Chapter 3 The Cold Brew Crisis
Chapter 3: The Cold Brew Crisis
I woke up to the sound of a hammer.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It wasn't the rhythmic, distant sound of city construction. It was right below me, vibrating through the floorboards and into my pillow. I groaned, pulling the quilt over my head. My phone told me it was 6:30 AM. In the city, I’d be hitting the gym or checking the global markets. Here, I just felt like I had a hangover made of dust and old paper.
I dressed in the most "casual" outfit I owned, a pair of dark designer jeans and a crisp white button-down and headed downstairs.
The shop was already open, even though the sun was barely over the trees. The front door was propped open with a heavy book, and the morning air was crisp and smelled like pine. Caleb was on a ladder in the middle of the "Fiction" section, his back to me. He was wearing a different flannel today blue and he was focused on a crown molding that looked like it was held together by prayer.
"You know, most people start their day with coffee, not manual labor," I said, leaning against the counter.
Caleb didn't turn around.
Thump.
"The coffee is in the back. It’s a French press. Don't break it; it was Margaret’s favorite."
I wandered into the small kitchen behind the main desk. I found the French press, but there was a problem. There were no pods. No touchscreens. Just a bag of whole beans and a manual grinder that looked like it belonged in a museum.
Ten minutes later, my arms were sore from cranking the grinder, and I finally had a cup of coffee. It was strong enough to wake the dead. I walked back into the shop, feeling a bit more like a human being.
"Okay," I said, tapping a pen against my leather-bound planner. "I’ve looked at the bank statements. We need to move the 'Children's' section to the front. It’s the highest margin for impulse buys. And we need to get rid of that dusty old rug. It’s a tripping hazard."
Caleb climbed down the ladder. He looked at my coffee cup, then at my planner. "The rug stays. It was a gift from the town’s weaver twenty years ago. And the children’s section is in the back because that’s where the 'Reading Nook' is. The kids like the corner. It's quiet."
"Quiet doesn't pay the mortgage, Caleb," I countered. "Visibility does. If a parent walks in and sees a bright, shiny display, they spend money. That’s how we get to fifty thousand."
"People don't come here for 'shiny,' Elena. They come here because it feels like home." He stepped closer, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You’re looking at this place like a math equation. It’s a story. You can't just skip to the end."
Before I could argue, the bell above the door chimed. An older woman with bright purple hair and a hand-knit sweater walked in.
"Caleb! Is the new mystery in yet? I’ve been waiting all week!"
Caleb’s entire face changed. The grumpiness vanished, replaced by a warm, genuine smile. "Bottom shelf, Mrs. Higgins. I tucked it behind the counter for you so the summer tourists wouldn't grab it."
He handed her the book, and she beamed. Then, her eyes landed on me. She squinted, looking me up and down. "You must be the niece. The lawyer from New York."
"Boston," I corrected gently.
"Same thing," she waved a hand dismissively. "Are you going to fix that sign outside? It looks like a tooth about to fall out. My grandson almost walked into it yesterday."
I looked at Caleb. He looked at me, raising an eyebrow as if to say,
Well? Are you going to be useful or not?
"I’m working on a plan, Mrs. Higgins," I said, trying on my "client-facing" smile. "We’re going to make some big changes."
Mrs. Higgins frowned. "Don't change too much, dear. We like the Inkwell exactly how it is. We just don't like getting hit in the head by the sign."
As she left, the silence in the shop felt heavier. I looked at the "Fiction" section, then at the leaky ceiling, then at Caleb.
"Fine," I sighed. "The rug stays for now. But the sign is a liability. If it falls on someone, the insurance premiums will ruin us before the bank even gets a chance."
Caleb nodded slowly. "I can fix the sign. But I need parts. The hardware store is ten miles away, and my truck is having a moment."
"A moment?"
"It won't start. Probably the starter motor."
I looked at my shiny, silver European sedan parked out front. It looked ridiculous against the backdrop of the rocky Maine coast and the weathered shop.
"I’ll drive you," I said, the words feeling like a defeat.
Caleb looked at my car, then at his grease-stained work pants. "You sure? I wouldn't want to get sawdust on those heated leather seats."
"Get in the car, Caleb," I snapped, though I couldn't help but notice the way he was trying to hide a smirk.
As I grabbed my keys, I realized my "efficient" morning had already been derailed. I wasn't filing paperwork or calling the bank. I was going on a road trip to a hardware store with a man who thought I was a nuisance.
And the worst part? I wasn't actually looking forward to the drive.
