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“Do you want to know what I think?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m going to make us cappuccinos, and tell you.”
She went behind the bar to the coffee station and began.
“It’s just day one, and you won’t pack them in like this routinely.”
“Oh.” Audrey’s jazz hands dropped with flicks of her fingers. “Bubble burst!”
“But”—amused, Morgan glanced back at the table—“you have an unqualified hit on your hands. And here, as I see it, is why.”
The machine hissed as it steamed milk.
“First, you have a lovely venue and you paid attention to the small details. It matters. You’ve put together a good staff. A couple of the new hires don’t quite have their rhythm, but they’re on the way. You, both of you, treat your employees with respect and, boy, does that matter.”
She trayed the three coffees, added spoons and a sugar bowl, then carried the tray to the table.
“I don’t know your business plan, and don’t need to. But I do know you’re serving an excellent product and doing it with class, casually, as the venue calls for. But.”
“Uh-oh,” Audrey muttered.
“You need one more hire. You’re going to need—especially during high seasons—someone who can transition from business to business. Someone who can serve wine, make coffee, bus a table in a pinch, wait tables in that pinch, and handle retail in the shop. Someone knowledgeable or trained to be knowledgeable enough about the art, the crafts, and those who create them so they can answer questions. There were questions, and the staff—including this volunteer—had to refer the questions to you or one of the staff in the shop.”
“You make a good point. Want the job?”
Morgan shook her head at her grandmother. “It’s not what I’m best at. What you need is a coordinator, a kind of utility player. You’ve got time to find the right fit. And once you have that in place, you really need to do a photo book, with recipes from the café’s kitchen and bar, with some of the arts and crafts included. Photos of wine, for instance, in glasses sold next door. The café’s coffee cake displayed on one of your dishes, biscotti arranged on another, and like that. Youhave a local photographer do the pictures—that keeps it with your mission statement—and you sell it here, exclusively.”
Olivia sat back. “Listen to you! I’m cursed with clever progeny.”
“You started it,” Audrey reminded her. “A photo book, like a coffee-table book. I can see it! You know who’d be great for the photos?”
“Tory Phelps,” they said together.
“Hive mind.” Olivia held up a hand. “The new hire first. Morgan’s right there. The days of either of us working eight to ten hours a day, seven days a week, are done, Audrey.”
“Agreed. But I can feel Tory out, just see how much she thinks she’d charge for something like this. That way we’d know if it’s even feasible. She’s good,” she told Morgan. “We carry some of her work in the shop, had a showing for her last year. She teaches photography at the community college.”
“Your mother does love a new project.”
“She does.” Morgan looked around the café. “This one turned out really well.”
“Can’t argue with truth.” Olivia gave her daughter’s hand a pat. “Now, let’s get our tired butts home. This one has a job interview tomorrow and needs a good night’s sleep.”
She didn’t get one, not when her mind refused to turn off.
What if she didn’t get the job? She could look elsewhere, of course she could. But…
Should she tell her ladies she’d take that coordinator’s job? She could handle it. She could learn about the arts, the crafts, the artisans and artists and craftspeople. She already knew how to manage staff, how to manage a business.
Maybe it was time to put away her goals and dreams and accept what stood in front of her.
But she wasn’t ready to, not ready to just bury everything she’d worked toward.
Still, if she worked five years, lived here and worked and saved, she might be able to really start again.
Maybe.
