I studied my friend. Makayla, who was in her midtwenties and had the poise and self-assurance of a much older woman. She was tall and thin with radiant skin the color of warm chocolate and the most dazzling green eyes I’d ever seen. Makayla worked long hours to keep her shop afloat and in her spare time devoured every novel she could get her hands on. She was also tireless in her support of the local art scene. Every few weeks, she hung up a new set of photographs, paintings, drawings, etchings, or textiles created by an Inspiration Valley artist.
Now, as I took in a collection of black-and-white ink drawings of birds and butterflies, I felt a pang of sadness that my beautiful, intelligent, and generous friend had yet to find a man worthy enough of a second date.
“Hey, why’d you put on a long face?” Makayla asked, handing me a large caramel latte.
The bell above the door rang and an elderly man in a business suit walked into the coffee shop. Lowering my voice, I said, “I was just thinking that you deserve to be as happy as I am. I wish some dashing, bookish, coffee-drinking stranger would waltz in here and capture your heart.”
Makayla grinned and gestured at the café table where I normally sat. “Let me get Mr. Sheehan his cappuccino and cinnamon scone and then I’ll tell you about my secret admirer.”
“What?” I glanced at the impatient Mr. Sheehan. “Okay, but hurry up.” I checked my watch and decided that I could be a little late to work. After all, my office was right upstairs. I sipped my latte and flipped through the pages of Inspired, Inspiration Valley’s free paper, and felt another thrill of excitement about all the Taste of the Town events I’d be attending as a representative of the Novel Idea Literary Agency.
“Read this.” Makayla perched on the edge of the table and handed me a scrap of paper. “This one’s from yesterday. It was folded inside a two-dollar bill and stuffed into my tip jar.”
I raised my brows. “You don’t see these in circulation anymore.”
“That’s how I know it’s the same guy. He always puts his notes inside a two-dollar bill.” She nudged my elbow. “Go on, girlfriend, drink in the words.”
Complying, I read the following typewritten lines aloud: “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way.’” Putting the paper on the table, I looked at Makayla. “Wow. Who wrote this?”
“Pablo Neruda, the Chilean poet. Lord, I get weak in the knees reading his stuff.” She touched my hand. “But, Lila, they’ve all been this beautiful. My secret admirer has given me three bits of poetry so far. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure it wasn’t a fluke, but this makes number four.”
I shook my head in wonder. “And you have no idea who this guy is?”
“None. And it’s driving me insane!” She gripped my hand. “I’m counting on your talent as a seasoned investigator to help me discover his identity. I need to find out soon, because I am not getting any sleep! I lie in bed and picture my customers’ faces one by one until they’re spinning around in my head like a merry-go-round on speed.”
“Of course I’ll help.” I paused and then looked into my friend’s green eyes. “But what if he’s not who you hoped he’d be? What happens then?”
Makayla sighed. “If he’s married, lives with his mama, or has been to jail, then I’m not interested, but if he isn’t Prince Charming that’s fine by me, too. I’m no Cinderella. I want a man who appreciates stories, is a good listener, and laughs easily. It doesn’t matter to me if he’s black, white, bald, short, pudgy, or hairy.” She gave me a sly smile. “But he’s got to love books, especially since I just finished writing one.”
I’d been on the verge of taking another sip of my latte when she uttered this declaration. “What?” I asked through pursed lips. “I didn’t even know you were working on a book.”
“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to read my work in progress,” she hurriedly assured me. “Besides, I wasn’t sure if I’d finish it at all, but these little lines of love in my tip jar really got me going and The Barista Diaries is done and ready to be submitted to an agent. Know any good ones?”
Delighted, I listened as Makayla described her collection of short stories and then realized I was going to be noticeably tardy if I didn’t zip upstairs that second. After making her promise to email me a copy of her manuscript, I scooped up my takeout cup and headed for the lobby, hoping that Vicky Crump, our agency’s punctilious office manager, wasn’t at her desk yet.