“You must be the new girl,” she chirps. “Thank the heavens. I’m Ruby Figgins, née Akana, formerly Figgins, formerly—listen, we don’t have time to list all the husbands. I've collected more wedding rings than you've got coffee mugs, and I live here at the resort now. Well, technically, I'm a guest, but I've been here long enough that the furniture knows my name.”
“I’m Jinx,” I say, suddenly grateful for someone whose regretera matches mine. “I make coffee. And bad decisions. But mostly coffee.” Okay, so it’s mostly bad decisions, but still.
“Wonderful.” She claps her hands and sends her rings chiming. “Lani! Kitchen Witch! Our caffeine miracle has arrived!”
A petite older woman who also looks north of eighty appears through the swinging doors that lead to the dining area. She has short silver hair with lavender tips, warm brown eyes that miss nothing, and forearms that could arm-wrestle a linebacker. Flour dusts her muumuu, and she’s holding a wooden spoon like it’s a scepter.
“Leilani Mahelona,” she says, giving me a once-over typically reserved for produce. “You’re late.”
“I thought I was early,” I say.
“You are,” she says. “And yet, you’re still late. That’s how things are around here.”
Ruby beams, “Isn’t she a delight?”
Before I can answer, a woman slides behind the front desk with the determined glide of someone who has replaced her soul with a spreadsheet. She’s all sharp cheekbones and sharper manicures. Her dark hair is aggressively sleeked back into a bun, and her lipstick is in a shade I’m pretty sure is called Hostile Cherry.
Her name tag readsMELANIE. Her perfume arrives ten seconds before she does and smells like expensive gardenias and regret. She carries a clipboard like a weapon and taps a red pen against it with the rhythm of a firing squad.
“You must be the barista.” She saysbaristaas if the word offends her personally. “Welcome to Coconut Cove Paradise Resort. Please read the employee handbook at your earliest convenience, which means never, because we don’t have one.Hours are when I tell you. Don’t comp anything. Don’t promise anything. Don’t bring me problems.”
Ruby coughs “manager” into her fist like it’s a diagnosis. “Mel runs a tight ship. It’s just not…moving.”
Melanie’s smile is made of glass—transparent and easy to cut yourself on. “We’ll be having a staff phone call with the owner at four. He is very private and very busy, so we will beveryprofessional.” She levels her gaze at me like I’ve already failed this test. “Try not to improvise.”
“I’m a barista,” I say. “Espresso is ninety percent improvisation.”
Her nostrils flare a millimeter. “Four o’clock.”
She vanishes into an office and slams the door. Message received.
“I like her already,” I say. Have I mentioned the heat is capable of causing delusions?
“You’re easy to please,” Ruby quips.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Come,” Lani says, tipping her chin toward the swinging doors. “If we’re going to keep this place alive through dinner service, we’ll need caffeine, carbohydrates, and maybe duct tape.”
Ruby nods. “Definitely duct tape.”
As it turns out,the kitchen is controlled chaos.
Pans hiss, a fan rattles, and the scents of sweet bread, caramelizing sugar, and coffee are strong enough to hug.
Lani moves like she’s conducting an orchestra with awooden spoon, while Ruby insists every flat surface can use flowers.
“This is the mean machine and your new best friend,” Lani says, patting the hulking espresso beast. “He’s temperamental. If you talk nicely to him, he’ll talk nicely back. Maybe.”
It doesn’t sound hopeful.
I’ve tried sweet-talking a machine or two instead of hiring a repairman. At this point, my longest relationships run on electricity.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I murmur, flipping switches while steam hisses, water sputters, and a light blinks like it’s threatening me with nuclear annihilation. “We’re going to be friends. I promise. The best of friends.” And maybe the worst of friends, but I don’t dare say that infamous Dickens’s line out loud.
“So,” Ruby leans against the chipped orange counter, “what brings you to our little slice of almost-paradise, Jinx Julep?”
“A typo,” I say, tamping espresso with hope and a prayer. “I thought I was moving to Maine. It was not Maine, but I’m not complaining either.”
