Page 41 of The Fall Classic

Why am I dwelling on any of this? None of it matters right now. I’m pulling into the Sugar Maple Farms factory lot, and my spot is marked by cones with a sign out front.

The espresso machine has been on long enough (and I was gone short enough) that when I park and pull my first test shot, it runs exactly right—deep amber, slow to a stop, good crema sitting on top like it should.

I exhale.

And by the time I breathe in, I have a customer.

***

By ten fifteen the line has stretched to seven, which is good for a Sunday. After a lifetime of working in a coffee shop, I can read a line like a menu. The two men in work boots near the front will want black coffee. That woman in her thirties in a business suit is going to take a while debating before she orders her regular. The three people on their phones will want as much caffeine as possible, as quickly as possible.

I start the black coffees before the men reach the window.

The woman who always deliberates starts deliberating.

“What to get? What to get?” she asks, frowning at the menu.

She does this every day, and every day, she decides on the flat white. So I start assembling it in the background, locking the portafilter into the grinder to start grinding the beans. If I’m wrong I’ll make something else, but I’m not wrong.

“Ooh, lavender syrup,” she muses. “That sounds interesting.”

I remove the portafilter and tamps the grounds flat.

“It’s really good,” I say down to her.

She looks so torn, I decide to make a decision for her. She wants to be adventurous and safe at the same time.

I can do that.

I pump lavender syrup into her cup before hitting brew, watching as the espresso pours over the syrup.

“Oh, I guess I’ll just have a flat white,” she says.

I pour cold milk into a pitcher and steam it into a silky texture while the brewing finishes. I take the cup, swirl the espresso to dissolve the syrup, and then I set the cup down and grab my steamed milk, tapping the pitcher to pop the milk bubbles before pouring a thin stream into the center.

I smile at the perfect velvet finish and put the lid on, handing it to her.

“That was fast,” she says, taking it gratefully. She smells it and then her eyes zip up to mine. “What is that incredible smell?”

“Lavender syrup. If you don’t like it, it’s on the house and I’ll make you a new one for free.”

She takes a sip that has to be way too hot, but her eyes brighten. “It’s delicious. Thank you!”

I grin and take her payment and then move on to take the next order.

Between customers, I pull out the small notebook I keep on the shelf and make a note to buy more lavender syrup. The notebook has months of notes and adjustments indexed by category the way my supply chain management professor taught.

If Marlowe has ever wondered how I figure these things out, she’s never asked.

I wish she would.

I wish she noticed or cared. I wish she’d tell me she’s impressed by how I’ve managed to make the truck so successful in so short a time.

I would give a limb to hear her say she’s proud of me, even if I try to pretend I’ve grown out of that phase.

I don’t know if a person can ever outgrow needing a mother’s love.

Marlowe arrives at quarter to eleven without fanfare. She simply walks up to the window in a silk blouse, tailored trousers, and kitten heels. She looks at the line, where three customers are waiting, then at the setup, then at me. She waits until the customers are done, her eyes darting around, looking for what’s wrong. When they flick to me, I feel that familiar sense that I’ve been added to the “wrong” tally.