Page 58 of The Clause in Christmas
Confused, Cassie turned it over in her hand, the pills rattling inside the plastic container as she tried to make sense of what he’d given her. She didn’t recognize the name on the label or anything else about the prescription. Although it appeared to be some sort of heart medication.
When she finally scanned the fine print stipulating the side effects, she winced.
May affect sense of taste.
Cassie’s gaze flew to Frank’s face, which remained unreadable. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her heart aching for him.
“I’m not dying,” he snapped before softening slightly. “It comes and goes. But…” His voice trailed off and Cassie noticed the droop in his shoulders.
Cassie—perhaps more so than anyone—knew exactly what it would mean for Frank to lose his sense of taste, a coffee roaster’s most coveted tool. An exceptional palate was a gift. One that could elevate you far beyond the rest of the industry.
Fighting back compassionate tears, Cassie forced a smile. “My taste buds are at your disposal anytime.”
Giving her a skeptical side-eye, he asked, “Have you ever roasted before?”
“Once. But it was a drum roaster.”
Frank snorted. “Whatever knucklehead invented that monstrosity should never be allowed to touch another coffee bean in his life.”
“They’re that bad?” Cassie asked, amused by his intense reaction.
“Let me ask you something,” Frank said with a stern glare. “Would you cook a ten-pound turkey on a frying pan?”
Cassie frowned. “No…”
“Of course, you wouldn’t! The bottom would get scorched, leaving the rest of it raw. You need the circulating heat of an oven. Any fool knows that.”
Cassie suppressed a laugh. “So, a drum roaster is the frying pan and the air roaster is the oven?”
“Now you’ve got it!” Frank slapped his palm on the desk, nodding his approval. “Come on. Let’s go see if you can cook a turkey.”
* * *
Cassie couldn’t believe she was roasting coffee with Richard Stanton—her coffee hero—in his quirky barn turned roastery.
Frank walked her through the entire process, from letting her select three different varieties of green beans—Sumatra, Costa Rica, and Kenya—to carrying out each step of the roasting process until they had ten pounds of Cassie’s blend cooling in a tall mason jar.
“The glass lets the coffee sweat out unwanted moisture,” Frank explained.
Cassie grinned, not dreaming of interrupting him, even though she’d read his book a dozen times. There was something special about hearing it from the mouth of the master.
“Frank, what do you do with all of this coffee?” Cassie asked, taking in the row of jars filled from a previous roast. “You can’t possibly drink it all yourself.”
Frank immediately stiffened. “What I do with it is my own business,” he snapped, silencing Cassie on the spot.
Unscrewing the lid, he scooped some of the piping-hot beans into a smaller quart-sized mason jar. “I’ll send this home with you, and you can taste it once it cools down. The flavors still need time to develop.” He shoved the jar in her hands. “For now, go jot down the precise blend and temperature in the notebook in my study. In case you got lucky and it tastes halfway decent.” His lips quirked ever so slightly, belaying the harshness of his words.
Thrilled to be given the responsibility, Cassie tucked the warm jar under her arm and scurried into the house.
Shuffling through the various papers littering the desk, Cassie searched for Frank’s notebook to no avail. Unwilling to give up, she pulled open the top drawer, where two leather-bound books rested side by side.Aha!It had to be one of those! Lifting the largest of the two, she untied the thick leather cord and flipped it open.
An aged photograph fluttered to the floor.
As her fingers curled around the faded edges, Cassie’s heartbeat stilled.
Frank’s youthful, smiling face beamed out at her beside a pretty auburn-haired girl flashing a diamond engagement ring.
Cassie gasped, sinking into the chair as her knees gave out.
