if Sam and Courtney go to Cape Cod, I'll never see them again.'

  When she raised her head, Sarah's eyes were filled with tears. 'Ever.'

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah and I consumed a lot of wine that night and, when the delivery guy arrived, a lot of Vietnamese food, too. When we emptied the bottle of pinot noir, I suddenly realized Sarah needed to drive me back to the station to get my car.

  And, I also suddenly realized, she was in no condition to do it.

  Nor, in turn, should I be driving my car home from there.

  'Stay over,' Sarah said, waving her wine glass at me. 'They're predicting thunderstorms, anyway.'

  We had moved from the kitchen to the living room's sectional couch, the ends of which reclined like lounge chairs. Sarah was ensconced in one corner, me in the other. We faced the 42-inch flat screen. The Big Chill was playing. Life couldn't get much better.

  'You can borrow whatever you need,' Sarah continued, 'and I'll take you to your car in the morning.'

  'What time is it anyway?' I tried to sit up but the recline action kept defeating me. 'Oh, my God, it's getting late. What about Frank?'

  'There's a handle on the right side.' Sarah pointed. 'And it's only ten o'clock. How about Pavlik? He's Frank's buddy. Maybe he'll go let him out.'

  'Or he could give me a lift home,' I said, trying to work the lever. 'Then I could walk to the depot tomorrow and pick up the Escape. It's less than a mile from my house.'

  'Do you really want to admit you're too drunk to drive?' Sarah looked crestfallen. We hadn't talked further about Sam and Courtney, but I knew it was still bothering her.

  'You're the one who said I should call Pavlik.' I eased myself out of the comfy chair and stood up. Outside the window, there was a flash of lightning.

  'So I was wrong. Better to call a neighbor. What about that guy who just moved in?'

  'Anthony.' I didn't relish telling my new neighbor why I wasn't coming home, either. Especially if he would have to go out into the storm to feed my dog. 'Maybe I'll just say I got hung up out of town.'

  'Sure.' Sarah handed me the phone. 'Lie.'

  As I took the phone, the thunder finally sounded. The storm was still far enough away that Anthony might be able to get to my house and back before it hit. 'Do you have the makings for fudge?' I asked.

  'No, but Courtney made brownies today.'

  'Sold.' I made the call.

  Given the circumstances, it's not surprising that I was wearing the same clothes I'd had on the day before, when Sarah and I met Ronny at the depot.

  Ronny, though, was always a surprise.

  Instead of the greaser look, today he was sporting bright green polyester pants paired with a print shirt and long collar points.

  I tried to imagine the man's closet, separated by fashion trends like a middle-schooler's notebook with subject tabs. 'Decade-of-the-day' instead of the day-of-the-week panties I'd worn as a little girl. If it's Wednesday, it must be the seventies.

  Ronny pushed a pair of over-sized yellow plastic glasses up on his apparently once-broken nose. I wondered if his fashion sense had been the cause of that, too. The nose, not the glasses. If he'd dressed like this in high school, a bigger kid likely had beaten the crap out of him.

  'Out of sight.' He looked me up and down. 'Bad trip last night? This looks like the walk of shame.'

  I laughed. Sarah's cousin was obviously a student of pop culture and not just because he knew the expression 'walk of shame', which Eric had explained as heading home in the daylight after a night out drinking. But, 'Out of sight?' 'Bad trip?' Ronny chose his slang to match his outfits.

  'Not really," I said. "I stayed over at Sarah's house last night because we had too much wine. We stopped by my place this morning to let the dog out, but since we were running late, I didn't take the time to change.'

  Besides, the whole time I was inside Sarah sat in the Firebird revving the motor and honking.

  I sniffed my underarm. 'I don't smell, do I?'

  'No, but let's think about this.' Ronny ticked the points off on his fingers: 'You partied down, didn't make it home last night, and you're wearing the same threads you wore yesterday. That sounds to me like you are walking the walk.'

  Well, sure, if you wanted to be literal.

  Sarah's cellphone rang.

  Ronny cocked his head to listen to the ringtone. '"Our House" by Crosby, Stills and Nash?'

  'And Young,' I said as Sarah stepped away to answer the call. 'She tries to find real estate appropriate ringtones.'

  'I'm not so sure it'll sell more places,' Ronny said.

  'Probably not. But believe me, this is a big improvement over "Home on the Range".'

  'How about "I Want To Go Home" by Michael Buble?'

  'Nice. Suggest it to her.' I pointed at the clipboard in his hand. 'Do you have some ideas on the layout of Uncommon Grounds, Junior?'

  'I do.' He looked at Sarah, who was still on the phone. 'Should we wait for her?'

  In truth? I wanted to see them now. But it was only right to accommodate her.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘She probably won’t be lo—‘

  As I said it, Sarah closed her phone. 'I have to go.'

  'But Ronny has a suggested layout.' I pointed at her cousin, spreading papers over one of the round tables. 'Can you take a quick peek?'

  'Sorry.' She was already dragging car keys from her pocket. 'Sam and Courtney are at the house.'

  I knew Sarah was worried about the situation with them, but the kids certainly were old enough to stay ho
me alone for a while. 'They'll still be there when you get home, right?' I asked gently.

  'Not necessarily. Sam said FedEx just delivered an envelope sent overnight from their aunt and uncle on Cape Cod. Two airline tickets to Boston.'

  Sarah was heading for the door. 'Sam and Courtney are thrilled. And packing.'

  'Packing? When does their flight leave?'

  'This afternoon.' Sarah opened the door and stepped out. 'Sam says the tickets are a gift. For "all the birthdays missed".'

  Sarah held up her hands in mock amazement. 'Surprise!'

  Then she was gone.

  I turned to Ronny, still bent over the table. 'Think I should go after her?'

  He shook his head. 'This is something they need to settle themselves. What you have to do is make some decisions here, so the partnership can move ahead.'

  'Just me?' I looked at the pages of drawings on the table. An office, a storeroom, the front facade. The floor-plan of the tables and chairs. So much to think about. 'What if I decide wrong?'

  'All anyone can do is the best they can.' Ronny straightened and pushed up his glasses again. 'Then you step back and let things fall where they may.'

  Wise words, even coming from a man wearing hot green polyester pants and yellow spectacles.

  I said, 'I second-guess myself constantly. You have more guts than I do.'

  'No, I don't.' Ronny hitched up his pants, which were already unnaturally high. 'You do what you have to do. I'm a coward in a lot of ways.'

  I laughed. I couldn't help it. 'No coward would wear those pants.'

  'What?' He did a turn. 'You didn't get down with the seventies?'

  'I was eleven in seventy-seven, when Saturday Night Fever came out. A little young to hit the discos,' I said. 'And you were probably even younger.'

  'True.' Ronny had a wicked grin on his face and he seemed to be loosening up. 'But you know what they say. If you wore the fashion the first time around, you are too old to wear it when it circles back.'

  'Thank God.' I said. 'That means I won't have to revisit leg warmers, stirrup pants and miniskirts.'

  'Ah, but miniskirts are always boss.' He gave me the once-over.

  A girl likes to be appreciated. Even by a guy who tomorrow would likely be wearing dayglo parachute pants.

  'OK, OK,' I said. 'What do we have here?'

  Ronny pulled the drawing from the center of the table toward us. It showed a bird's-eye view of the entire building, the driveway to our new back parking lot on the right, train tracks to the left.

  Inside the square that represented the depot building itself, he'd used the original ticket windows as the service windows and plugged in (figuratively) our equipment, most of which we'd have to buy. Not much was salvageable from the original Uncommon Grounds.

  'There are three ticket windows,' Ronny said, pointing. 'I'd suggest that you open up at least two of them, to form one big window.'

  'I really like the train station feel of the three,' I protested.

  'And we can keep it like that, if you want,' Ronny said, dropping the seventies jive. 'But I assume there will be days that you won't have three people working to staff all of the windows. And besides,' he gestured behind us, 'look at how narrow the openings are. You can't very well slide a latte through the ticket trough.'

  He was right, of course. Both the ornate lattice-work that separated the ticket agent from the passenger and the shallow tin ditch under it were fine for slipping cash in exchange for tickets, but they wouldn't work for coffee.

  The restaurant that last occupied the space had used the windows for looks only. Uncommon Grounds II needed them to be functional.

  'OK,' I said, 'but let's leave this far right one as a separate window. We'll be using that as an Express Line for just regular coffee, so it should work.' I walked over to the window in question. 'Can we keep some of the lattice-work up top?'

  'Sure.' Ronny joined me at the window and knocked on the wooden trim. 'And I can cut this back some to give you more width.'

  'Did your layout show a counter there?' I asked, indicating a now blank wall.

  'Yes, and a dishwasher and sink, too.'

  'Isn't there already a dishwasher and sink?' The space had been a working kitchen and both were required by law.

  'There are, but we need to switch things around, so we can build you a storeroom and office behind it.'

  Just a couple of essential 'details' I'd forgotten about. 'Thank God you're thinking,' I said, patting Ronny on the arm. 'How could I forget we need an office?'

  'The space will look out on the parking lot and you'll lose some square footage in the kitchen, but it should work for you.'

  Which reminded me. I needed to call Luc and Tien later, if they hadn't already left me a message.

  Ronny turned 180 degrees and swept his hand toward the dark, wooden tables and chairs now in front of the ticket/service windows. 'I'm picturing this area full of small, round tables. Mostly deuces, I think, but maybe a couple of four-tops.'

  He was talking about tables for two and four people. 'Have you designed a lot of restaurants?' I asked.

  'A few.' He cracked a grin. 'But I bussed tables in a lot more of them while I was in school.'

  I got that. 'I did, too, and my son Eric is working in a Minneapolis restaurant right now.'

  'Everyone should be on the serving side at least once,' Ronny said. He indicated the front corner closest to the tracks. 'We can put the condiment cart there.'

  'Perfect,' I said, impressed. 'That will move people away from the service window, but keep them out of the boarding area.'

  The boarding platform was at the far end of a long narrow space that, when combined with the seating in front of the service windows, formed an 'L'.

  'I think we should use those tall stand-up tables here,' I said, 'for people who just need someplace to lean or set down a coffee cup while they're getting out their tickets.'

  'Great idea.' Ronny made a note. 'That way we won't be putting chairs where people are lining up for departures.'

  'God, I hope they do.' I said, sinking into a chair myself.

  A puzzled expression. 'You hope they'll queue up for the train?'

  'I mean I hope there are enough of them to even form a line.' I was dying for a cup of coffee myself, head cottony from all the wine last night. Not to mention switching to white after we ran out of the pinot noir.

  Never mix sugars, Sugar.

  'Oh, I think there will be,' Ronny said. 'Enough customers, I mean. That's why Art Jenada is so upset about his lease not being renewed.'

  'Somebody was thinking ahead,' I said. 'Was it your father or Vi?'

  'My father, probably. The old man liked to make a buck and he was pretty certain the commuter line would be approved.'

  'But then your aunt died and her half of the depot went to Sarah.'

  "Did it? That must have corked the old man.' Ronny dropped into the chair across from me, looking tired. 'How do you think Sarah is doing?'

  I patted his hand. 'Have you forgotten what you told me?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Then repeat it.'

  'We can't help her with Sam and Courtney,' he parroted. 'All we can do for Sarah is to get things done here.'

  He finally looked at me. 'Sorry. I guess I just identify with them.'

  'Because of your own mom?' Ronny's mother hadn't died, but abandonment was abandonment, however imposed.

  'That, and because we all were lucky. I got Vi and they got Sarah.' Ronny squeezed my hand and rose to retrieve two of the drawings he'd left on the other table.

  'What are these?' I asked as he handed me the papers.

  'Face-on drawings of the way I'm picturing the equipment set-up. Since I've never brewed coffee in a big urn--much less made a cappuccino--you should take them with you to be sure I got it right.'

  'Of course.' I stood up. 'How quickly do you want to hear back? I'd like to run it past Amy, our head barista.' Our only barista. I wondered if Sarah was pla
nning to work the counter.

  It didn't bear thinking about.

  'You think you could have it in a couple of days? I'd like to draw up plans for the electrician. To do that, I'll have to know where the urns, grinders and espresso machine should be.'

  God, the guy was a quick study. Maybe I should hire him as a barista. Unfortunately, the pay would be about a quarter of what I guessed he made.

  Then again, I didn't know how much he charged. I started to ask him, but thought better of it. Sarah was his cousin. I'd leave the financial negotiations up to her.

  'Thanks a lot, Ronny,' I said, sticking out my hand. 'It's a pleasure working with you.'

  'Same here,' he said, taking it. 'It's good to be busy.'

  I wasn't sure if he was talking about the recent deaths, the economy or both. Not that it mattered.

  'Believe me, we'll keep you occupied.' I held up the drawings, then headed for the door. 'I'll get these back to you.'

  'Maggy?' he called after me.

  I turned back. 'Yes?'

  'Day after tomorrow will be my fave: Fabulous Fifties Friday. Wouldn't want you to miss it.'

  Chapter Twelve

  Frank was understandably miffed when I got home.

  'I'm sorry.' I was waiting for him to finish peeing on his favorite tree, a white--or 'paper'--birch in our front yard.

  I feared Frank and his tree would soon be parted, so I didn't try to rush him. Birches are relatively short-lived anyway, but dry conditions had weakened the tree and I was seeing evidence of birch-borers, beetles that not only eat the leaves, but lay their eggs in the bark. The little buggers (read: the larvae) then burrow nice and cozy under the bark and proceed to eat the tree from the inside, while the adults are working on the outside. An industriously efficient family, but not the kind you'd want over for lunch .

  I stepped back a bit to look at the trunk of the tree. The birch had apparently started out life as a triple-threat--three trunks springing from the ground like a stalk of broccoli. Two trunks had already been cut off by the time I bought the house after my divorce.

  Something light in weight but with churning legs dropped on my head. I jumped out from under the tree, swatting at my scalp.

  'C'mon Frank. Pinch it off and let's get away from the tree.'