Pumpkin Spice Up Your Life Read online

  Elle sipped hers. “Mmm. It’s delish. Thanks.”

  “Yay!” Kiya gave a mini clap, then glanced at me, waiting.

  I picked up the mug—my special YOU HAD ME AT CELLO mug, which had never been used to make my Pumpkin Spice Supreme by anyone other than Daniel. For a split second, I wished that something would be wrong with the drink, so that I could point it out to Kiya. When I took a sip, though, I tasted perfection. In fact, if Kiya hadn’t admitted it, I never would’ve known the difference between her coffee and Daniel’s.

  “It’s great,” I said quickly just as Daniel came over.

  “I’m so relieved,” Kiya said.

  “I told you they’d love them,” he said to her. “We’ll tackle chai lattes next.”

  I waited for him to plop down in the nearby beanbag to hang out for a bit. But he just kept beaming at Kiya.

  The spell was only broken when Kiya noticed her dad coming down the stairs from the loft. “Look what I made, Dad.” She proudly pointed out our drinks.

  “Great job, hon,” he said absently as he thumbed through a pile of papers in his hand. “I’ve got to ask Marley about these inventory lists.” He scanned the shop until he spotted Marley at the cash register. “And about cleaning out that loft space ASAP.”

  “Why’s he cleaning the loft?” I asked Kiya as Mr. Renaud headed in Marley’s direction.

  “He’s planning to put café tables upstairs so we have more room for customers.” Kiya glanced over her shoulder toward the sales counter. “I better go help with orders.” She smiled at us. “Thanks for being my guinea pigs. See you later!”

  I watched her go, then turned to Daniel, my heart hammering. “They can’t put tables in the loft! That’s our—” Hangout was what I wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, I tried to swallow down the uncomfortable lump in my throat.

  Dan looked at me with that one-of-a-kind Daniel expression that made me feel like he totally got me. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “we’ll find a new spot for Code Reds.”

  But the relief I hoped to feel at his words didn’t come.

  “I’m going home.” I stood suddenly, and Elle and Daniel both looked surprised.

  “Everything okay?” Daniel asked.

  I shouldered my bag. “I want to do some work on my audition pieces, that’s all.” I smiled a goodbye, but it felt tight and unnatural.

  As soon as I was outside, the smile slipped from my face. I liked my life orderly and predictable. But now there was talk of renovating the Snug Mug, and for the first time ever, Daniel hadn’t been the one to make me my drink. All I wanted to do right now was go home and feel my cello’s strings under my fingertips. My bow singing across the strings, my music resonating from deep inside my cello’s heart—those were certain and unchangeable. They were what I needed right now.

  A crisp breeze was blowing as I reached our porch, and my mood lifted at the sight of the dancing leaves. I loved playing my cello in front of our large family-room window this time of year. Gazing out on the sunset-hued maple trees, I’d find rhythms in the twists and twirls of fiery leaves that I’d mimic on the cello.

  For a split second before I opened the door, I imagined Dad being on the other side of it, maybe fixing something for dinner (besides our weekly chili staple). I imagined the two of us talking easily, the way I’d hear Elle talking to her mom when I was over at the Castillos’ house. Elle’s house was full of dropped backpacks, her brothers’ ice hockey gear, and the warm scent of her mom’s famous paella.

  But as I walked into my own house now, all I found was a note from Dad on the entryway table, telling me he might be late tonight. He’d had to drive out to Burlington to meet with a professor of dendrology to discuss a problem with diseased elms.

  I sighed, about to turn away from the note, when the blinking light on our landline caught my eye. We had a new voice mail. I picked up the phone to listen, and my stomach fell at the sound of an oddly-still-familiar voice from the past.

  “Hi, Mike … and Nadi. This is Robin.” It had been months since I’d actually heard my mom’s voice, but I could tell by its slight waver that she was nervous. “I’m settled in my new apartment, and I wanted to give you my home number. You have my cell, but … I want … I plan to be more reachable now.” A string of numbers followed, and then a long pause. I wondered if she’d hung up. Then she added a rushed, “I hope you’ll call me.”

  I barely registered the message ending with a soft click. I kept the phone to my ear.

  I plan to be more reachable, she’d said. Was I supposed to read that as a peace offering or a veiled apology? I hardly knew, and I didn’t care, either.

  I took a deep breath and deleted the voice mail. I wouldn’t tell Dad anything about the message. The evidence had been erased, and I could move on and forget about it, once and for all.

  But an hour of belabored cello practice later, my resolve wasn’t working. I’d waited in vain to find that blissful moment when I got so completely lost in the music that everything else faded away. It wasn’t happening. And I wasn’t moving on from Mom’s message, either. I was stuck.

  Sighing, I texted Daniel: Can you come over? We can watch The 100.

  I thought for sure Daniel would jump at my offer. The 100 was his current dystopian-TV obsession. But when his response finally came, I frowned at my screen.

  Can’t tonight. Staying late at work to help Kiya. Rain check?

  I slumped back in my chair, stunned. I couldn’t remember Daniel ever saying no to our hang time before. I picked up my cello with newfound zeal. Fine, then. If Daniel was too busy to come over, I was too busy to have him over. I poised my bow over the cello, and then swooped down on the strings violently, ripping into Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Bumblebee” with a vengeance. My left hand flew up and down the cello’s neck while my right drew the bow across the strings in a frantic seesaw. Soon my fingers and arms burned, but I didn’t quit. I ripped through a dozen of the fastest pieces I knew, and then worked on my audition piece, picking it apart to perfect it, measure by measure.

  I had goals. I knew what I wanted and that my cello was my golden ticket. I wouldn’t think about Daniel or my mom. I wouldn’t think about anything else.

  I woke to the jarring vibration of my phone on the pillow beside my head. I reached for it without opening my eyes, planning to turn it off. Today was Saturday, I remembered groggily, and I’d practiced until after midnight. Dad had come home around nine to find me sweating through my third hour of playing, but he knew better than to try to convince me to quit. When I binge-practiced, nothing could stop me. Now, though, I was entitled to a decent sleep-in.

  But as I glanced at my phone, I saw a text from Daniel. He had new coffee ideas for tomorrow’s Fallfest, and he wanted me to meet him at the Snug Mug for taste testing. I had to laugh. Maybe this could be a chance for us to have one-on-one time, to fix whatever weirdness had suddenly cropped up between us.

  I texted him back, and pulled on my favorite yoga pants and hoodie. Five minutes later, I was on my way to the Snug Mug, the memory of yesterday’s bad mood fading in the face of the crisp breeze. I was smiling to myself as I passed the Sandersons’ now-finished hay bale dragon, which loomed at an impressive height and had been spray-painted green.

  Suddenly I was hit squarely in the face by a handful of leaves.

  “Wha—?” I exclaimed, then shrieked as Daniel leapt out from behind the dragon’s tail, more leaves ready in his fists.

  “Gotcha!” he cried gleefully, laughing.

  Not about to let him get away with his leaf bombing, I spotted an enormous leaf pile in front of Sweetie Pie’s Bakery and made a dive for it. I wasn’t quick enough, though, because Daniel caught me around the middle, and then we were both falling sideways into the pile.

  Leaves exploded around us as we laughed breathlessly and tried to stuff leaves into each other’s jacket collars. Suddenly, we were nose to nose, the brilliant leaves a prism of color around us. My pulse thundered
as we locked eyes, and my heart fluttered inexplicably.

  Then, just like that, we were pulling apart, both of our faces flushed from laughter and exertion. Daniel offered me a hand to help me to my feet, but there was a minute where neither one of us knew where to look or what to say, and we both focused sheepishly on the ground. Then he cleared his throat and nudged my shoulder, grinning. “I so had you, didn’t I?”

  I pshawed and nudged him back, and then we were in sync again, razzing each other as we walked the last few steps to the Snug Mug. When we opened the shop’s door, we found Marley on the other side of it, two large boxes balanced in his arms.

  “I’ve got to take these last few boxes home.” He looked at Daniel. “You okay to hold down the fort before Mr. Renaud comes to open up shop?”

  “Aye, aye, cap’n,” Daniel said.

  As I shrugged off my coat, Daniel busied himself behind the counter, pulling half a dozen ingredients from the cabinets. When I joined him, he cocked his head at me.

  “So … how many hours did you practice last night, anyway?”

  He knew me too well. I held up my left hand, fingers spread to show all five. “I’ve never been so thankful for calluses in my entire life.”

  He whistled low. “You haven’t practiced like that since last Christmas Eve.”

  “You mean the Christmas Eve where my mom promised she’d call and didn’t?” I bristled at the memory of watching It’s a Wonderful Life in a purgatorial loop as I waited pointlessly by the phone.

  He nodded. “That was the one. She had a good excuse, though.”

  “Right. I think last year’s was digging a fresh water well for a village in Cambodia.” My anger at Mom always came with a fresh helping of guilt on the side, because it wasn’t as if she’d left me to sail around the world on a yacht, or even to start another family. She was actually helping the world, which made it doubly hard to hate her for it.

  “This is exactly why I don’t need her back in my life. Her promises don’t mean anything.” I spat the words out.

  “Hey, hey,” Daniel said gently. “I didn’t mean to open Pandora’s box. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s me.” I stared at the floor. “I wasn’t going to tell you, or anybody, but …” I sighed. “Mom left us a voice mail. It’s official. She’s moved back stateside. I …” I shrugged, then blurted, “I freaked out and deleted the message! And I’m not telling Dad about it, either.” I shot him a look. “So don’t try to convince me to.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” When I raised an eyebrow, he added, “Okay, I was going to.”

  “Don’t judge me, all right?” My voice was soft and pleading. “I came to terms with my mom being gone a long time ago. I don’t want a whole other Mom-dram in my life.”

  Daniel fiddled with the lid on the container of milk, then looked at me in complete seriousness. “Nadi, maybe you should just consider the idea?”

  “What?” I stared at him.

  “Your mom might’ve changed. People do. If she wants to try again, then—”

  “You don’t try again after six years!” I exclaimed, beginning to pace. “There’s no coming back from that big of a mistake.”

  “For her or for you?” His eyes were soft with sincere care, but that didn’t stop my anger from flaring.

  I started for the door. “I didn’t come here for this. I’m going to go—”

  “Nadi, whoa, hold up!” He was in front of me before I could take two steps, his hands on my shoulders. I was scowling at the floor, but he leaned down and peered into my eyes so that I had no choice but to look at him. As soon as I saw the regret in his face, my anger weakened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I won’t bring it up again. Deal?”

  I sighed, then nodded. “Deal.” Then I glanced back at the counter. Daniel had set out a bottle of maple syrup, a bag of pecans, cinnamon, and whipped cream. “So … what’s the Daniel special today?”

  As if I were the audience on a cooking show, Daniel raised the bottle of maple syrup, sweeping his hand in front of it. “Today, folks, we’ll be brewing something truly unbe-leaf-able …” I snorted and he mock-glared, then continued, “Don’t go getting all sappy on me now—”

  “That’s it!” I cried. “One more awful pun, and I pull the plug on the machine.” I blocked the espresso machine, but he hip-bumped me out of the way.

  “Don’t disturb the master at his work.”

  “Oh, the master, huh? We’ll see about that. Bring on the coffee challenge.”

  He laughed, then plunked a bag of espresso beans and the bag of pecans into my arms. “First, the grinding. Put the pecans in with the beans, two parts beans to one part pecans.”

  I mock-saluted, then set to work at the coffee grinder while Dan warmed the syrup in the microwave. Once the beans and nuts were blended, Daniel pressed them into the portafilter, and we watched the dark amber liquid stream into the waiting mug.

  “Wow.” I breathed in. “It smells incredible.”

  He nodded. “But it’s about to get even better.” He spooned syrup into the mug, stirred, and then added frothy steamed milk and a beautiful mountain of whipped cream. Atop the cream, he drizzled a thin spiral of maple syrup and a dash of cinnamon and ground chai spices. “Behold, the Maple Madness Latte.” He handed me the cup.

  I laughed, then did my best impression of a snooty food critic, lifting the cup to waft steam toward my upturned nose. “An eau de maple aroma fused with nutty undertones.”

  Daniel patted himself on the back with the air of a world-renowned gourmet.

  I held up a finger to stop him. “But how does it taste? Perhaps Master Chef Cho has taken too great a risk with this unpredictable blend of flavors?”

  “Wait, what?” he balked.

  I added a taunting, “Like Icarus, perhaps he has flown too close to the culinary sun—”

  “That’s it!” He lunged for the mug, laughing. “Give me that cup! I’m taking the first sip. You’re not worthy—”

  I held the mug out of his reach in a fit of giggles. “It’s mine! All mine!”

  Daniel spun me to face him. His hands were warm around my waist, his brown eyes inches from mine. My heart raced as heat flashed over me, and for the second time today, my mind blurred. What was going on? Being this close to Dan had never fazed me before. But this was different. This felt different. This felt like—OMG—flirting?

  My face blazed at the idea, but then the shop’s door flew open, bringing in a gust of frigid air. I instantly stepped back from Dan, flustered.

  “Hey, guys!” Kiya said brightly, stomping her fuzzy, pom-pommed pink boots as she came in.

  Daniel’s eyes lit up. “Hey!” he said. “I’m so glad you made it!”

  “Wait,” I whispered. “You invited her?” He’d never invited anyone else to one of our culinary sessions before, and the fact that he’d invited Kiya, of all people, stung.

  But Daniel nodded like it was no big deal. “Sure,” he whispered back. “She was so excited about learning the ropes yesterday, I looped her in.”

  “Sorry I’m a little late.” Kiya gave the prettiest yawn I’d ever seen.

  “No problem.” Dan grinned at her. “So what sort of cool NYC drinks is your dad thinking of for our Snug Mug? Tell me a few of his faves, and we’ll come up with something he’ll love for the menu.”

  “Actually,” Kiya said, “my dad’s simplifying the menu. He wants more of a European-style café. Classic espressos and cappuccinos.”

  “What do you mean?” I did not like the way this sounded.

  “Well … we have to stock so many different ingredients for these specialty drinks.” She motioned to the maple syrup and pecans on the counter. “That’s a lot of weird ingredients for one cup of coffee.”

  “Not weird,” I blurted. “Unique.”

  “Oh, sure!” Kiya smiled amiably. “That, too! Don’t get me wrong. I loved the Gingerbread Giant I had yesterday. But my dad’s a purist. He believes good coffee doesn’t need bells and whistles.”


  Good coffee? What did she think the Snug Mug’s coffee was? Dirt? The reality of what she was saying struck me full force. “So … no more specialty drinks. At all?”

  She smiled, as if this were good news. “No frills needed.”

  My stomach dropped. No more Pumpkin Spice Supreme? Daniel’s coffee creations extinct forever? I glanced at him worriedly, expecting to see him crestfallen. Instead, he looked thoughtful.

  He opened his mouth, surely about to tell Kiya all the reasons why a boring menu like that would never work here. But instead, he said, “So … a more sophisticated coffeehouse. Cool.”

  My jaw dropped. Who was this person standing before me, calmly accepting the demise of his creations?

  “When?” The word rang loudly through the shop, and they glanced at me in surprise.

  “What do you mean?” Kiya asked innocently.

  “When is your dad taking all of Daniel’s fun drinks away?” I asked.

  She looked momentarily confused, and almost a little hurt by my accusatory tone.

  “Nadi—” Daniel gave me an it’s no big deal look, but I didn’t buy it.

  “Oh, probably not for another couple of days,” Kiya answered. “He knows how obsessed people get over pumpkin spice this time of year, so he’s not making any changes until after tomorrow’s festival.” My chest constricted even as Kiya’s smile broadened. “Anyway, I’m so excited to see what the festival is all about. I’ve never experienced a New England fall.”

  “No place does fall like Woodburn,” Daniel said. “You’ll love it.”

  She picked up my cup of Maple Madness from the counter, breathing in. “Wow. That smells amazing.”

  “Try it,” Daniel urged.

  And before I could protest, she took a long, dreamy sip that made her look as if she were in a commercial for coffee.

  “Mmm. Soooo good. Can I help with the next one?”

  “Sure.” Daniel beamed. “What should we make, milady? Your wish is my command.” He bowed, and she giggled, tilting her head coyly.