Page 13 of Christmas Coffee

Celyn

Ihate holidays. They sting and seem to draw attention to everything I lost. There are no warm memories to cherish. Holidays with Dad are fuzzy recollections at best, and there’s nothing of Mom. I don’t remember the sound of her voice or the feel of her arms around me. I know she was there in the beginning, but not having the memory of her scent and her touch feels like a piece of me is missing.

I’m at Quin’s Long Island home, sitting in the kitchen, stealing small parfaits off a silver tray while the staff hurries around the large white room, chopping, seasoning, and cooking a Thanksgiving meal fit for a king.

Quin sits on a stainless steel countertop across from me, dangling his feet off the sides. He pops a pastry into his mouth—a puff of the lightest buttery potatoes you’ve ever tasted coupled with a tiny bit of something that tastes like gravy and bacon bits, all inside a flaky golden crust. It takes a lot of self-control to not eat the entire tray.

Quin licks his fingers and then smooths his dark green sweater. “So, five grand and forty days. What the hell is that supposed to prove anyway? I could make five grand in my sleep.”

“Doing what?” I feel my face pinch together as I wait for an answer, and he has none. I lift a hand and point out. “That’s the problem. It takes money to make money. If you have no fucking capital, it’s a lot harder. That’s the point. This whole thing is a test. If I don’t pass, then I’ll lose everything I’ve tried to accomplish.”

Quin nods, his brows pulling together. “No more payouts?”

I shake my head and pop another pastry in my mouth. “No. The will assumed succession at age thirty-five. Dad didn’t think I’d fail. The letter he wrote seemed to be an afterthought, a way out in case I didn’t want the company.”

Quin plucks another delicacy off a passing crudité tray and pops it into his mouth. When he finishes chewing he asks, “So you need a customer base that already wants whatever you sell. You don’t have time or money for ads. You need people lined up from day one.”

“With minimal overhead, and a skeleton crew to staff the place. And I think it needs to be a consumable product. Something that people come back for over and over again. Something cheap that I can get my hands on today. I can’t get stuck waiting on a truck for deliveries that never show.”

Something clatters on the other side of the kitchen and the chef swears. A maid rushes by and cleans up the fallen tray as more kitchen workers walk around her like she’s not there. There’s a hum to this place, the way people work together to make fine food at all hours of the day is alluring. It’s not frantic, but it moves quickly. I’ve always admired Rupert, Quin’s chef, and the way he runs the kitchen.

Rupert is an older man, thick through the middle, dressed in a perfectly pressed white chef’s coat with gray pants. He walks to us with a kettle in his hand, “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

Quin nods. “Coffee.”

I can actually feel my brain thinking. It takes the concept, crunches numbers swiftly and I blink it away. Those numbers aren’t wholesale. The markup is there, but I hesitate.

Rupert is watching me, waiting for my answer. Instead, I ask, “Where do you get your coffee?”

He seems startled. Rupert smiles kindly and explains, “From a handful of suppliers. Then we make the blend in the kitchen, one for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. Plus seasonal blends and special creations for parties.”

I can see it, I know what I need to do. Coffee. It’s a highly consumed product. It’s like milk—they use it as an example in business classes. Everyone needs it. Everyone sells it. It’s the repetitive nature of the consumer purchasing the milk from one place that makes it a profitable item to sell. The same thing could be said about coffee. People are crazy about their caffeinated cup of java. The markup is easily three hundred percent. Add things like soft drinks that have a four thousand percent markup and I can see it working.

I’ve been quiet too long. Rupert is still standing in front of me. “Can I watch you make the blend?”

Rupert beams with pride and nods. “Certainly. There’s nothing to it.” I follow him across the kitchen with Quin on my heels. The guy has known me forever and knows I’ve thought of something.

“Coffee? Are you serious? You don’t have the money to open a shop and hire a bunch of baristas.” Quin talks to my back, and shakes his head. But I feel it. I’m onto something viable, something that I can manage with the five grand and not piss it away. He’s right though. Rent will eat too much of the startup funds.

Holding up a hand, I turn on my foot and look back at him, while trailing Rupert. “Those are logistics, Quin. We’ve got a consumable product and it’s cold outside. People are shopping like mad after today, so we should be where the people are already going.”

Quin frowns. “Are you fucking serious? You want to open a kiosk at the mall?”

“Hell no. That thing would cost more than we have and no one is cold once they’re inside. We need one of those portable buildings outside the mall.”

Quin frowns and stops. “A roach coach? You want to sell coffee from a fucking truck? Have you lost your mind?”

Rupert grabs three bags of coffee and a few spices, grinds the beans, and puts it into a percolator. Within moments the scent hits me hard. The guy has always made superb coffee, but I never really thought about it. His coffee was one of the things I liked the most about eating at Quin’s—I looked forward to it, craved it. I tell him what I’m thinking. “If I could come up with a blend even half as delicious as yours, I’ll be able to fix this mess.”

“There’s no need to start at the beginning. Use my blends.”

Shocked, I stand there and blink. “Really? No, I couldn’t do that.” This guy spent years perfecting his recipes. I can’t use it. It’d be like stealing from him.

Rupert clasps a thick hand on my shoulder. “You will do it, because you’re a good man and I want to help you. I’ll write them down for you, and make some suggestions to cut costs.”

Rupert hands me a cup when it’s ready, as I pick his brain about beans and suppliers. Rupert pours a cup for himself last, and then leans a hip against the counter next to Quin. Rupert explains, “There’s a place where you can purchase open crate items at a fraction of the price. It’s the same beans. They’ve either spilled or were an overage that another establishment refused.”

I lean against the counter, sipping the rich, hot beverage and try not to moan as the heat slides down my throat. “Can you explain to me why I would want those beans if they were refused?”

“That’s like picking beans out of the trash.” Quin frowns and then follows a server with a silver tray out of the kitchen.

Rupert smiles kindly. “Quin is a smart man and typically sees opportunities to turn a profit. The price of gourmet beans for making several different blends is expensive. Using the open bags, when possible, will give you a greater profit margin. With today being a holiday, I bet you anything that the distributor has an overage right now that he’d sell off if you offered the right price.”

“Thank you, Rupert. I mean that. You’ve been incredibly helpful. But I still need to get creamer, milk, and a machine to make this stuff. Add in the rent and the personnel, and I don’t know.” I shake my head without realizing it. Rent alone will devour most of my cash.

Rupert presses his lips together firmly and then says, “If I may be so bold, I would suggest creating a reason, in addition to the fine coffee, to lure people to your location. Something that will create chatter and advertise for you.”

Quin struts back in, hands in his pockets, and overhears the last few words. “Oh, you know what would have everyone talking? If you made the place like Hooters, with amazing girls wearing next to nothing. I’d pay extra for that.”

I laugh for a second and then think about it. The image, the brand, is as important as the product. I could have something amazing and if people aren’t talking about it, no one will come. I point at Quin and then slap my palms together. “That my friend, is an excellent idea. We need to hit the ground running, and that would do it.”

I smile as all the pieces come together in my mind. I can see it, the whole thing. It’s a machine of many parts and when they’re all working in sync, I’ll have something amazing.