“Ahh, there she is!” His weathered face splits into a smile. “Descending like an angel from heaven.”
I chuckle and shed my matching cream mittens and hat. There's nothing flirtatious about my boss’s exuberance. He’s a sweetheart to everyone. Besides, he’s madly in love with his wife.
“You must come see!” he cries, waving his hands in joy. A thin fringe of dark curls bounces around his otherwise bald pate.Light reflects between both the pale patch of bare skin on the top of his head and the metal antique that dominates the corner of the room. “I have found the answer to all our troubles.”
The answer to all our troubles is a metallic monstrosity, sitting on a cart. It’s taller than I am, with three cylindrical turrets on the top of a brass box.
“What is it?”
“Una macchina per caffè espresso.Very vintage. Very rare. I have finally found it! The machine that will turn beans into gold!”
“This is the espresso machine?” When Mr. Rossi told me he was bidding on one at an auction, I was excited. But I was not expecting this. “How old is it?”
“Thirty, forty years… but it works fine.”
Oh God. This thing is older than I am.
Mr. Rossi must not see my expression, because he continues. “Cappuccino, latte,il caffe—it makes it all. Soon, we will be printing money!”
I hide my sigh. I’ve heard this before. I can only hope this time, it’s true. “What did Cedella say?”
“She has not seen it yet.” His face falls. “Only a picture. She can’t do stairs, not today.”
Mrs. Rossi—Cedella—has the swollen joints of advanced rheumatoid arthritis. Today must be one of her bad days. The cold makes her body ache so bad, she mostly stays in bed.
“I’ll make her favorite scones today,” I announce. “Maybe by then we’ll have this working and we can make her a latte—she can be the first to try a cup.”
“Yes.” He brightens. “Thank you, Leah. You are an angel. Soon, she will be better.” He grabs a rag and starts polishing the machine.
“Did you look into the infusion treatments?” I ask. “I hear the results are almost miraculous.”
“Yes, yes, just need a bit more money for that. But that is where this comes in…” He gives the machine another swipe. “A little beans, a little water, and we will be printing money!”
“Right.” I hate to be the voice of reason, but someone has to be. Mrs. Rossi is usually around to ground her husband after his flights of fancy, but she’s stuck upstairs, so it’ll have to be me. “Um… does it work?”
“Of course! Just needs a little bit of polish.” With a final swipe, Mr. Rossi tosses aside the rag and rubs his hands together. “Good as new. Help me move it, darling girl.”
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi took me under their wing and gave me a job when I was fifteen and in foster care. Now, I make enough to live on my own even though money is tight. For them, I would do anything.
It takes both of us to roll the machine out, and by the time we’ve lifted the heavy monstrosity off the cart and onto a clear section at the very end of the side counter, I’m sweating, and my sweater is smudged with the last bit of dust. I have to admit, the machine looks very fancy.
“Perfetto,” Mr. Rossi announces. “Now we will be printing money!”
“As soon as we learn to use it,” I remind him. “Is there an instruction manual?”
“Not that I know of.” Mr. Rossi rubs his head until his curls spring up in a childish halo.
“That's okay,” I say. The original manual was probably written in Chaucer's English. Or an obscure Italian dialect. “I'll figure it out.” I pat the machine, and something falls off the back with a clang. I snatch my hand back.
“We will be printing money!” Mr. Rossi dashes to the back and returns with a stack of the white paper cups we use for the drip coffee. He’s so excited, he drops a few cups on the floor, and they promptly roll under the counter.
Mr. Rossi scrambles around the counter and crouches in front of the chalkboard sign we use as a menu.
“Um, maybe we should wait until we’ve figured out how—” I start, but he’s already adding the wordLattesin a barely legible scrawl underneath the usual list of coffee, tea, and daily muffin flavor.
Guess we’re making lattes now.
“Do we have enough milk?” I ask, coming to stand next to him. “Because lattes require milk.”
