Of Literature and Lattes Read online

  Dedication

  For the Coffee Man—

  Thank you for the lattes.

  Epigraph

  In every bit of honest writing in the world there is a base theme. Try to understand men, if you understand each other you will be kind to each other. Knowing a man well never leads to hate and nearly always leads to love. There are shorter means, many of them. There is writing promoting social change, writing punishing injustice, writing in celebration of heroism, but always that base theme. Try to understand each other.

  —John Steinbeck, journal entry, 1938

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Dear Mr. Knightley April 2

  April 7

  April 12

  April 21

  About the Author

  Praise for Katherine Reay

  Also by Katherine Reay

  Copyright

  Prologue

  It finally happened.

  Spring arrived in Winsome, Illinois. It took until the first days in June, but after four consecutive days in which temperatures topped seventy degrees, people grumbled less and smiled more, flowers opened to the sun—and stayed open.

  Memories of the winter with its record-breaking lows, unprecedented snow, and ubiquitous clouds dissipated in the warmth, then blew away altogether on a soft east breeze wafting across Lake Michigan. The only price yet to pay was the five snow days that extended the school year deep into the month, making parents scramble to reorganize vacations, camp plans, and dental appointments.

  Eve Parker of Olive and Eve Designs stood outside her open shop door and inhaled deeply. She had learned this new type of breathing in her first yoga class three weeks ago and believed she was finally getting the hang of it. She took an eight-count breath to exhale winter, another to combat the day’s stress, and one more to endure the store’s monthly accounting.

  She held that final breath, fearing the monthly books and what they might tell her. Sales had been sluggish all spring, and with the cold not relenting throughout May, the new summer stock hadn’t moved. She drew her inhalation deeper yet and catalogued the smells surrounding her: cedar mulch, a slight fish scent off the lake, cinnamon from the Sweet Shoppe . . .

  Eve’s shop joined ten others to form a horseshoe around Winsome’s town square. It was a small plot of land, no more than a good-sized backyard really, with four brick paths dividing it into quarters and meeting in the middle at the town’s WWII memorial. Three tiers tall, featuring an unending cascade of water, it was the town’s focal point in both geography and spirit.

  Today a bird flitted in its lowest basin while two others fought for a worm at its base. Eve lifted her gaze.

  “Janet!” She waved across the street to one of the Printed Letter Bookshop’s employees.

  “Hey, Eve! You’re in early.”

  “May’s gone. I’ve got the end-of-the-month books today.”

  “Better you than me.” Janet Harrison waved again and turned back to face the bookshop’s bay windows. She examined them with a proprietary eye before pushing through the front door. A bell chimed, and its clear notes bounced off all the hard surfaces—floor, walls, ceiling, and books—before fading away in the dim light.

  Janet heard nothing. Lost in a creative headspace, she grabbed a stack of books, climbed into the bay window—with a confident balance that would have turned Eve green with envy if she’d seen it—and spread them across the small gardening table she’d positioned in the center. She then dropped a set of canvas gardening gloves onto the floor and tilted her head to examine the effect. A satisfied smile played on her lips.

  The window’s green backdrop provided an opulent base, like a swath of fresh grass, and with the books she’d created a garden utopia. Bright book jackets became flowers spilling from huge earthenware pots. In one corner she stacked the books high and added a trailing vine. Jack’s beanstalk never looked better. It invited readers into spring, into a wonderland, and into the shop.

  Janet was so focused on her creation she didn’t notice David Drummond watching her from across the square. He lifted his hand to wave as she twisted his direction, but lowered it just as fast. He didn’t want to intrude. After all, the Bookshop Ladies, as he liked to think of them, were kind enough to let him volunteer any afternoon he wandered in. And he wasn’t naive—he knew it helped him more than it helped them. Oftentimes he would recommend a book then not know where to find it, and one of them had to guide both him and the customer. Only last week he’d attempted to shelve stock, and while he had gotten the alphabetical order right, nothing ended up in the right section. Turns out Enneagram numbers had nothing to do with math and everything to do with Emotional Intelligence and Self-Help.

  Best not be omnipresent, he told himself as he continued his daily walk, working to loosen what was tight within him. At seventy-six, he thought ruefully, that was just about everything. As he stretched his neck side to side, a periphery motion caught his attention.

  “George? What are you doing out so early?” He crossed the street and walked the few steps to the benches circling the fountain. Without another word, he lowered himself next to his friend. Dew from the cool iron seeped into his khaki pants.

  “Margery’s worn out, but not sleeping real well. I went to fill a new medication for her. Did you know the pharmacy opens at seven? I didn’t know anything other than the coffee shop opened so early. But Margery knew . . . I think she wanted me out of the house.” He lifted a small white paper bag. Pills rattled within a plastic bottle.

  “How is Margery?” David’s question carried an affectionate lilt.

  He watched George’s eyes light up as they both felt the gentle tug of memory to better days.

  George shook free first. “She’s tired.” He kept his focus on the fountain memorial. “We got used to living without them, didn’t we? We were too young when our brothers left . . . Didn’t know anything else. But this I don’t think I’ll get used to.”

  David laid a hand on George’s shoulder. “You don’t get used to it—and hard as it is, I don’t want to.”

  George nodded and stood. David, holding to the back of the bench for support, did the same. The two men faced each other.

  “Coffee before you go? I’ve missed sparring with you these past couple weeks.” David, several inches taller and several pounds thinner, pointed to the coffee shop. “Its grand opening is today.”

&
nbsp; George nodded and lifted the bag. “Give me a couple hours. I want to get home to Margery, for these, and she’s usually best in the early mornings.”

  “I’ll meet you here at nine.”

  David watched his friend go. He should have mentioned the fountain—how it had been good of George, when he was mayor, to install that heater years ago. He should have reminded his friend that he wasn’t alone—that joyful bubbling, in a fountain and in a life, can still happen, even amid the harshest winters.

  “Mr. Drummond?”

  Jill Pennet stood in the doorway of the Sweet Shoppe, leaning on her broom. “Come try a new recipe.”

  David patted his flat stomach and shook his head.

  Jill laughed and whisked his refusal away with a single swipe of her hand. “You are not watching your weight. Come on in.”

  David stepped inside the shop and grinned. Dew, sunshine, and a breeze off the lake were good, but nothing beat cinnamon, sugar, and the warm yeast smell of rising bread. Betty had baked every Saturday morning of their fifty-year marriage. Yes, some memories you held tight even if they carried a little sting.

  “How’s your mother doing?”

  Jill’s expression clouded. “She’s okay. Good days and bad days. It’s hardest when she doesn’t recognize me—I keep thinking of my own kids. To be honest, it scares me. It scares her too.”

  David waited. Jill’s lips stayed parted an inch as if there was more to say.

  But she seemed to blink the thought away, so he stepped into the silence. “I understand that, and I’m sorry . . . She and Margery Williams were on the prom court together back in high school. George just said Margery is struggling too.”

  “I heard that.”

  David smiled and changed the topic. “What’s that wonderful smell?”

  “Try it.” Jill handed him a slice of coffee cake resting on parchment paper. It was still warm to the touch. “I’m using a different cinnamon, and I’ve added almond extract to the batter. Also rosemary. Tell me if it’s too much . . . I’m trying out some new ideas.”

  “Does the new coffee shop have you nervous?”

  Jill looked past him out the window. “The Daily Brew didn’t compete too much with us, but I don’t know what baked goods Andante plans to sell. And the Sweet Shoppe could use something new, don’t you think? Mom held on to some of our recipes since I was born.”

  “Good baking is timeless.”

  Jill shrugged. “But I need to make something new, do something different. You don’t grow any other way, do you? You don’t stay sharp. I mean, things change whether we want them to or not.”

  David nodded. He heard fear in her voice and couldn’t blame her. Losing her mother bit by bit, memory by memory, was a terrifying thing. Losing your sense of home was hard too.

  Jill cast her gaze back out the window toward Andante. “I should’ve gone over to introduce myself during those couple months before he closed for renovations, but”—she shook her head—“it was a rough spring.” Her eyes filled.

  “Jill?”

  She snuffled. “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Drummond. I’m just tired today.”

  “You could probably start calling me David, don’t you think?”

  She laughed. “Wouldn’t that horrify Mom? No . . . I don’t think I could get used to that.”

  “I understand. I hope you get some rest soon.” He raised the square of coffee cake in thanks and turned to walk out the door.

  David took a few steps down the sidewalk, then stopped and stared at the new coffee shop across the square. It felt strange not seeing the old hand-printed Daily Brew sign with its red poppy border mounted above the door. It had hung there since 1977, the very summer he and Betty moved to Winsome.

  He chuckled softly. The only stable thing in life is change, he thought, and no, you don’t get used to it.

  Chapter 1

  “You’re free to move; we can run your interview out of the Chicago office. We’ll be in touch.”

  Alyssa threw another Tums in her mouth and cracked down on chalky grape. She played the message again, for the fourteenth time in three days, and while the words gave her no new hope, this time she focused on tone. Was there a lightness in Special Agent Denek’s voice? Did he sound relaxed? Optimistic?

  Once determined to make the call, unable to avoid it for another day, Alyssa had rehearsed what to say countless times, written out two different conversational scenarios, and hadn’t drawn a real breath during her fifty-eight-second message—and power-chewed six Tums afterward.

  Denek’s reply had taken seven seconds.

  Alyssa scanned her apartment. Three years. In a whirlwind, she’d moved from Chicago to Palo Alto, started a new job, signed a lease with a new colleague, and moved into this now-empty space. Well, the space downstairs. This one they moved into only eight months before on the promise of a huge raise—a raise that never came. Yet despite that, she and Meera thought they had arrived—even while working fifteen-hour days more often than not.

  After all, they had two bedrooms with a living room and a small balcony in a three-story walk-up just blocks off Stanford’s campus. They stood in line at chic coffeehouses bumping shoulders with Nobel Laureates and Silicon Valley legends, not to mention the up-and-comers—who could be anybody from the slick Euro-dressed woman in the pencil skirt or the jean-clad skateboarder who hung his board off his forearm as he ordered an oregano-infused Ethiopian pour-over. They paid twenty dollars for an arugula salad with beets and goat cheese and convinced themselves they weren’t still hungry.

  And they’d held their heads high too. She and Meera knew they were mere worker bees, but they worked for “the” company—the newest and, some said, the greatest of the unicorns. The one that was not only going to make the Uber and Twitter IPOs look like chump change, but the one that saved lives, whole generations, from the chronic illness epidemic that was “engulfing the modern world.”

  Now there was nothing left.

  Like many Vita XGC employees, Meera made the call to the special agent in charge of her division months ago and moved back to New Jersey as fast as she could load the U-Haul. She had taken most of her furniture with her—including their bulletin board with Alyssa’s spare car keys hanging from a peg.

  For six months Alyssa had been left with only her bedroom furniture, a few plates, an armchair, and the unrealistic hope that the scandal would soon blow over. The furniture she’d sold that morning. The plates she packed into the last box that rested on her counter. And her hope, along with the last of her savings, had fizzled out at new job interview number seventeen.

  Sliding the box onto her hip, she grabbed her keys and headed down the tiled stairs. The building felt empty. It was empty. Everyone else was at work.

  She scrawled her manager a short thank-you note. He had let her out of the lease four months early. It was a gift she hadn’t expected and one she desperately needed.

  The parking lot was empty too. There was no one to see her off or say good-bye—of her friends from Vita XGC, there was no one left. Period.

  Three years in California, and the end of the dream came with a seven-second message from an FBI agent and her key plinking to the bottom of a metal drop box.

  When federal agents had escorted every Vita XGC employee from the six-story, state-of-the-art, glass glory of an office building six months ago, just days before Christmas, most thought it was a joke. There was even some jostling in the parking lot that led to handcuffs and stern words. But as the sun set that afternoon, the mood changed. The manic chase for fun that had dominated company events outside the office twisted into the competitive paranoia that had reigned within. Sunset started with whispers, speculation, and glares. Darkness descended in silence with the FBI releasing anxious employees by department late into the night.

  Though unstated, Alyssa assumed a “Don’t leave town” was implied that night. After all, they’d shut the doors, taken away the CEO, and set up interviews for the executives, who lawyered
up right on the spot. And the rest of them followed suit, hiring lawyers within the next two days. Yet to Alyssa’s surprise, her lawyer, a young gunner at Perkins and Coie costing $250 an hour, told her that within those two days a lot of XGC employees fled town.

  “As long as the FBI knows where to find you, it shouldn’t be a problem. You need work, and in a post-Theranos Silicon Valley, no company will want the liability of an XGC hire.”

  Alyssa dismissed his counsel that day, certain he was wrong. She needed him to be wrong—going home wasn’t an option. But after sending forty resumes across the country with no reply, and sitting through seventeen failed interviews locally, home was now her only option.

  As she shoved the box into her car, her mind cast back to her last-ditch effort, only days before, to remain in Palo Alto.

  Interview seventeen began like all the others . . .

  “You have an impressive resume. Other than the hiccup at Vita XGC.” The older woman’s voice arced as she peered over her bright red readers.

  Alyssa knew it was a question. She knew what the woman was after. It was the story everyone wanted and, Alyssa suspected, the only reason she’d been granted her seventeen interviews in the first place. She sat silent. She had quit trying to profess ignorance to XGC’s perfidy at interview six and her innocence halfway through interview nine.

  The woman tried a fresh tack. She offered a smile that only curled up on one edge as she leaned forward, inviting Alyssa into her confidence. “What do the letters stand for, anyway? XGC. I’ve always wondered.”

  That was a question Alyssa could answer. “The X was for next gen and GC are Tag’s initials. His real name is Gabriel. Vita, vital good health, next gen Gabriel Connelly.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The woman guffawed. “The great Tag, the great humanitarian, Architect of Predictive Medicine, Preserver of the People, named his company after himself. Called himself next gen and vital. That should have told us all something.”

  Alyssa clamped her mouth shut, embarrassed she hadn’t peeled back more of the subtext on that one herself. Three years ago, when she had been flown out to Palo Alto and housed at the Four Seasons Hotel by that very Tag, she’d bought his whole story.