CHAPTER 1
MARIS
The espresso machine wheezes like an old accordion, and I slap the side panel twice before the steam wand stops shrieking. Mrs. Pemberton glares from her corner booth, one bony finger tapping the laminate table.
"This is unacceptable."
I wipe my hands on my apron. Flour dust puffs into the air. "What is?"
"The foam." She shoves her cup forward. "It's not stiff."
I peer at the cappuccino. The foam sits in perfect white peaks, exactly the way I've made it every Tuesday for three years. "Looks stiff to me."
"I can see bubbles."
"That's how foam works."
Mrs. Pemberton's mouth pinches into a line so tight it could slice bread. Behind her, Jellybean, a marmalade tabby with one chewed ear, stretches across the windowsill and yawns, exposing all his teeth. He knows a lost cause when he sees one.
I scrape the foam off with a spoon, dump it, and start over. The cafe hums around me. Gumbo hunches at the counter, peeling a blueberry scone into crumbs. Nora sweeps near the bookshelf, headphones in, mouthing lyrics I can't hear. Big Petesits by the door, coffee untouched, staring at his phone like it might explode.
Mrs. Pemberton sniffs when I place the remade cappuccino in front of her. "Better."
"Glad I could help."
She doesn't tip.
I retreat beyond the counter and start the next order. A macchiato, extra hot, oat milk. My hands move without thought. Measure, tamp, pull. Steam hisses. The milk swirls into a pale cloud. I pour and the pattern comes out wrong—a blob instead of a heart. Good enough. I slide it across to Nora, who ferries it to a table near the cat tree.
Gumbo clears his throat. "Heard the health inspector's due this month."
"Rumor or fact?"
"Rumor. But solid rumor."
I scrub at a coffee ring on the top. "Then I'll panic when it's fact."
"Smart." He taps the counter twice, his version of applause, and shuffles toward the pastry case. "Got any more of those almond things?"
"One left."
"Save it for me."
"I just told you there's one left."
"So save it."
I wrap the croissant in wax paper and tuck it behind the register. Gumbo grins, all gaps and satisfaction, and heads for his usual chair by the window. He's wearing his knit cap today, the green one with the anchor stitched on the side. It's May. The man's internal thermostat died sometime in the nineties.
The bell over the door jingles. A woman in yoga pants and oversized sunglasses breezes in, scanning the room like she'sevaluating real estate. She doesn't look at me. She looks at the cats.
"Are they all adoptable?"
"Most of them." I nod toward the bulletin board by the coat rack. "Profiles are posted. If you're interested, fill out a form."
"Do you have any Persians?"
"No."
