And Mrs. C.
And the rest of their self-appointed Maple Falls Welcoming Committee marching in like they owned the place.
“I say we put his skills to the test,” Mrs. C. announced, narrowing her eyes at Joe like he was an undercooked casserole she fully intended to send back. “You can tell if a man is a good barista by how well he thinks on the fly.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Mrs. Bishop said, adjusting her floral visor. “I just can’t decide what I want.Should I get a honey latte? Krista’s always raving about how delicious those are.”
Mrs. Humphrey—who had introduced herself as Krista’s first-grade teacher—leaned an elbow on the counter like she was about to administer a pop quiz. “But who knows if Mister Brown Eyes here can make it like Krista?”
Joe swallowed.
It was the first time anyone had called him “Mister Brown Eyes,” and he wasn’t sure whether to be flattered…or afraid.
He smiled politely. “Well, I’ll certainly do my best?—”
Mrs. Bishop interrupted. “Do you even know how to make the bumblebee on top? It’s all in the wrist.”
Mrs. C. nodded gravely. “And don’t scorch the espresso. Last week at that big coffee chain over in Cedarville, they—they—” She lowered her voice as if revealing a murder weapon. “They burned the beans.”
Joe blinked. “Uh…I’ll do my best not to commit any bean crimes.”
Mrs. Humphrey pursed her lips. “Mm-hmm. We’ll see.”
Behind them, a group of teenagers hovered near the ice cream counter, chanting, “Milkshake, milkshake, milkshake,” like they couldn’t wait a second longer.
A toddler licked a waffle cone so aggressively that the ice cream fell to the ground, cuing a series of wails so loud that Joe was convinced Krista could hear them downtown.
And outside, someone was yelling about a missing paddleboard they’d rented ten minutes ago.
Joe inhaled slowly. Right. Sure. He could handle this. Couldn’t he?
He squared his shoulders, grabbed the portafilter, and told himself:You’ve survived grizzlies. You can survive a group of senior citizens and some rowdy teenagers.
“Alright,” he said, trying to sound competent. “Who’s first?”
All three women raisedtheir hands.
He pointed to Mrs. Bishop. “How about you?”
“I guess I’ll take a honey latte,” she announced, her voice wavering a bit.
Easy enough. Joe reached for the honey.
Mrs. Bishop hesitated. “Or maybe I want a strawberry matcha frappé. Do you know how to make frappés?”
Joe knew how to use his phone, and that was good enough. He’d just have to look it up.
“Look at his face. Of course he doesn’t know how to make a frappé, and you don’t even like them!” Mrs. C. was saying to Mrs. Bishop.
“I don’t?” Mrs. Bishop looked at her friend.
“You said it was like a milkshake without the ice cream!” Mrs. C. said.
“Oh, that’s right. I did say that. Better make it a honey latte, I suppose,” Mrs. Bishop said, sounding deeply uncertain.
“Right. Coming right up.” Joe moved over to the espresso machine.
The machine sputtered when he flipped the switch. He frowned and tried again. Still nothing.
