What Lies Within (9 page)

No, not drank.

Savored
.

Rafe’s eyes were opened that day. Suddenly he saw coffee hounds everywhere. From every branch of the service. And the amount of money they forked over for what they considered good coffee? Unbelievable.

“Tell Mamá and Papá you should all invest in coffee companies,” he wrote Olivia a few weeks later.

After his honorable discharge, when he was wondering what to do with his life, Olivia reminded him of that letter, and something clicked. He started looking around, and sure enough—you couldn’t swing a dead cat in Portland without hitting a new coffee kiosk. But there were only a few true coffeehouses. And his sister was an amazing cook …

Opportunity wasn’t just knocking. It was driving a Humvee through the door. Within the year he’d found the perfect location, and Cuppa Joe’s opened to its first customer. But Rafe’s place wasn’t your usual coffeehouse. Sure, he offered the usual—mochas, lattes, blended drinks, and just plain coffee—but he also let himself create, making personalized concoctions to match people’s personalities. And Olivia provided his customers with amazing pastries and sandwiches. Then there were her desserts. Several men had proposed to Olivia when they tasted her creations. A number of his women customers told him they should be outlawed.

All of which confirmed what Rafe had known for years. His sister was an artist in the kitchen.

But while those things gave Cuppa Joe’s a foot up on other coffee places, what really set it apart from the rest was the décor. Rafe decided providing coffee and sweets wasn’t enough. Not for him. He wanted his place to show people the military. The
real
military. The people—men and women in uniform—from the inside out.

Olivia thought he was nuts. “Rafa, the war polarizes people. They hate it or they love it. No middle ground.”

“This isn’t about the war.” He stepped back from the picture he’d just hung—a desert sunset–framed Rashidi, in full combat gear, head bent, deep in thought as he read a small Bible. Rafe had snapped the shot because, despite a rifle strapped to one shoulder and a knife on the other, the man’s features had shone with peace.

Rafe turned to face his sister. “That’s the point. It’s about people. Good people. And what they do for all of us, whether we support them or not.”

It took awhile, but his sister finally caught his vision. Which was good, because she was far better at creating the look he’d hoped for. Soon the walls
held perfectly grouped displays of paintings and pictures, textiles, and artifacts from all the places Rafe and his team had been. And she didn’t stop there.

Olivia was a genius outside the kitchen too. Especially when it came to finding what she wanted for next to nothing. Rafe never knew what would show up next. One day he was lugging in bistro tables and chairs; the next, overstuffed chairs; the next, fabric for what she called “window treatments.”

The final effect was more than he’d hoped. The day before his grand opening, Rafe and Olivia stood together, surveying what she’d created: a warm environment that welcomed his customers, inviting them inside to ample seating for groups as well as private corners for conversation. Rafe’s pictures and mementos complimented the ambience. And then there was Olivia’s pièce de résistance—a communications corner, complete with computers and a Web site for customers to send e-mails to the troops. “You really are brilliant.”

Olivia’s smile was more than smug. “Si. I am.”

Rafe walked around the shop, finally stopping in front of a photo of him and his team, just before they’d headed out on their last mission together. He pressed his palm to the cool glass covering the picture. “Thanks, guys. I owe this to you.”

It felt good, being surrounded by his buddies like this. It felt right. All he needed now was for customers to agree.

Happily, they’d done so.

“Earth to Rafa. Time to stop daydreaming and get to work, ’
manito
.”

Pulled from his thoughts, Rafe touched a finger to his sister’s smooth cheek. “Thanks, Livita.”

She pursed her lips. “For what?”

“Everything. I couldn’t have made it these last few years without you. Your encouragement and support …” Emotion clogged his throat and he looked down.

“And my pastries, eh? Don’t forget my
deliciosa
pastries.”

Her teasing words eased the tightness in his throat, but before he could thank her, the bell above the door jangled.

Rafe turned, ready to serve the customer, and found instead a friend.
“Fredrik.” He moved forward, hand extended. “Have you finally decided to take up the fine art of coffee drinking?”

“I should be so crazy? And if I were”—his hand swept toward the menu board behind the counter—“I should spend so much on hot water?”

The old man’s insults were belied by the twinkle in those blue eyes. Rafe took the proffered hand in his own. “Ah, but what wondrous flavor lies in that water.”

The old man’s white brows waggled.
“Narishkeit.”

“No, Fredrik. What’s foolishness is that you come to a place with such delectable treats and don’t partake.” Now it was Rafe’s turn to waggle his brows. “I thought Jews didn’t do self-denial.”

“There’s more here to enjoy than your flavored water, my boy.” He lowered himself into one of the overstuffed chairs. “The company of friends …” A cloud passed over his features, and all merriment melted away. “And sound counsel from a man of God.”

Rafe could count on one hand the number of times the old man had been troubled in all the years he’d known him. It didn’t sit well to see disquiet on a face so accustomed to joviality. He turned to signal Olivia, letting her know he was taking a break, and then took the chair next to Fredrik. “What troubles you so today?”

Sorrow was an ache in his friend’s aged eyes. “Our contractor quit.”

Rafe leaned back. “But … I thought this one just got started.”

“So he did. But the obstacles, they were too many. A number of his men were injured. Accidents that no one can explain.” The stooped shoulders lifted in an eloquent shrug. “We’ve tried and tried, but everything seems against us doing what God has called us to.”

Rafe debated voicing his question but decided it was better to ask now than wish he’d done so. “You’re still sure it’s His call? Renovating the church into a youth center?”

Fredrik stared down at his hands, lips pursed. Then his head moved in a slow, weary nod. “You know the people who live in this neighborhood, Rafael.” His gaze met Rafe’s. “And you know the opposition.”

Rafe’s lips compressed. Yes, he knew them. When he left the military he’d thought his days as a warrior were over. Then God brought him to Fredrik’s
little church. Rafe thought it was to join the congregation. But he soon discovered that wasn’t his only purpose.

“The 22s?”

Fredrik’s forehead creased. “The who?”

“I’m sorry. The Blood Brotherhood.”

“Oh yes, of course. They do call themselves the 22s, don’t they? I’ve never quite understood why.”

Rafe shrugged. “Simple. B is the second letter in the alphabet. BB for Blood Brotherhood becomes 22. So …”

“The 22s. See? That makes perfect sense.” Fredrik steepled his fingers. “So, are the 22s involved? That I don’t know for certain. I didn’t think so, but others? Well, they’re convinced the gang is working with Ballat to stop us.”

“How so?” Rafe braced himself for the answer, disappointment gnawing deep in his gut. When God called him to involvement with the gang, he’d argued long and hard. He just wanted to run his coffee place and be at peace. But God didn’t turn loose. He kept putting members from the 22s in his path. First a young kid he caught stealing from the construction site. Then two thugs who tried to intimidate him as he left the church one morning. Rafe smiled at the memory. They’d found themselves on their backs, staring up at the sky.

And, of course, Tarik.

That’s when Rafe finally gave in. Accepted that he was being called to build some bridges, to help the 22s understand the church wasn’t a threat. He’d worked so hard with these kids, been so sure they were going to leave the church alone. “What makes the elders think the 22s are involved?”

“The elders at the church believe the gang is being used. Hired thugs. But have I actually seen them do anything? No.”

“Well, if not the Brotherhood …”

Fredrik tapped his two index fingers together. “Ballat.”

Of course. No one else had more motivation for stopping the renovation. “What can I do to help?”

“Pray.” Fredrik let his hands fall into his lap. “And suggest a good contractor. One who won’t be frightened away by opposition.” He heaved himself out of the chair, laying a hand on Rafe’s shoulder as he passed by. “But mostly, pray. That’s what will see us through this.”

“You got it.”

“Thank you.” Fredrik blessed him with a fond smile, then made his way to the door. “Now, it’s home for me. I need to spend time with the Father. I may not know what the next step is, but He does. I just have to listen so He can share that knowledge with me.”

As Fredrik reached the door, it opened toward him. He stepped aside so the man coming in could pass by. “Come, enjoy!” Fredrik waved a hand at the menu board. “Such nectar even heaven hasn’t got.” He tossed a wink at Rafe and was gone.

Rafe stood, laughing to himself, and went to greet his customer. It was a man Rafe hadn’t seen before—blue-collar type. Interesting. With all the construction going on, road and buildings, he was seeing more and more strangers lately. Even so, his usuals normally came in before anyone else. “Mornin’.”

The man glanced around as he came to the counter. “Morning.” His gaze came to rest on Rafe, who fought a smile. Clearly, this guy wasn’t overly comfortable in a coffeehouse. “I hear you got good coffee.”

“Nope.” Rafe crossed his arms. “We have great coffee.”

The man’s lips twitched. “So prove it.”

“Let me guess … you want black. Straight up. No frills.”

The man’s smile widened. “You got it.”

As Rafe went to pour the coffee, he watched the man glance around. His eyes widened a fraction when he saw what was on the walls, and then, as so many had before him, he walked to study one of the photos displayed there.

The same photo that seemed to catch everyone’s eye.

It was a typical shot of a Marine. Military-issue green tank over desert camo pants. Muscled arms, one with a tattoo from shoulder to wrist, projecting strength despite their relaxed state. Gloved hands rested with familiar comfort, much the way many men’s hands rested on their briefcases, on the assault rifle hanging in front of him. Everything about the picture said gung-ho, hard-as-they-come, Semper Fi Marine.

Until you noticed a splash of color.

There, out of the side pocket of the Marine’s camos, peeked a brightly colored bouquet of wildflowers.

That unexpected sight never failed to impact. Especially when the viewers spotted the two items next to the photo: one was a picture of a beautiful
little girl of about six, dark eyes wide and happy; the other held a bouquet of dried wildflowers.

Rafe’s customer studied the photo, glanced back at Rafe, then went back to the picture. His hand came up to touch the glass over the dried wildflowers.

“Coffee’s ready.”

The man eyed the picture a moment longer, then returned to Rafe. He took the cup Rafe held out, eyes traveling to the tattoo on Rafe’s left arm. He gave a slight nod. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“Marine, huh?”

“Yup.”

He sipped the coffee. “Where’d you find flowers in the desert?”

Rafe picked up a rag and wiped down the counter. “The little girl whose photo is with the flowers? She gave ’em to me. Just came up and held them out. She’d been trailing after me for days. I guess she decided she liked me. When I hesitated to take them, she opened the pocket on the side of my camos and slid them in.”

“You wouldn’t take flowers?”

Rafe shrugged. “Didn’t trust anyone. Couldn’t. I’d seen too many guys who did, and it cost them their lives.”

“So she gave ’em to you anyway, huh?”

“Yeah. My buddies got a kick out of it, this little bit of a kid comin’ up to a guy with a gun and giving him flowers. One of ’em took a picture with his new digital camera. Said he was going to print it out and give it to the little girl.”

“Did he?”

Every time he told the story it got to him, but he schooled his features not to let it show. “Didn’t get the chance. She and her family were killed when a suicide bomber attacked a nearby marketplace.”

The customer halted mid-drink, his gaze riveted to Rafe’s.

As hard as Rafe tried, he couldn’t escape the blow of that memory. If only he’d taken the flowers, opened his hand to a little girl.

The man lowered the cup from his lips, then looked down. After a beat, he let out a pent-up breath. “You’re right. It’s great coffee.” He looked up at Rafe and held out a hand. “Doug Franklin.”

Rafe shook the proffered hand. “Rafael Murphy.”

“Well, Mr. Murphy—”

“Rafe.”

The man inclined his head. “Rafe, I don’t generally come to places like this. Too froufrou for me. But the guys on the job said your place is different. I can see they were right.” He lifted the cup in a salute. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Rafe tipped his chin. “Look forward to it.”

The jingle of the bell over the door signaled another customer had entered, and Rafe saw three of his regulars coming in.

No doubt about it. His business was a success, and then some. It brought him great satisfaction and a reason to get up every day. But he never imagined it would bring him the dream he’d given up so many years ago.

The dream that was Kyla Justice.

SEVEN