Once upon a time the structure had been a guest house for the large home on the adjoining property. Both had been built well before air-conditioning or the Causeway, when wealthy New Orleanians had escaped the stifling heat of summer by trekking to the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain and the fabulous homes they had built along the lake.
She had found and fallen in love with the dilapidated cottage, and bought it-despite Richard's argument that it would cost too much to build out, that a location more on the beaten path, in one of the shopping areas or strip malls, would attract more patrons.
Kate had stuck to her guns and as she had known they would, customers had found her. None of the other coffee cafés had what she had: a panoramic view of Lake Pontchartrain, century-old live oak trees in whose high, thick branches egrets roosted at dusk, a feeling of history, and an undeniable charm that was the Old South.
Her regulars weren't the strip mall types. They weren't the two-point-two kids, minivan-and-dog types that heavily populated Mandeville. No, The Uncommon Bean seemed to draw the North Shore's uncommon residents. Artists and writers, college students and misfits, retired professionals, freethinkers, debaters and loners.
Even her employees were unique. Sometimes too much so, Kate thought as she stepped through The Bean's front door only to discover her two managers, Marilyn and Blake, deep into one of their famous discussions. She shook her head. Anyone who didn't know them would swear not only that they were arguing, but that they hated each other as well.
And no wonder; the two couldn't be more different. Marilyn was a blond bombshell with a Minnie Mouse voice and an IQ to rival Einstein's. At twenty-five, she was working on her fourth college degree, this one in ancient religions. Blake, on the other hand, at twenty-eight, was still on his first go-round at college. Gay and proud of it, he was outspoken, funny and a bit too flamboyant to be living comfortably on the rather conservative North Shore. But he did anyway, he said, because he liked the trees.
Their heated discussions had become legendary with the regulars. Some swore they came in not for the coffee, but to witness the fireworks. Even so, the two never got truly angry with one another and made a good working team.
"Honey," Blake drawled to Marilyn as Kate approached, "I'm telling you, when it comes to size, all races have not been created equal."
Marilyn made a sound of disgust. "Not only are you gross, but you're playing to cliché and racial stereotype. A civilization that depends on stereotypes-"
"Excuse me," Blake interrupted, placing his fists on his hips and cocking his head at her. "But just how do you think clichés get started?"
"Usually as a form of hatred and oppression." Marilyn swiped at a spot of water on the counter, her cheeks pink. "My God, as a gay man, I'd think you'd be more sensitive to this sort of thing."
"Exactly. I mean, just for argument's sake, how many big, black-"
"Enough, guys!" Kate said, stepping in. "This is inappropriate. We have customers."
"S'okay with me," called Peter, a regular sitting in the booth closest the register. "I was kind of getting into it."
"Me, too." Joanie, a romance writer and another regular, said as she sauntered to the counter for a refill. "Grist for the mill and all that."
"No," Blake murmured. "Kate's right. But before we move on to a less…controversial subject, I feel obligated to say one more thing. Anyone who says size isn't important, either has a teeny little wienie or is having a relationship with one."
Marilyn gasped, Joanie nearly choked on her refill, and Kate fought back a laugh. Before Kate could reprimand her employee, Peter chimed in, "I've never said that, Blake. Believe me. Quite the contrary, I always say size is the most important thing."
That brought a fresh round of giggles and groans from the group. Just as it looked as if the conversation were going to slip back into the realm of the totally inappropriate, a mother and her two young children entered The Bean. Marilyn and Blake became instantly professional.
Kate shook her head, fighting a sound of amused exasperation. She could imagine Richard's reaction if he'd witnessed the goings-on at The Bean. He already thought the place a nuthouse; no doubt he would judge them all, including her, certifiable.
She glanced at Marilyn and Blake, chatting with the woman as they filled her order, then smiled. She enjoyed The Uncommon Bean. She enjoyed the people, the ones who became regulars and the ones who only stopped by occasionally. She enjoyed her employees, their eccentricities, being involved in their lives.
Though her first love was art, she had decided early on that she was not going the starving artist route. She had grown up with that. Living hand-to-mouth, from sale to sale, watching her parents wait with growing bitterness for the recognition that had never come. Seeing how disappointment had sucked the life out of their marriage.
They had divorced the year Kate graduated from Tulane. The year after that her mother had been killed in a traffic accident, and her father had left New Orleans to become artist-in-residence at an art colony north of San Francisco. Though they spoke often and affectionately, geographical distance kept them from spending much time together.
No, after watching her parents Kate had decided on a degree in business and had relegated her beloved art to a hobby. Now, instead of on gallery walls, her stained glass creations hung in every window of The Bean. She created them because she loved the craft. Not for money. Not for recognition. Now and then she sold a piece, and when she did she was pleased. It was freeing not having to deal with the pressure of having to sell.
Kate knew how lucky she was. She could have been stuck working nine to five, pushing papers in a job she derived little pleasure from. And doing it day after day, just to keep a roof over her head.
And she would have, and made the best of it, because she was a practical person.
Something Luke had never been able to understand.
Funny, she thought, picturing him in her mind's eye. They had both come from low-income homes, both had attended Tulane on scholarship. Yet Luke had been determined to stick to his dream of being a novelist. He had refused to even consider journalism or copywriting. He had believed in himself that much.
What would it be like to have that kind of confidence? she wondered. To have that much courage?
The woman and her children served, Kate motioned to her managers. "If I can trust you two to keep your conversation respectable, I'll be in my office working on payroll." Kate looked from one to the other. "That is, if you want to get paid today?"
"Go…go." Blake waved her toward the back. "I'm broke."
Marilyn clucked her tongue. "You need to manage your finances better. There will be a tomorrow, you know."
He sniffed. "Words of wisdom from the queen of the college loans."
"Screw you."
"Sorry, darlin'," he drawled, "but you're not my type."
"You don't have to worry about me keeping it respectable, Kate," Marilyn said, looking pointedly at Blake. "I have the ability to think about other things."
Kate threw up her hands. "You two will never change.
I'm going to stop trying, just don't scare all the customers away. Okay?"
Not waiting for a response, Kate made her way to her office, checking supplies as she did, making notes of what she needed to order. The time cards were stacked neatly on her desk, waiting for her. With a sigh, she took a seat and got to work.
She had only been at it a few minutes when Blake tapped on her open door. "We have a problem."
She looked up and motioned him in. "What's up?"
"It's the baker. Again. He didn't show Saturday. Consequently, we were out of half our pastries before the after-movie crowd even arrived."