Lillian returned to tug the mug from Bryony’s grasp. “Let me warm it up for you.” She headed back behind the counter and returned with a full pot of steaming coffee and a fresh mug. “The other one was chipped.” She tipped the pot and filled the mug to one half inch from the rim.
“You just wanted to bring out my favorite.” Bryony curled her fingers around the coral-colored smooth ceramic, covered in small white hearts, and inhaled the rich aroma.
“Hang in there, honey,” Lillian said. “Give yourself time.” She left to waltz around the other tables, make small talk with the customers, and top off their coffee.
When launched, few expected BeanHereNow to survive. Fieldstone, like most rural small towns in Ohio, was not an upscale coffee shop kind of place. There were a few local eateries, homegrown and hometown owned, but most townspeople either frequented a chain restaurant out by the highway and shopped at Walmart, or stayed home and watched television. Nobody could have predicted the coffee shop would become a magnet for folks who needed community in their lives. The regulars established rituals around being there, almost like having second homes.
The seating area occupied the entire front of a downtown historic building. Twelve tables sported wrought iron legs with recycled wood surfaces. Each table included a set of high-backed wooden chairs, none of which matched by style, but did match by paint color for each table. With every color of the rainbow represented, Bryony often wondered if patrons picked seats depending on their mood.
Today she sat at the table with blue chairs. Fitting.
The door opened, and Bryony looked up to see Abby Dunaway enter. She wore a brown wool coat and a hat woven with bright colors, too many to count. The young woman smiled and made a beeline to Bryony’s table, where she stopped, looked down at a stack of envelopes in her hand, peeled off the top one, and held it out while saying, “Happy belated Valentine’s Day! Sorry it’s late. I’ve been busy helping my Grandma.”
Bryony forced the corners of her mouth upward as she accepted the envelope and placed it beside the rose.
Abby’s expression softened. “I heard about your mom. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks, Abby.” Bryony tapped the envelope with her finger. “Now I can’t complain about not getting a valentine this year.”
Abby smiled and moved on to the other tables, distributing cheerfulness and cards, before seating herself close to the two other “fixtures,” Lillian’s name for the three people who arrived around nine every day and stayed until almost noon.
Bryony only knew the fixtures through their presence at the coffee shop. In addition to knowing their names, she had learned that Abby Dunaway had grown up locally. She graduated from high school ten years earlier and worked in the evenings at a nursing home. Abby always carried a bag of yarn. Hats, scarves, afghans, and doll clothes flew off her crochet hook.
Mr. Parker, retired postal worker, went through his mail, paid bills, read a newspaper cover to cover, worked the crossword puzzle, and ended the latter part of his morning stay with a paperback novel pulled from his back pants pocket.
Bryony knew nothing about Etta Corning except her name, which was written in black on her nylon computer sleeve. With spiked black hair, tattoos, a nose ring, and intense focus, Etta sat in front of her laptop every day, tapping away at who knew what.
The fixtures bought one cup of coffee each, which seemed to entitle them to take up an entire table until the noon crowd arrived. Initially, Lillian shared her worries about others joining them, taking up space during the busiest times—the morning rush, noon to one, and three to four-thirty.
Maybe having a few people sit around during the slow times makes the shop seem more inviting, Bryony remembered saying. She wondered if they were lonely. After a bit of coaching, Lillian agreed the fixtures could sit as long as they wanted, provided they did not interfere with customers who used the tables for eating or drinking and left in a timely manner, as God intended.
And they did not interfere.
The fixtures did not bother anybody, and nobody bothered them. As far as Bryony knew, Lillian never had to say a word to them, yet they knew when to leave. The first arrivals for the lunch rush cued their departure. Evidence such as this renewed Bryony’s faith in the natural ability of people to cooperate.
Lowering herself to the seat opposite, Lillian pushed the envelope from Abby toward Bryony and said, “Open it.” Lillian had one of her own. She slid her long, brown index finger under the flap and pulled out a handmade card with a crocheted heart sewn on the front. “You’ve hooked me, Valentine,” she read aloud from the inside of the card. “Hope your day is wrapped in love.” She held the card open for Bryony to see. “Look, there’s a picture of a woman wrapped in an afghan with hearts on it, crocheting.”
Bryony palmed her unopened card to the edge of the table, where she could easily grasp it with two fingers, and shoved it into the pocket of her skirt.
“Abby, honey,” Lillian called out to the young woman seated about fifteen feet away. “This is so sweet! Thank you!” She waved the card in the air.
“You’re welcome!” Abby called back.
Lillian turned her attention back to Bryony. “I’m so sorry I left right after the funeral.”
“You can stop apologizing,” Bryony said. “Being at the ER with your grandson made sense. I’m glad he only needed a few stitches.”
“How was the luncheon?” Lillian settled forward in her seat, grasping Bryony’s hand.
“Mitch drove Dad over to the church community room. People hung around until about two. The caterers packed up and left around two-thirty. Dad was awful. Mitch harped at me to move home.”
“What?” Lillian reared back her head. “What is wrong with that brother of yours? You have a home. You have a full-time job. Why doesn’t Mitch move back”—she finger-quoted “home?”
“Don’t worry, Lil.” Bryony managed a weak smile. “I have no intention of moving in with my father. We’d both be miserable.”
“Nice of your coworkers to show up for the funeral.” Lillian fiddled with the rose in the vase, turning the bloom toward Bryony. “Paul cornered me again about helping with the class reunion. He’s eager to put together a committee. Next one will be our fortieth.”
“You should do it. People who have never attended would probably come if you were in charge.” Bryony went every five years because Lillian insisted. Trips down memory lane held no appeal for Bryony. The particular path paved by a high school reunion usually resembled a—to quote a song title from her teenage years—highway to hell.
“I wasn’t popular,” Lillian said.
“You were nicer than the popular girls.” Bryony remembered them all as Charity and Susie’s She-Devil Squad. “And your popularity has grown in the past decade. Don’t underestimate the power of your presence. According to a trusted source”—she gestured to the framed Fieldstone Post article hanging on the wall—“you ‘singlehandedly brought new life to a dying downtown.’”
“I wish he hadn’t written that. I had so much help! Look at this place. You designed the whole thing.”
Beams and boards fourteen feet above were painted black to match the vent tubing. The floors were sanded and polyurethaned. The writer for the newspaper called it “Industrial Chic.” Bryony hadn’t known such a thing existed. Lillian and she designed the interior based on pictures ripped from magazines, neither of them bothering to read the articles.
Bryony picked the colors—pale green for the walls and black for the cabinets—and provided the plants, now grown into dark green vines spiraling down from pots, their stems entwined, a few reaching the floor. She would come in next week to feed and trim them.
Lillian patted Bryony’s hand and smiled. “Any other fallout from yesterday?”
“Dad didn’t want to pay the caterer.” Bryony brought the mug to her lips, sipped, and swallowed. “He pitched a huge fit until Mitch threatened to take over the checkbook.”
“Why didn’t he want to pay?” Lillian asked.
“He said I should have done the baking.”
“Because he knows your baked goods are better.” Lillian wrinkled her nose. “Those pastries were dry.”
