Page 22 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“Yesterday.”
“Michelle.” I use her name like a worried parent, which is both wrong and accidentally effective.
“What? I’ve been busy saving my business! Eating becomes optional when your whole world’s being torn down by tall, attractive men with questionable morals.”
Did she just call me attractive? My brain short-circuits for a moment, which gives her time to realize what she said, and we both freeze like deer in headlights.
That gets her laser-beam attention. She leans forward, coffee forgotten. “What kind of solutions?”
I unwrap my sandwich, buying time while my brain scrambles to produce actual thinking instead of panic. Truth: watching Michelle organize the town against me has been like taking a master class in leadership, and it’s making me question everything I thought I knew about building projects while also making me question my sanity.
“Eat first. Thinking requires blood sugar, and I refuse to negotiate with hangry opponents.”
She opens her sandwich wrapper with the same careful attention she uses to make latte art, which is both endearing and slightly nerve-wracking. “This is very good.”
“Martha’s doesn’t mess around with breakfast. She’s personally offended by bad food.”
“No, I meanthis.” She gestures between us like she’s conducting an orchestra. “Bringing coffee, ordering food, sitting here talking like we’re not enemies in economic war. It’s confusing and maybe manipulative, but also unexpectedly thoughtful?”
“We don’t have to be enemies.”
The words hang in the air between us like a peace treaty written in disappearing ink while she processes this revolutionary idea.
“Is thatKind of Blue?” I gesture toward her laptop speakers, where Miles Davis is filling the silence with mathematical poetry.
Her sandwich stops halfway to her mouth like time froze. “You know Miles Davis?”
“Kind of Blueis the greatest jazz album ever recorded.”
She sets down her muffin, like I just announced I speak Martian. “The man destroying my dreams knows about Miles Davis?”
“The man trying to find solutions happens to appreciate good music and have surprisingly good taste for a heartless developer.”
“What else do you know about jazz?” She asks this like a pop quiz that will determine if I’m worthy as a human being.
“Enough to debate Chet Baker’s best recordings. Enough to know that most people think jazz is either elevator music or noise, but you understand it’s mathematical poetry that makes your brain dance.”
Her expression shifts like I revealed I’m actually an undercover intellectual instead of just a guy with a demolition permit. “My dad used to play this exact album when he was fixing fishing nets on Sunday mornings. Said the improvisation reminded him that the best solutions come from working with what you’ve got instead of forcing what you want.”
“Smart man with excellent philosophy.”
“He was.” Her voice softens with memory that makes my chest tighten. “He would have liked you. You both understood that good work requires patience and attention to detail, plus an unhealthy obsession with getting things exactly right.”
“Would have?”
“Cancer. Five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate, like bringing a band-aid to a construction accident.
She nods, taking another bite of her muffin. “He taught me that building things that last means respecting what came before. That’s why this coffee shop matters. It’s not just my business—it’s my way of continuing his philosophy and possibly driving myself insane with perfectionism.”
Now I understand why she’s fighting so hard, and it hits me like a construction beam to the gut. This isn’t about money or profit. It’s about honoring memory, preserving values—family legacy. Which makes me feel like a monster with excellent building skills.
“Tell me about the coffee,” I say, steady. “Not the business side. The craft.”
Her eyes spark instantly, and I can already feel the warmth rolling off her expression. Exactly what I expected—and exactly why I asked.
“You really want to know?” she asks, already half lit up like she can’t contain it.
