Read Online Through the Heart by Kate Morgenroth - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Morgenroth
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least he didn’t ask the same question everyone else did. Instead, he said, “Is this a Starbucks?”
“No, it’s Starbox,” I said.
“Ah, I understand,” he said. He paused. Then he shook his head and said, “Actually, I don’t understand at all. This has been a very strange day.”
“Maybe a coffee will help,” I suggested. Then I happened to look over his shoulder and catch sight of Neil mouthing something. Unfortunately, I knew exactly what he was trying to tell me.
I sighed and said, “Might I recommend our special drink of the month, pumpkin-spice latte?”
I hoped I put the right amount of lack of enthusiasm into my voice. The special drink was like drinking pureed pumpkin. Neil had gotten the name off the Starbucks Web site, but the recipe was his. And it was disgusting. But Neil thought it was a masterpiece, and he wanted me to recommend it to everyone that came into the store. So far, not one person had taken me up on it. Until now.
“If you think it’s good,” the man said, “I’ll try it.”
“Are you sure?” I said, trying to shake my head at him subtly so he would get the message, and Neil wouldn’t notice.
But it turned out that the man didn’t notice and Neil did. Neil was glaring at me as the man said, “Your recommendation is good enough for me.”
I turned around to make the pumpkin spice. I thought maybe if I added less of the pumpkin syrup, it might make it a little less disgusting, but when I tried to put just one pump in the cup, I turned to find Neil standing right behind me.
“Nora, it’s four squirts of the pumpkin syrup. How many times did I go over this?”
“I’m sorry, Neil,” I said, turning back and reluctantly putting three more pumps of the liquid in the cup.
“Do you want me to make the rest of it?” he said. “Or do you think you can get it right?”
“I can do it,” I assured him. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Neil said. “One squirt is not fine.”
I ignored him and went on making the drink. Neil went back around the counter, but I could feel him watching me, ready to pounce if I made another mistake in his recipe.
I finished the drink, fit a travel lid on the cup, and gave a silent prayer that the man wouldn’t try it until he was out of the store. Then I brought it over to the register where he was waiting and rang it up.
“That will be $3.82,” I said.
The man reached inside the jacket of the beautiful suit and brought out his wallet. He handed me a twenty, then picked up the drink, peeled back the plastic flap of the lid, and raised the cup to me, smiling, and took a sip.
Then his smile disappeared.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
He bravely summoned the smile back up. “Wonderful,” he said, as he put the cup carefully back down on the counter—as if it might leap up and bite him. “But maybe I could get a regular latte as well? Double shot, Venti, with skim.”
“Of course,” I said.
I packed the coffee grounds into the double espresso filter-cup, fit it into the machine, and ran it. Then I foamed the milk and poured it into the cup, put on the lid, and brought it back over to the counter. I added that drink to the tab and gave him his change from the twenty.
“Thank you,” he said, picking up his two drinks and heading to the door.
As soon as he turned to leave, that’s when I knew. The feeling was so strong and so eerie, I wondered if it was what Tammy felt when she held my palm and told me the future. I knew he was going to turn around before he did it.
And I was right. In the very next second, he turned back. And it seemed clear to me that the feeling and his turning around went together, but which came first was a chicken-or-egg dilemma I had no way of solving. Did I have the feeling because he was going to turn around, or did the feeling cause him to turn? All I know is that he did turn around and come back to the counter. He put his drinks down and looked at me.
“I wanted to ask you a
“No, it’s Starbox,” I said.
“Ah, I understand,” he said. He paused. Then he shook his head and said, “Actually, I don’t understand at all. This has been a very strange day.”
“Maybe a coffee will help,” I suggested. Then I happened to look over his shoulder and catch sight of Neil mouthing something. Unfortunately, I knew exactly what he was trying to tell me.
I sighed and said, “Might I recommend our special drink of the month, pumpkin-spice latte?”
I hoped I put the right amount of lack of enthusiasm into my voice. The special drink was like drinking pureed pumpkin. Neil had gotten the name off the Starbucks Web site, but the recipe was his. And it was disgusting. But Neil thought it was a masterpiece, and he wanted me to recommend it to everyone that came into the store. So far, not one person had taken me up on it. Until now.
“If you think it’s good,” the man said, “I’ll try it.”
“Are you sure?” I said, trying to shake my head at him subtly so he would get the message, and Neil wouldn’t notice.
But it turned out that the man didn’t notice and Neil did. Neil was glaring at me as the man said, “Your recommendation is good enough for me.”
I turned around to make the pumpkin spice. I thought maybe if I added less of the pumpkin syrup, it might make it a little less disgusting, but when I tried to put just one pump in the cup, I turned to find Neil standing right behind me.
“Nora, it’s four squirts of the pumpkin syrup. How many times did I go over this?”
“I’m sorry, Neil,” I said, turning back and reluctantly putting three more pumps of the liquid in the cup.
“Do you want me to make the rest of it?” he said. “Or do you think you can get it right?”
“I can do it,” I assured him. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Neil said. “One squirt is not fine.”
I ignored him and went on making the drink. Neil went back around the counter, but I could feel him watching me, ready to pounce if I made another mistake in his recipe.
I finished the drink, fit a travel lid on the cup, and gave a silent prayer that the man wouldn’t try it until he was out of the store. Then I brought it over to the register where he was waiting and rang it up.
“That will be $3.82,” I said.
The man reached inside the jacket of the beautiful suit and brought out his wallet. He handed me a twenty, then picked up the drink, peeled back the plastic flap of the lid, and raised the cup to me, smiling, and took a sip.
Then his smile disappeared.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
He bravely summoned the smile back up. “Wonderful,” he said, as he put the cup carefully back down on the counter—as if it might leap up and bite him. “But maybe I could get a regular latte as well? Double shot, Venti, with skim.”
“Of course,” I said.
I packed the coffee grounds into the double espresso filter-cup, fit it into the machine, and ran it. Then I foamed the milk and poured it into the cup, put on the lid, and brought it back over to the counter. I added that drink to the tab and gave him his change from the twenty.
“Thank you,” he said, picking up his two drinks and heading to the door.
As soon as he turned to leave, that’s when I knew. The feeling was so strong and so eerie, I wondered if it was what Tammy felt when she held my palm and told me the future. I knew he was going to turn around before he did it.
And I was right. In the very next second, he turned back. And it seemed clear to me that the feeling and his turning around went together, but which came first was a chicken-or-egg dilemma I had no way of solving. Did I have the feeling because he was going to turn around, or did the feeling cause him to turn? All I know is that he did turn around and come back to the counter. He put his drinks down and looked at me.
“I wanted to ask you a
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