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Chapter One

There weren't tooaround our little arts community of West River, New York, but we tried our best to take care of those we did have The one that gradually fell under -old man named John

Just John

But he knew me as Laila Rook, barista at Roasted Love Coffeehouse – a popular spot that was part of the pretty Italian architecture of the Piazza strip, right in the heart of town As I arrived at 7:50 a for me in his usual spot

I was a little early today, and he was sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against the building near our front door It was a little cool on this Apriland he had his knees drawn up with his thin arms wrapped around them He looked like someone encased in a cocoon

He'd once told me he was thirty-six years old To me, he looked more like someone in his upper forties or early fifties at least More than once he had been shooed from that same spot that he'd chosen as his own in front of Roasted Love, but he always returned

"Hello, John," I said, pushing open the door "Coot the coffee ready You can try the first cup of the day"

John slowly sat up, and grinned atrather stiffly, and pushed back his long tawny hair froain over one eye, and the rest nearly touched his slim shoulders

The one visible eye was deep brown and had a look of kindness and warry I was certain that he still had a good heart, even with his very humble station in life

"Aw, I'lad to see you" And Ithe hoht simply disappear one day and you'd never knohat happened to them, one way or the other

He wiped his worn shoes on the h the door while I held it open for hireeted my boss, Jacob Weaver, and poured out some coffee for John

He sat down in the corner across froulars left it open for him and most of them spoke to him as if he was an old friend They would nearly always stop to ask hi, or slip him a few bills

I brought hi as was our custoood tocup in both hands to warers

"You do know I only give you coffee in exchange for your stories, don’t you?" I said It was true I loved to hear him talk His deep voice captivated me I wasn’t sure how many of his stories were true and how ave our little coffeehouse some real spirit when he talked

He pushed a dollar bill toward me I slid it back and handed him a Danish on a small ceramic plate that matched the cup he held in his hands