And while she didn’t feel at all equipped to spearhead the interactive masterclass festival the chamber of commerce had endorsed, she would do everything in her power to help the town that had restored her own hope weather its current crisis and emerge stronger than ever.

21

Man, he’d missed this place.

Steve picked up his vanilla latte from the serving counter at The Perfect Blend and claimed a table by the picture window overlooking Main Street—and Eye of the Beholder. With Beth laid up, he wouldn’t have to worry about running into her at their favorite coffee shop and breaking his promise to keep his distance.

He took a sip of the steaming brew.

Bliss.

The treat didn’t smooth out the kinks in his world, but small pleasures like this did add a touch of brightness to his days.

As he savored his java, Charley appeared across the street, a folded newspaper under his arm. The taco chef waved at someone out of view, then headed for the coffee shop as the morning sun began to chase away the lingering wisps of fog.

Less than a minute later, he entered, scanned the interior, and homed in on the table Steve had picked.

Lifting a hand in greeting, he strolled across the shop and stopped a few feet away. “You look happy this morning, my friend.”

Did he?

Must be the coffee.

“No one makes lattes like The Perfect Blend.” He lifted the disposable cup.

“The café de olla is also exceptional. Mexican coffee was nowhere to be found in our serene little hamlet until Zach opened. Have you ever tried it?”

“No. I’m a latte guy. Why switch from the tried and true?”

“Because you never know what you could be missing if you don’t occasionally venture outside your comfort zone—whether in coffee or in life.” As usual, his words of wisdom were tempered with a good-natured grin.

“I’ll take that under advisement. What are you up to today?”

“Painting. As soon as I get my coffee fix, I’ll be hunkering down in the studio. But I’m glad I ran into you. I saw an article in our local paper I thought might interest you.” He pulled a copy of the Herald from beneath his arm and flipped it open. “I bet Noah would enjoy this.” He set the paper on the table and pointed to one of the listings under a column of area activities.

Steve skimmed the item about a series of six Saturday-morning art classes for middle-school-age students that would introduce them to a variety of mediums. It was being taught at the Hope Harbor high school by an art instructor from one of the colleges in Coos Bay—and it started in two days.