Love and Coffee: A Friendship That Lives Forever

“Make sure you get the lights in the back before you leave,” she said.

I nodded back to her, quickly wiping away the tears breaking through their stoic gates. Watching Amber lock the door behind her, I collapsed into the nearest chair. The cafe closed hours ago yet the smell of baked bread haunted empty tables, escaping the quaint shop every time the door opened. A brass bell mounted above it sang for every visitor that crossed its threshold. That bold oak door opened a new world for me.

Just three years ago, I landed in Nashville in a haze of self-pity having left Atlanta with a broken heart and an empty bank account. I left my cheating ex-husband and everything that reminded me of him in the city I had known my whole life when Amber offered me the extra bedroom in her family’s townhouse, a southern colonial passed down through generations. A living museum of love and lineage.

Amber Henderson was the most carefree woman I’d ever have the privilege of calling a friend. When I worked as her manager all those years ago, she taught me more about life than all the things I had trained her on. She was a lousy employee and we laughed about it, but she was an awesome friend. That’s why it was devastating to hear her confess the reality of the cafe’s future - it didn’t exist. The old-fashioned bakery survived the massive growth that shocked the city’s oldest natives, however, a looming health crisis holding the world by the lungs would prove to be a formidable opponent. Regular customers truly enjoyed the fresh baked bagels and coffees infused with vanilla and Amber’s witty comebacks, but the global pandemic had forced them to explore other options at home.

Despite working diligently for months to cut back on expenses, acquire loans and boost promotions, the cafe’s financial standing was crumbling. She could no longer manage to keep the cafe open. Closing its doors meant that the family’s namesake would fade under her watch, she felt like a dark cloud menacing her family’s legacy.

What could I do? An aspiring Marketing Consultant, I demanded full reign of the advertising department - previously run with an abandoned social media page and a quirky personality that the community had grown to love. I loved dissecting commercials and ads, examining the methodology behind those coveted 30 second slots masterfully designed to entice shoppers to buy and buy often. That passion created a marketing plan that gave Amber the golden spotlight she deserved as the face of a family-owned cafe with deep ties to the land the business occupied.

I watched my closest friend, a breezy party girl, transform into a kick-ass leader commanding results with the highest profit margins the little cafe had seen in years. ‘You got this Brandy!’ She’d exclaim whenever I asked her opinion of my plans. She trusted me to help turn things around and together we did. But the pandemic was a curve-ball that even the most experienced coach couldn’t see coming. We watched helplessly as all of our efforts shattered under the weight of increasing cases and the public’s fear of a virus with no cure. The bell above the cafe’s door chimed less often. The cash register, which had just begun to sing with a voice rich with promise grew strained, muffled against the rattling of final notices ordered by hungry bill collectors.

Two porcelain tea cups from a special set left with the townhouse by her grandmother, full of Bran'tea (a sweet, highly caffeinated drink Amber jokingly named for me) sat coldly waiting to be dismissed after her emotional revelation. I carefully washed them while surveying the front house for any other tasks that couldn’t wait until morning.

Every glance was bittersweet. The wall of thank-you notes and holiday cards bestowed by happy customers. The corner booth destinations for first dates that offered privacy in a bustling cafe for awkward questions and long gazes underneath glass lamp shades birthed with the cafe decades ago. Center aisles hosted girlfriends gathering over coffee and gossip. Oil paintings of generations of Hendersons smiled for guests that smiled back. Endearing portraits of Amber and I hung next to a window with distant views of the Cumberland Riverfront. After turning off the lights and securing the cafe, I convinced myself to call it a night and headed home.

Dust attacked my eyes as I walked into the manager’s office a few days later. Amber was busy cleaning out old brittle boxes of files long forgotten, working frantically to tie up loose ends in preparation of closing the cafe. Brushing soft curls behind my ears, I took off my coat promising my bones a hot cup of Cara Cocoa, another one of Amber’s signature blends.

I assured myself that my pressed, navy slacks paired with a white ‘Sip This Tea Slow’ cafe sweater, wouldn’t show the dust circling around. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail, sleeves rolled up to the elbows of a pink sweatshirt. The leopard print of its ‘Where Has Your Coffee Bean?’ embroidery matched the frames of glasses that struggled to stay on her face, fighting gravity’s pull and sweat from the day’s labor.

“What do you need me to do?” I asked my friend, hoping she’d take the hint to leave the office. She hated dealing with paperwork and I knew that.

“Ugh. I think I just made it worse here. You want some cocoa?” Amber wiped her hands over khaki cargo pants that exposed her ankles to the chill of February morning air. Walking out the door, her hand briefly caressed my shoulder, tapping me in to battle with ancient forms passed down and hidden away like outgrown clothing relocated to close cousins without consent.

After a few cups of cocoa, with another cooling on the desk, I finally returned the office to an operable space. Most of the documents were outdated and no longer needed, save for a few family pictures, love notes and newspaper clippings.

“You can add these to the photo album in your living room at home,” I whispered, handing the stack to Amber whose thoughts floated beyond the office.

“I’m sorry I got you into this Brandy,” she broke her silence while balancing a cup of Tea Dreams in one hand, a cinnamon biscuit in the other. “I should have told you sooner. You came here to work in marketing, not this mess.”

“I’ve had the time of my life here. And when this chapter is over we’ll move on to the next and have an even better time!” I smiled at her. Being the oldest sibling taught me how to be the shoulder for others to lean on, a courtesy extended generously to the very few that earned it.

“Wow …. How bad did it hurt when you fell from heaven?!” Amber tilted her head with the first giggle I’d heard from her all day. “You deserve chocolate.” While I had all the right words to express myself, my friend showed her love through food. I’d gained weight immediately after moving with her. Sitting on the floor, I grabbed her leg as she started towards the dessert counter, remembering that it was too cold for my morning runs.

“Wait! You should look through this notebook before it goes in the trash pile.” Buried beneath the family pictures I managed to uncover a small black notebook as old as the cafe. Amber sat back down on the desk, flipping through the notebook I’d shoved into her hands. Her eyes darted across the paragraphs, squinting here and there digesting the material.

“These are … plans for the house?” She looked over at me as I climbed into the chair next to her, unsure of what to make of the little book’s fragile pages. Turning it sideways made the images recognizable.

“Looks like you have another room here!” Tracing the drawing with my finger to a hall closet on the second floor revealed a box of additional space.

“Have you ever seen this before?” I asked.

“Never. I hardly go upstairs, it’s just a bunch of old things that we’ve never used and stored away.” Amber scratched her head trying to make sense of it all.

Slow traffic allowed us to close the shop early and head home with the notebook. Amber studied it closely while running her hand along the closet wall searching for an opening. I put my ear to its cold surface, knocking in random places listening for a vacant answer. Kneeling down, I leaned on the wall again.

“I think it’s hollow here.” I pressed against the panel to steady myself upright. As I pushed off, the panel slipped back - a trapdoor!

“Oh wow, this can’t be real!” Amber shrieked as she peered into the space. I used the flashlight on my phone to guide the way as I crawled inside. To my amazement - and slight relief - the forgotten side appeared to be a dusty yet harmless sitting room. Dingy sheets and thick cobwebs concealed the surfaces hiding a once plush sofa, a solid wood writing desk and other items staged in the decades prior.

Amber gasped as she made her way towards a lamp similar to those in the booths at the cafe. I waved my hand at her, motioning for the notebook. Between the drawings were journal entries penned centuries ago by a generation of Hendersons persevering as the world changed around them. Worn pages of the little black book resembled an autobiography of the family’s existence in Nashville’s rich history, including the land inheritance for the townhouse and the cafe’s grand opening.

“This stuff is so old. What am I supposed to do with it all?” Amber asked after we re-emerged on the present-day side of the room. I grabbed my friend’s shoulders and spun her around to face me.

“You have a secret room full of heirlooms. I think you just solved your money problems!” I laughed.

The next several weeks whirled by with appraisers and conservationists carefully scanning what we uncovered beyond the closet. What looked like an ordinary sitting room furnished with everyday items was more like a time capsule filled with treasures that lit up the eyes of antiques dealers. Oil paintings covering the walls, a small case of hand carved hunting decoys, a grandfather clock, the alabaster chandelier hanging in the center of the room and a wooden desk containing coins and beautiful jewelry pieces put away for a day that never came. It was an antique jackpot. The appraiser met with Amber at the cafe, she refused to start the paperwork until I arrived. After reading the total value of the most prized items, Amber fainted in my arms.

By the end of spring, we were able to pay off the debts that once threatened to take away the quaint breakfast shop that meant so much more. Her new found fortune solidified her ability to carry on the family’s heritage, with many pieces left over to continue passing down. And with that, Amber decided it was time for her vacation.

“Don’t forget the lights in the back okay,” she smiled behind huge cat-eye frames as we walked to her car.

“Don’t worry, I got this! Just make sure you have plenty of suntan lotion!” I chuckled as she stuffed an envelope in my hands. “What’s this?” I turned it over, sliding my finger under the flap.

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me Brandy, I hope you know that,” Amber said, hugging me tightly. She quickly hopped in and started the car, rolling down the windows while her hair whipped around in the afternoon breeze. From the envelope fell a picture of two friends having drinks on the porch of the townhouse, taken the day I moved in. Stuck inside, with the words “for your marketing business” written on the memo line, was a check for $20,000.