Six years later, I’m the general manager of the shop and still, it’s so very inadequate compared to the success of the lovely creature hugging me tight.
At least, that’s how I feel when I’m in her presence.
When I’m not around my crazily successful and put together sister, I feel good about my life and where I am. Maybe that’s why I don’t hang with her as much as she’d like—because she makes me consider the awful possibility I could be more.
Fallon’s hands grip my shoulders, and she stares at me pointedly. “You promise you’ll be at my condo by five?”
“I promise,” I reply emphatically, making a mental note to call Rich to let him know I’ll need to leave a bit early. He won’t care because I rarely miss work and I always bust my ass.
Fallon gives me one last smile—and yes, I can see some skepticism in it—and then she strides out with her designer soy drink in hand.
* * *
As the general manager of One Bean, I used to work eight to five with my assistant managers under me working split shifts to cover the hours before and after. Over the past six months, though, Rich has been spending more time away and has turned over more of the business responsibilities to me to handle.
It means more hours, but I don’t mind in the slightest, and my preference is to work later rather than coming in earlier. I’ve always been a night owl by nature.
I’ve come to deeply love this place in the past six years, and I have a very personal stake in it now. Its success is important to me, just as Rich has become important to me over the years.
It’s been eleven years since my father died, and he can never be replaced in my heart. But Rich has managed to settle himself into a small corner of mine. In addition to the respect I have for him as my employer, I’ve come to love the man since I started working for him.
My day here is almost over and I want to say goodbye, so I go to Rich’s office. After giving a short rap of my knuckles on the door casing, I walk in without waiting for his bidding.
Rich Cardello would never be considered a handsome man. He has a heavily wrinkled face, bulbous nose, and receding hairline. He’s a big man, but his barrel chest is starting to migrate a little south.
Still, he’s not an ugly man. He has this charisma about him—an energetic charm—that makes people take a second look. With his warm brown eyes, genuine smile, and mellow laugh, he makes people feel like they’ve known him forever.
He lifts his head, his smile welcoming. “Getting ready to head out?”
Nodding, I lean against the doorjamb, glancing at the receipts he’s going through. “You didn’t have to come in to do that. I was going to come in early tomorrow to finish it up.”
Rich waves an impatient hand, scoffing as his attention goes back down to the stack of papers before him. “Nonsense. You work too hard as it is.”
As I worked my way up the ranks of One Bean over the years, Rich entrusted me with more of the high-level stuff. He taught me how to balance the books, handle payroll, and manage people. I learned inventory, how to negotiate with vendors, and even took trips with him to trade shows where we’d sample roasted arabica for our regular brews and robust for our espressos, choosing new brands to showcase.
As Rich taught me more about the coffee shop business, he started to spend more time away. It was gradual and at first, I didn’t notice it. One day, though, I realized he hadn’t come in for almost a solid week. I had a minor freak out, thought the worst—that he was dying—and showed up at his house, banging on the door to demand answers.
He’d laughed, a big and boisterous sound from deep within that burgeoning belly, and told me he was in fine health but was just enjoying what he called “the Finley Porter early retirement program”. He’d sat me down in his living room, explaining I was doing such a great job of running the business that he was enjoying the time off.
“Hell,” he said with a big cheesy grin. “I’ve actually developed a hobby. Woodworking.”
That afternoon, I spent an hour at Rich’s house while he showed me the new woodshop he set up in the garage and several pieces of furniture he’d made. It was good stuff—not like what my dad used to make—and I was quite impressed. The important thing was that he was fine and healthy, and he valued what I was doing for him.
It was then I’d known I was on some sort of path that may have been fated. I’d realized I really loved doing what I was doing. I had found my passion.