“I should get back to work,” Eric muttered, sliding past me with the guilty expression of a man who’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
As he retreated, I was drawn toward the basement door, pulled by what sounded like the social center of my normally structured office. I descended the stairs quietly. The basement had undergone another transformation with the addition of a makeshift break station.
Gathered around this improvised social space were no fewer than six of my employees, Tamika perched on a filing cabinet with her salad, Martinez and Reed occupying chairs they’d pulled up to the table, Diane cross-legged on what appeared to be a cushion on the floor, and two junior staff members whose names temporarily escaped me leaning against the wall. All of them were focused on Aven, who stood by the coffee maker, demonstrating something with animated gestures.
“…and in Peru, they’ll sometimes add a splash of pisco if it’s after hours. However, since we’re still on the clock, we’ll stick with the cinnamon and raw sugar method,” she explained, measuring coffee grounds into a contraption I didn’t recognize.
Whatever she was brewing, it bore no resemblance to the industrial-strength caffeine delivery system we relied on.
“Where did you learn to make coffee like this?” Tamika questioned.
Aven smiled, the expression transforming her face in a way that caused a strange tightness in my chest. “I stayed with this family in Lima for about three months. And grandmother, Señora Vargas, taught me everything, said I was the only American she ever met who understood coffee should be respected, not rushed.”
Aven demonstrated a pouring technique. “The secret is patience. You can’t force good coffee, just like you can’t force good relationships. Both need time to develop their full flavor.”
The metaphor wasn’t lost on me, nor was the way my employees hung on her every word. Aven always could tell a good story. Hell, most of them had never left Ohio much less the country.
“I tried the coffee shop version of this when I visited my sister in Miami, but it wasn’t half as good as what you’re making,” Martinez commented.
“That’s because most places take shortcuts,” Aven said as she refilled their cups. She continued with a story about getting caught in a rainstorm in the Peruvian highlands, where she took shelter in a café. The owner taught her how to identify coffee beans by scent alone.
Unnoticed by the group, I remained on the stairs, watching as my usually reserved staff laughed and asked questions. Even Tamika, who guarded her personal boundaries, was smiling.
My attempt to isolate Aven had backfired. I’d given her the basement to push her away, yet she created community in what had been the most neglected space in the building. I couldn’t help but respect her resilience and ability to transform adversity into opportunity.
This was the Aven I remembered, the girl who made friends anywhere, who approached life with creativity instead of complaint. It was what had drawn me to her all those years ago before life, choices, and secrets pulled us in different directions.
As she refilled Martinez’s mug while laughing at something he said, I realized relegating Aven to the basement hadn’t punished her at all. Instead, I’d unknowingly given her a blank canvas.
I retreated up the stairs before anyone saw me, unsure whether to be annoyed or impressed by the impromptu social hub developing in my basement. One thing was for sure — this was not the outcome I’d expected when I’d assigned Aven Compton to the archives. Not at all.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the hallway windows as I made my final rounds before the team meeting. The Westridge files were finally complete, ready for today’s deadline, and the office had settled into a focused quiet that came in the hour before closing. I was heading back to my office when I passed the basement door left slightly ajar as it had been all day. I hadn’t intended to stop. I had, in fact, made a mental note to keep my distance after witnessing the coffee club gathering earlier. Still, the sound of rapid Spanish made me pause, my hand already reaching for the doorknob before my brain registered the decision to enter.
I hesitated, listening. Aven’s voice drifted up the stairwell, her Spanish fluid but edged with tension. My own grasp of the language was decent enough from years of working with Martinez and our Latino clients, sufficient to understand the gist of what she was saying. Words like “pago” (payment), “extensión” (extension), and “por favor” (please) painted a clear picture even before I caught it in her strained voice.
“Entiendo, pero necesito más tiempo,” she said.I understood, but I need more time.“La tarjeta fue una emergencia cuando me robaron en Brasil.”The card was an emergency when I was robbed in Brazil.
I moved closer to the door. There was a pause, then a sharp intake of breath that sounded almost like pain. “Treintapor ciento? Impossible. No tengo tanto.”Thirty percent? Impossible. I don’t have that much.
I eased down the first few steps, careful to avoid the ones that creaked. From this vantage point, I saw Aven without being seen. She sat at her desk, back to the stairs, one hand clutching her phone while the other pressed against her forehead. The yellow dress that was so vibrant this morning now looked sad against the defeated slump of her shoulders.
“Por favor,” she said again, her words heavy with desperation.I need a plan I can afford.
Aven’s head dropped, and her hand moved to cover her eyes in unmistakable distress.
“Entiendo. Gracias por su tiempo.” I understood.Thank you for your time.The formal politeness couldn’t hide the defeat in her voice as she ended the call. After hanging up, she didn’t move.
I headed silently up the stairs, my heart heavy for Aven’s financial struggles. I’d assumed her return to town was another whim, but the desperation in her voice as she negotiated with the credit card company suggested she was struggling to keep her head above water. And I’d done nothing but make it harder for her since she’d walked back into my life.
The realization hit me hard during the final review of the Westridge files. She’d helped me once at considerable risk to her own reputation. And how had I repaid the debt? By sticking her in a basement and hoping she’d quit.
Before talking myself out of it, I stood and walked to the office safe hidden behind the vintage advertisement for Smith & Wesson that hung on my wall. I punched in the combination, my grandparents’ anniversary date, the one constant I’d carried through all the changes in my life. Inside, beside the company checkbook and emergency documents was the cash box I maintained for immediate operational needs.
I counted out five hundred dollars in crisp twenties and fifties, then hesitated, wondering if it was enough. Based on what I’d overheard, probably not. I added another three hundred, the bills shuffling as I stacked them neatly. Eight hundred dollars wouldn’t solve all her problems, but it might give her breathing room until her first paycheck.
At my desk, I found a company envelope and slipped the cash inside, then sat staring at it for a long moment. What was I doing? This wasn’t how I operated; impulsive generosity wasn’t part of the careful control I’d built my life around. And yet, the memory of Aven saying “I don’t have that much” in a voice stripped of its usual confidence overrode my hesitation.
I grabbed a sticky note from the pad on my desk, considering what to write. A formal note would be awkward, a personal one too revealing. In order to justify it, I settled on five words.For the coffee maker. Management.
