Coffee--or Not--with Phoebe

“Hang on!” Andrew said eagerly. “Do you have a few minutes now? I’ll text Cora to ask if she can fit you into something this evening. That would give her time to make any alterations tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Beatriz said, “but the children must go to bed now.”

“If you want to go,” Phoebe said, “put them to bed, and then I’ll read downstairs until you get back.” Why was she being so accommodating? Phoebe found herself wondering. Was she that relieved not to have to model herself?

“Thanks, Phoebs!” Andrew said. “That would be great. How about if I come back in about half an hour, Beatriz? Assuming that Cora’s still working on set-up this evening. She’s going to be thrilled that you can fill in.”

Beatriz smiled. “Sure. Thank you, Phoebe.” Lifting the full clothes basket onto her hip, she turned toward the sandbox. “Rafael! Irene,” she called. “¡Ven a casa!” They looked toward her, then at each other, and continued playing. “¡Ahora!” she commanded. Leaving their shovels and buckets, the children came running.

Grinning as they approached, Andrew reached deep into the right front pocket of his peacock blue trousers. Pulling forth a roll of cherry candy, he looked inquiringly at Beatriz, who nodded permission. “Hey, you two!” he greeted the children. “Lifesaver?” He squatted to Irene’s level so she could take a piece of candy.

“Thanks, Andrew,” Rafael said, smiling as he followed his little sister’s lead. Irene’s dimples disappeared as she sucked her Lifesaver.

“Enough, now,” Beatriz said. “Es hora de tus baños.”

“Mama, can I go sit in Andrew’s car first?” Rafael pleaded.

“Not tonight,” she said firmly.

“It’s getting late,” Andrew said, “but if it’s okay with your mom, I’ll take you guys for a ride Saturday afternoon. You and Irene can help me wash the car afterward if the weather stays nice.”

Rafael’s delight was almost palpable. He loved playing in water as much as he loved cars. “Okay!” he said. “C’mon, Irene.” Grabbing sister’s plump hand, he pulled her toward the door of their apartment.

“They are so cute,” Andrew said, smiling after them. Then, suddenly, he was all business. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” he told Beatriz, “and I’ll just wait until you’re ready to go.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Phoebe said mildly. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee. You can text Cora from my kitchen. Tell her to come join us if she has time.” Phoebe missed seeing Andrew’s aunt. They had been Sunday school classmates at College Mennonite for at least a decade, remaining friends even after Phoebe left to help establish a church plant downtown. They, like the two congregations they represented, held some differing convictions but still worked to stay in touch.

Andrew winced. “Your coffee’s terrible, Phoebe. How about a cup of tea?”

She swatted at his arm. “My coffee is not terrible! But I’ll brew a pot of tea if you’re going to be picky. Beatriz, come get me when you’re ready to go.”

Obviously amused by Phoebe and Andrew’s bickering, Beatriz laughed. She then followed her children through the basement apartment screen door while Phoebe and Andrew climbed the side stairs to the kitchen entrance. Once inside, Andrew straddled a kitchen chair while Phoebe ran tap water into her copper kettle.

“When are you ever going to graduate from instant coffee?” he grumbled. “I gave you that pod coffee-maker for your birthday.”

“Yes,” she said calmly, “and I appreciate your generosity, but I prefer to use products with less packaging. You have already used all the pods in the set, but if you want to be responsible for the environmental devastation, you may bring over some more.”

Tapping furiously on his phone, he ignored her. When the phone chimed in response almost immediately, he slapped the table. “Hot dog!” he said. “Cora’s still there and expects to be until at least 11, working on table decorations. She’s eager to fit Beatriz.”

“Good.” Phoebe said. “Have you eaten?”

Andrew considered the question, then shook his head. “Not since lunch,” he said. “What do you have?” He stood, starting toward the refrigerator.

“You can get Dorcas’ cooler out of the car trunk for me,” she said, “and help yourself. Please bring in my purse, too, and would you make sure I didn’t leave the sunglasses on display for thieves?”

While he went out to the car, she warmed the teapot and filled the tea ball with the last of the green tea a Japanese ESL student had given her. Andrew returned quickly with not only her purse and the cooler but also her mail.

“Thanks,” she said, as she took the stack of envelopes and book catalogs from him. As she sorted the mail, Andrew found a plate and utensils and helped himself to food from the cooler.

“Hey,” he said, “this looks great. Thank Damaris for me, will you?”

“Sure,” she replied absently. Recycle; recycle; recycle, she thought as she dropped items into a pile. Andrew carried a generous serving of meatloaf to the microwave, pushed some buttons, and then turned to look at Phoebe while the microwave hummed. She had made a sputtering noise.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“The nerve!” she muttered. Then she thrust a piece of stationery toward him. He sat back on his chair, scanning the letter.

“Oh, good grief,” he exclaimed. “Isn’t Don Rutt Ron’s brother?”

“Yes,” she said tersely. “And their great-grandmother and my dad’s mother were first cousins.”

“How long has Don been Schleitheim’s director of development?”

“Too long,” Phoebe replied. “About ten minutes.”

Andrew burst out laughing and then rose to retrieve his plate from the microwave. The fragrance of meatloaf filled the room as he scooped potato salad and set a roll onto the plate beside it.

“I think his first official act must have been to write this letter,” Phoebe fumed. She poured them each a cup of tea and then perched on the chair across from Andrew, pushing a beehive-shaped honey pot beside the salt and pepper shakers at the table’s center toward him. “Before Don got promoted, his predecessor had made it clear that the college wants this house, but no one was ever bold enough before to outline a plan for me to turn it over.”

Andrew sat silently, but his eyes signaled sympathy.

“Please,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Go ahead and eat.” He smiled, bowed his head briefly, and then dug into his meatloaf.

“Does their offer tempt you at all?” he asked as soon as he’d swallowed the first bite.

“No,” she said. “I suppose I should be grateful that he’s proposing an annuity arrangement and not just asking me to will the property to the college, but this letter still makes me feel as if the buzzards are circling.”

“Wow, this meatloaf is good,” he said. “Don’t you want some? Not even one of these rolls?”

She shook her head. “No. Do you think I have to reply?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t worry about the etiquette-end of things, but he’ll probably keep asking if you don’t draw a firm line.”

She sighed. “You’re right, of course.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and reached for his phone beside his plate. “Hey, say that again, will you—after I hit record?”

She swatted at him, just as she’d done earlier. “Oh, please.” She sipped her tea. “I think I’ll reply by mail. That way he won’t try to talk to me about it.”

“You could have a lawyer write the letter,” Andrew suggested. “It might look more decisive.”

She considered the idea, then dismissed it. “An unnecessary expense.” Andrew watched as a gleam came into her eye. “Maybe I’ll cc a lawyer, though. Just to signal that I mean business.”

“Just cc me: ‘Andrew Eberly, Esquire’,” he offered, puffing out his chest. “He doesn’t know me, and I won’t charge you—much.”

“Thanks, but you’re not an attorney,” she retorted. “Even if I didn’t want to avoid deceit, he would find out from Ron that you’re the SSLC hair salon director. They probably discuss everything.” She shuddered.

He looked closely at her. “Any developments since your performance review conversation with him?”

She just shook her head, then changed the subject. “So how were things in the salon today?”

“Pretty much as usual,” he said. “Too busy—but it makes the day go quickly, that’s for sure.” As he briefed her on the particulars, Phoebe found herself laughing. Having heard about Sylvia Ellis’ shingles attack, other clients, hoping to snag her upcoming Saturday-morning appointment, had already overwhelmed the SSLC reception staff with phone inquiries.

Suddenly, Phoebe’s doorbell rang. She started in surprise. “Oh, mercy!” she exclaimed. “It’s Thursday, isn’t it? I’d forgotten about Bible study.”

“No worries,” Andrew assured her. “I’ll wash my own dishes; just do what you need to do.”

By that time, Rachel had let herself in the front door.

“Hi, Phoebe!” she called from the living room. “It’s me. Stephanie and Brittainy are here, too.”

“Come on in,” Phoebe urged. “I’ve got a pot of green tea right here. Would anyone rather have coffee?”

“Don’t!” Andrew called from the sink. He turned to smile at the trio as they filed into the kitchen. “Phoebe’s coffee is lethal,” he whispered melodramatically. The doorbell rang again, and they could hear other students talking as they entered the house.

“Ignore him,” Phoebe directed. “Well—at least his commentary on beverages. He’s a coffee-snob.” She introduced Andrew to the young women, who obviously knew their way around Phoebe’s kitchen. They helped themselves to mugs and rummaged among Phoebe’s assortment of teas in the cabinet.

“I brought Professor Marceau’s books,” Rachel said. “I put them on your dining room table.”

“And I brought the baked goods,” said Brittainy, a tall blonde carrying a foil-covered platter. “Brownies.”

“They’re amazing,” Rachel informed Phoebe. “I taste-tested them right out of the oven.”

“Is this a co-ed meeting?” Andrew asked. “I like brownies.”

“You already have plans,” Phoebe reminded him.

Brittainy extended the platter toward Andrew. “Help yourself,” she invited. “Make it take-out.”

Just then, the door from the basement opened. “The children are in bed, Phoebe,” Beatriz said. “Oh, hello,” she said, greeting the young women in the room.

“Hi, Beatriz,” Rachel said. “Are the kids already asleep? I’d love to see them.”

Beatriz looked apologetic. “Not asleep, not yet, but they should be soon,” she said.

“You can see them tomorrow, Rachel,” Phoebe said. “I think they need a sitter, starting around 4.” She smiled at Beatriz, who nodded. “Are you available?”

“Sure,” Rachel agreed. “Would it be okay if I bring my laundry?”