Lucy in the Rough
an excerpt

Holy Grounds Café came into view as I walked past the red cedar and crepe myrtle trees. Bubbles drifted along my path and I thought of them as children chasing after a loose balloon at a birthday party. I made a mental note to look for the source of the bubbles after the party as I stood in full view of Nan’s secret café. Holy Grounds was an apt name as the building looked like it might have had a cross mounted on the roof at one time. The doors were big wooden slats held together with iron work that looked like they might open like a drawbridge. Flanking either side of the entrance were two huge glass windows, tinted so that the only thing I could see was myself and a few sparkling lights inside. There was a large cement slab in front of the café that could have doubled as extra parking space for those who might want curbside delivery. Still, the red brick building had a certain charisma that I couldn’t explain from the outside. Rather than stare at my reflection in the morning heat, I ventured in. The drawbridge door was heavier than I would have suspected, but as I struggled to crack it open, the smell of freshly ground coffee rushed out, practically assaulting my nostrils. As I squeezed between the small opening I managed to make, I immediately scanned for a seat. The tables and chairs were all mismatched, some with cushions, some as tall as barstools and some that looked like they were glorified folding chairs. My first aim was to seat myself as far away from the crowd as possible, but it didn’t seem to be a problem as the coffee shop was practically a ghost town.

I chose a small two person table in the corner of the café, hoping to take in as much as I could without having to order quite yet. I was going for the “I’m waiting for someone” façade but that was abandoned when I saw a peppy blonde headed straight for me with a grin so bright I nearly shielded my eyes. Her t-shirt was an obnoxious shade of orange, the number 23 emblazoned on the front in an equally obnoxious green. With a toss of her meticulously highlighted locks, she sat down in the seat across from me.

“Hi!” she stated in a manner that eased my fear of being beaten with a pom-pom. “I’m Morgan.” She paused as if it was my turn to talk. I remained silent in hopes that she would explain further why she was talking to me. “As much as I’d love to sit and chat, I’ve got to get back to the kitchen to finish sticking my finger in whipped cream containers. Is there anything I can bring back for you on my way through?”

“You’re the waitress?” I asked, relieved that I wasn’t being hit on.

Morgan scoffed and smacked her hand against the table. “This isn’t Denny’s, honey. This is a coffee shop and I am a barista. I’m not gonna bring you a bacon omelet with wheat toast and hashbrowns, I’m gonna bring you coffee and it will be good coffee at that. So now that we’ve got that cleared up, what kind of coffee would you like me to bring you?” The bright grin returned to her face and I couldn’t help but smile with her.

“Why don’t you bring me one of the best coffees you make here?” I said.

Morgan stood again and said “Well, if you’re going to set your bar so low…” before walking into the kitchen and out of my view.

While I waited, I took in the details of the café. There was no longer doubt that it was a church in another incarnation. The windows lining the walls were beautiful stained glass images of an open Bible, a dove with the obvious accessory—an olive branch and Jesus on the cross. I cringed as I looked closer and could see the red blood pouring off of his head onto his shoulders. It’s not really the cozy café kind of feel I’m going for when I want a cup of joe. The blood theme seemed to continue on with the carpet, which was a crimson shade in itself. Every so many feet, a hole was cut into the carpet where the bolts that held down pews were at one time. After shifting my gaze skyward, I saw that the original candelabras and chandeliers still hung, shining light now from electric bulbs instead of the candles the wrought iron was fashioned for. My imagination took over and I envisioned holly berries and evergreen garland draping from them at Christmas time or white gauze with little black spiders woven throughout for Halloween. What really caught my attention, however, was the second story balcony that obviously was a loft at some point. The view of the rest of the café from there must have been breathtaking and I figured it would make a great office area. Stop it, Lucy! I couldn’t get ahead of myself. It may have legally been my café, but I’m not so stupid as to think that I could run it with any success. Nan may have thought I was worthy but, while I admit that it could be a fun venture, I’m not qualified to even order my own coffee let alone run the shop.

Before I could put the cliché cart before the cliché horse again, Morgan returned carrying a huge steaming cup in her hands. The smile was still the same, but this time, she was wearing a neon green shirt, with the number 23 on the front in an orange font. “Double mocha latte with chocolate whipped cream, hazelnut and strawberry syrup?” she said through her toothy grin. She set the cup in front of me and pushed the chair she had earlier occupied back under the table.

“Um, sure,” I shrugged, wishing I had just ordered a cup of plain coffee. “Did you spill some on your shirt?”

Morgan looked her shirt over in a panic. “Ugh, where?”

I felt warmth on my cheeks. “I just thought you were wearing a different shirt when you were here last.”

The smile was replaced by a mischievous smirk as she tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Miss, I honestly don’t know what you’re referring to. I’ve been wearing this shirt all day.” With a giggle, she turned and bounded back to the kitchen.

Feeling foolish, I surveyed the other patrons. Despite being early in the day, there were only a few other people in the café. On the other side of the seating was a man furiously typing on a very expensive looking laptop. His cup looks like it had been through the ringer with all of the spills that now stained the outside of the white porcelain. His hair was graying, thinning and sticking up at an angle that suggested he had rolled straight out of bed and come for a coffee. Suddenly, the man sat back in his chair and grimaced, as he ran his hands through his crazy hair and let out a frustrated “Meh!” The outburst faded as quickly as it came and he turned back to his typing.

There was another man in the café but he was a considerable amount calmer than the first. He sat against the front windows, looking out into the street. One of the horses that pulled groups of tourists passed and he followed it with his eyes. His short hair gave away that he was one of the military men stationed at one of the four bases in town. His coffee mug was clenched tightly in his hands as if it held his lifeblood. A backpack rested at his feet, but aside from that, he was average. Non-descript. At least he was until he looked at me and our eyes met. They say that men in uniform are the height of attractiveness but I’m more inclined to believe it’s the men that make the uniforms. I smiled and quickly looked away. When I looked back up, his face was just as blank as before and his gaze was set back on the street. I supposed he was waiting for someone that was running late unlike me, who was only pretending to wait for someone. Still, he gave me the typical reaction—no reaction, just a glance or smile if I’m lucky. That’s all I get when people look at me. I’m okay with that, though. God knows it’s better than being so unusual people can’t help but stare. I’m okay with blending in.

The last person in the café was a very masculine looking woman. The red t-shirt she wore said “Men are pigs” in white block letters. From under the table, I could see her long legs were covered in camouflage, her black combat boots sticking into the aisle. I couldn’t really see a lot more of her aside from her chin, iPod earbuds and her fillings—her head was tipped back on her chair and she was snoring like a chainsaw.

Helping to add to the ambiance, someone had placed baskets of fake greens in burlap lined containers throughout the café, with no sense of order that I could see. The counter at which the orders were placed was crowded with glass containers filled with sweets that I couldn’t really make out from my position in the distance.

Figuring it to be cool enough to drink, I sipped the coffee. I was impressed with the imaginative recipe, but, as a firm believer that coffee and fruits should never marry, I don’t think I’d ever order one willingly. If that’s their best, we have some work to do. I looked over at a cork board hanging a few feet away and saw a sheet filled with a phone number that was advertising a vacancy in a nearby apartment. “Walking distance from campus” it boasted in a barely legible scrawl. Crossing one more item off of my to-do list, I took the flyer and stuffed it in my pocket.

I felt a tap on the shoulder and turned around to find Orange Shirt Morgan standing behind me. “I don’t mean to rush you out of here,” she said softly, glancing out the window as she spoke, “but I thought you’d like to know that the Southern Belles for Christ are about to come in for their weekly meeting soon and they’re pretty…” she paused, choosing her words. “Well, I just wanted to warn you.” She patted me gently on the shoulder and rushed away.

I figured she meant well, so I took her advice and started for the door. Suddenly, I realized I still hadn’t paid for my coffee. I approached the counter that I could now see was filled with baked goods. “Morgan,” I called, flagging down the blonde head that peeked around the corner at me. “I forgot to pay.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, “I’m not Morgan, I’m Monica.” She walked out wearing the green shirt.

“Ah! You’re twins,” I said, glad that I wasn’t going crazy.

Monica cocked her head to the side quizzically and said “What do you mean? We’re not even related.

My brain began to ache as I paid for my coffee and made a beeline for the exit. As I leaned against the drawbridge door to try to squeeze out, someone on the outside pulled the door open, causing me to tumble out, bump into them and promptly land on the cement. I looked up to see a blur of black as a woman whose only color was her bright red lipstick and pale pink skin. “I’m very sorry,” I blurted out.

“Think you might like to watch where you’re going, lady?” she spat before scurrying into the café, nearly closing her pin covered backpack in the door.

Swallowing the urge to follow her back in and say something that would probably run off one of the only customers I had, I rose to my feet and dusted the sand off of my legs. As I inspected a small scrape on my knee, a bubble floated past me as if to remind me that I’d like to find its source. “You’ll have to wait, little bubbles,” I spoke aloud to the thin air. “I have to get myself a place to live.”