tree. When the rich, dark liquid was perfectly doctored with cream and bottled syrups, they drank.
No, not drank.
Savored
.
Rafe’s eyes were opened that day. Suddenly he saw coffee hounds everywhere. From every branch of the service. And the amount of money they forked over for what they considered good coffee? Unbelievable.
“Tell Mamá and Papá you should all invest in coffee companies,” he wrote Olivia a few weeks later.
After his honorable discharge, when he was wondering what to do with his life, Olivia reminded him of that letter, and something clicked. He started looking around, and sure enough—you couldn’t swing a dead cat in Portland without hitting a new coffee kiosk. But there were only a few true coffeehouses. And his sister was an amazing cook …
Opportunity wasn’t just knocking. It was driving a Humvee through the door. Within the year he’d found the perfect location, and Cuppa Joe’s opened to its first customer. But Rafe’s place wasn’t your usual coffeehouse. Sure, he offered the usual—mochas, lattes, blended drinks, and just plain coffee—but he also let himself create, making personalized concoctions to match people’s personalities. And Olivia provided his customers with amazing pastries and sandwiches. Then there were her desserts. Several men had proposed to Olivia when they tasted her creations. A number of his women customers told him they should be outlawed.
All of which confirmed what Rafe had known for years. His sister was an artist in the kitchen.
But while those things gave Cuppa Joe’s a foot up on other coffee places, what really set it apart from the rest was the décor. Rafe decided providing coffee and sweets wasn’t enough. Not for him. He wanted his place to show people the military. The
real
military. The people—men and women in uniform—from the inside out.
Olivia thought he was nuts. “Rafa, the war polarizes people. They hate it or they love it. No middle ground.”
“This isn’t about the war.” He stepped back from the picture he’d just hung—a desert sunset–framed Rashidi, in full combat gear, head bent, deep in thought as he read a small Bible. Rafe had snapped the shot because, despite a rifle strapped to one shoulder and a knife on the other, the man’s features had shone with peace.
Rafe turned to face his sister. “That’s the point. It’s about people. Good people. And what they do for all of us, whether we support them or not.”
It took awhile, but his sister finally caught his vision. Which was good, because she was far better at creating the look he’d hoped for. Soon the wallsheld perfectly grouped displays of paintings and pictures, textiles, and artifacts from all the places Rafe and his team had been. And she didn’t stop there.
Olivia was a genius outside the kitchen too. Especially when it came to finding what she wanted for next to nothing. Rafe never knew what would show up next. One day he was lugging in bistro tables and chairs; the next, overstuffed chairs; the next, fabric for what she called “window treatments.”
The final effect was more than he’d hoped. The day before his grand opening, Rafe and Olivia stood together, surveying what she’d created: a warm environment that welcomed his customers, inviting them inside to ample seating for groups as well as private corners for conversation. Rafe’s pictures and mementos complimented the ambience. And then there was Olivia’s pièce de résistance—a communications corner, complete with computers and a Web site for customers to send e-mails to the troops. “You really are brilliant.”
Olivia’s smile was more than smug. “Si. I am.”
Rafe walked around the shop, finally stopping in front of a photo of him and his team, just before they’d headed out on their last mission together. He pressed his palm to the cool glass covering the picture. “Thanks, guys. I owe this to you.”
It felt good, being surrounded by his buddies like this. It
No, not drank.
Savored
.
Rafe’s eyes were opened that day. Suddenly he saw coffee hounds everywhere. From every branch of the service. And the amount of money they forked over for what they considered good coffee? Unbelievable.
“Tell Mamá and Papá you should all invest in coffee companies,” he wrote Olivia a few weeks later.
After his honorable discharge, when he was wondering what to do with his life, Olivia reminded him of that letter, and something clicked. He started looking around, and sure enough—you couldn’t swing a dead cat in Portland without hitting a new coffee kiosk. But there were only a few true coffeehouses. And his sister was an amazing cook …
Opportunity wasn’t just knocking. It was driving a Humvee through the door. Within the year he’d found the perfect location, and Cuppa Joe’s opened to its first customer. But Rafe’s place wasn’t your usual coffeehouse. Sure, he offered the usual—mochas, lattes, blended drinks, and just plain coffee—but he also let himself create, making personalized concoctions to match people’s personalities. And Olivia provided his customers with amazing pastries and sandwiches. Then there were her desserts. Several men had proposed to Olivia when they tasted her creations. A number of his women customers told him they should be outlawed.
All of which confirmed what Rafe had known for years. His sister was an artist in the kitchen.
But while those things gave Cuppa Joe’s a foot up on other coffee places, what really set it apart from the rest was the décor. Rafe decided providing coffee and sweets wasn’t enough. Not for him. He wanted his place to show people the military. The
real
military. The people—men and women in uniform—from the inside out.
Olivia thought he was nuts. “Rafa, the war polarizes people. They hate it or they love it. No middle ground.”
“This isn’t about the war.” He stepped back from the picture he’d just hung—a desert sunset–framed Rashidi, in full combat gear, head bent, deep in thought as he read a small Bible. Rafe had snapped the shot because, despite a rifle strapped to one shoulder and a knife on the other, the man’s features had shone with peace.
Rafe turned to face his sister. “That’s the point. It’s about people. Good people. And what they do for all of us, whether we support them or not.”
It took awhile, but his sister finally caught his vision. Which was good, because she was far better at creating the look he’d hoped for. Soon the wallsheld perfectly grouped displays of paintings and pictures, textiles, and artifacts from all the places Rafe and his team had been. And she didn’t stop there.
Olivia was a genius outside the kitchen too. Especially when it came to finding what she wanted for next to nothing. Rafe never knew what would show up next. One day he was lugging in bistro tables and chairs; the next, overstuffed chairs; the next, fabric for what she called “window treatments.”
The final effect was more than he’d hoped. The day before his grand opening, Rafe and Olivia stood together, surveying what she’d created: a warm environment that welcomed his customers, inviting them inside to ample seating for groups as well as private corners for conversation. Rafe’s pictures and mementos complimented the ambience. And then there was Olivia’s pièce de résistance—a communications corner, complete with computers and a Web site for customers to send e-mails to the troops. “You really are brilliant.”
Olivia’s smile was more than smug. “Si. I am.”
Rafe walked around the shop, finally stopping in front of a photo of him and his team, just before they’d headed out on their last mission together. He pressed his palm to the cool glass covering the picture. “Thanks, guys. I owe this to you.”
It felt good, being surrounded by his buddies like this. It
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