Rocky set down his cup. “You’ve really got this figured out.”
“I’ve got the product figured out,” Jo said. “That’s the part I know. The beans and roast profiles, the sourcing, and the women behind every cup. I can taste the difference between a Colombia Huila and a Colombia Nariño blindfolded.” She paused. “The business side is where I’m still learning.”
“You’ve come a long way. I imagine you’ve got this.”
Jo hesitated. This was the part she didn’t like saying out loud. She lowered her voice. She hadn’t told Hugo or anyone else about this.
“Not as much as I’d like. A while back, I contracted with a manufacturer to handle my packaging and production for the retail bags. This guy out of L.A. came recommended. Supposedly, he had experience with specialty coffee brands. He showed me a whole portfolio of work he’d done. So I mortgaged the diner to fund the first production run.”
Rocky’s expression didn’t change, but she saw him set down his cup. He was listening intently.
“What happened?”
“Well, I went to see the facility last week.” Jo fidgeted with the edge of a dishcloth behind the counter as she spoke. She could only imagine what Rocky was thinking, but she’d come this far, and it felt good to unload this burden with someone who wasn’t a local and wouldn’t judge her.
“When I got there, the packaging he showed me looked cheap and generic. It was nothing like what we discussed. And the sample roast? Oh my gosh, it tasted terrible.”
She pulled a thread on the dishcloth until it snapped.
Rocky lifted an eyebrow. “He couldn’t fool you, could he?”
“I knew he’d substituted something cheaper. The beans weren’t the same grade, and I could taste it the second it hit my tongue. My women grew those beans and hand-sorted them. And this guy swapped them out for bargain-bin robusta and thought I was some uneducated airhead who wouldn’t notice the difference. He blew up and argued with me, so I canceled the agreement, even though he said I couldn’t. But I would never sell what he was trying to push on me.”
Rocky nodded. “You caught him and called him out. That’s why he got mad. As for the contract, you should have an attorney write a strong letter to get you out of it. If you don’t have one, I could do it for you and have a lawyer friend look it over and send it. That will free you up to go ahead with your plan and shouldn’t cost you anything.”
The diner was quiet except for the countertop roaster ticking softly. Outside, through the window under the red neon sign with its vintage clock, traffic rolled past on Orange Avenue. A car turned in, and a couple crossed the street.
Her regulars were arriving.
“I put everything I had into this. If he can’t deliver, or won’t return my money, I’m out the investment, but I still owe on the second mortgage.”
“If you want, I can help you get your beans and business in order. I haven’t gotten a job yet, but I’m trying to get an interview with Ryan Kingsley at the Majestic Hotel. I’m not asking for you to pay me. I could use the experience for my resume—and some good coffee. Will you let me help you?”
For a moment, Jo thought of resisting the offer.
But she glanced at Hugo in his booth, bent over his textbook with his earbuds in. She’d raised that kid. She’d bought a rundown lavender house on Sunshine Avenue and made it a home. She’d turned this diner into the place to be on Crown Island. Everything she had, she’d achieved on her own.
And she stood to lose it all.
“That’s a deal,” she said. “All the coffee you can drink. I’ll even throw in my famous sweet potato fries with garlic aioli.”
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why didn’t you go direct from the start? For the house blend, too. You found the Kona grower on your own. You have the Oakland broker for importing. Why use a separate guy for the production?”
“Good question.” Jo had asked herself the same thing.
“I know coffee,” she said. “But I don’t know manufacturing. I didn’t trust that I could figure out that and the distribution at scale. I needed someone who knew that and had access to specialty grocery stores. Or so I thought.” She looked at him, slightly embarrassed. “I trusted the wrong guy.”
Customers began to file in, and Candy stepped up to give them menus and lead them to tables.
“Here come the regulars.” Jo hastily picked up an invoice beside the register a supplier had left for her. She saw Rocky read the name printed at the top: Josephine Dufour, d/b/a Cuppa Jo’s.
“Josephine,” he said, like he was filing it away.
“Jo,” she corrected. “Always Jo.”
