Small-Town Fireman. Allie Pleiter

have ventured into Karl’s on their own, which meant her marketing idea had worked. Even at someplace as nondescript as Karl’s, she had a knack for finding customers and giving them what they wanted. The affirmation bloomed a wonderful optimism in her chest. Grandpa always said skills were one thing and anyone could learn them, but the “sense” to run an eating establishment was an inborn gift. Today told her she had that gift.

      Karla smiled to herself. The first official Coffee Catch was an odd sight indeed. While Dylan referred to them as fishermen and requested she do the same—evidently Kaptain Koffee had a knack for customer service even if he did hate marketing—Karla found that a generous term. Calling the collection of well-groomed men in front of her “fishermen” was like calling a guest at a dude ranch a “cowboy.”

      These six sure didn’t fit any image Karla had of guys who normally cast hooks into water. All in their forties and dressed in upscale sportswear, this crowd looked as if they belonged on yachts at some oceanfront resort. She practically needed a calculator to add up the premium logos, brand names and expensive gadgets these guys touted. If they fished, it sure wasn’t to put dinner on the table. Still, she was glad to have them in Karl’s. These were exactly the type of customers she wanted to serve when she opened her own place.

      A man in a sky-blue polo shirt and preppy plaid shorts arched his eyebrows after taking a sip of his double-shot latte. “Hey, this is good.” Karla chose to ignore the surprise in his expression. Hey, she wanted to say, you have not left the civilized world that far behind. Which really was a case of the pot calling the kettle black—she’d had to drive forty minutes away to get all the supplies she needed to stock a full espresso bar and had been known to gripe about Gordon Falls’ “overwhelming quaintness” entirely too often. Hadn’t she just referred to her stint in Gordon Falls as “exile” last week?

      “I told you I wasn’t exaggerating,” Dylan said, coming to her defense. His stained denim shirt looked especially ragged next to his current customers. His eyes were bright, even if his morning stubble gave him the scruffy, unkempt air. He smelled of soap and salt but still a bit of fish, as if he’d tried hard to clean up for his appearance in the shop but hadn’t completely succeeded. He tucked his hands in his jeans pockets and glanced around the group. “Not a bad way to end a morning on the river, don’t you think?”

      “Makes up for the massive one that got away,” Mr. Double Shot said, pushing his expensive sunglasses up on top of his head to give Karla a million-watt smile. Had she seen him on television? One of those trial lawyers with commercials and 1-800 numbers? He had that look of a man in search of his next deal. Dylan said they came from Chicago. Maybe he could be a future customer—lawyers liked power breakfasts, right?

      “Now who’s exaggerating,” Half Decaf goaded. “I could have fit that fish in my pocket.”

      “Mixed luck out on the water?” Karla asked, setting a stack of menus in the center of the table. “Your coffee’s part of the catch, but we’ll whip up breakfast if you’re in the mood for a bit more.” She’d worked for ten minutes to come up with the perfect, nonintrusive way to hint that they might want to consider ordering breakfast.

      “You cook as well as you pull a latte?” Double Shot asked, looking doubly charming as he extended a hand. “I’m James Shoemacher.”

      “Jim Shoe,” Half Decaf cut in. “Call him Jim Shoe.” He said it again, pronouncing it like “gym shoe” and pointing to his gleaming white leather sneakers just in case she didn’t catch the joke. Shoemacher looked weary, as if years of repetition had rendered him immune to the gag.

      The same way she’d grown wearily resigned to explaining, “No, that’s Karla with a K” over and over. She shook Shoemacher’s hand—one that didn’t look like the kind that had done any time with night crawlers and a hook—and felt an unlikely kinship with the man. “Karla Kennedy.” She nodded to the sign in the window. “Karl’s my grandfather. And I don’t do the cooking, but I can sure vouch for it.”

      “Shoemacher Realty. Industrial properties.” Hmm...real estate. How fortunate was that? “And I’ve been up so long,” he went on, “it feels like I ought to have lunch. Can you do a panini?”

      “Sorry, no panini maker here, Mr. Shoemacher. We don’t really do a lot of lunch fare.” She almost laughed, picturing what Karl would think of the uppity term for a grilled sandwich. “But I’m sure I can set you up with a grilled cheese.”

      She expected him to grimace, but he smiled instead. “Do that,” he replied. “But call me Jim.”

      As she pulled out her order pad, Karla decided she might have to eat her words about never making any business contacts in Gordon Falls. “Okay, one grilled cheese for Jim. Any of the rest of you need something more than your coffees?”

      Half the group ordered a full breakfast, while three of them made a big show of checking their watches and smartphones, too busy to dally over eggs and toast.

      “If you three need to head out, I’ll go get your cleaned catches wrapped up and iced for the trip home.” Dylan had told Karla he was adding that extra service—and evidently it had been a good idea.

      “Dave’s will fit in his coffee cup, I bet,” one of them snickered.

      “Hey, at least I caught something,” Dave replied. “So far all you caught was grief from your wife.” That brought a laugh from the whole group.

      “Dylan, we enjoyed our morning,” pronounced Half Decaf, who had introduced himself as an accountant from a big firm Karla only barely recognized. “I’ll have my assistant set us up for another later in the season.” He sent a smile Karla’s way. “And I’ll be sure to leave time for breakfast.”

      Dylan shot Karla a grinning thumbs-up as he headed out the door with the exiting half of the group. So far, the first-ever Coffee Catch seemed to be a success.

      “Dylan said this was your idea?” Jim asked when Karla brought their food orders to the table. At Grandpa’s suggestion, Karla had asked Emily to come in a bit early so that Karla could give the fishermen her nearly undivided attention, only slipping out to make the all-too-occasional coffee drink for another customer. The executives seemed to enjoy the exclusive service—which had been the point all along.

      “Seemed a nicer way to end an early morning than just getting back in the car,” Karla replied. After a second, she quipped, “The espresso machine is too heavy to roll down to the dock.”

      “Smart and funny.” Jim nodded to his two companions. “And all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.”

      “I’m from Chicago, actually,” Karla explained. “Just finished culinary school. I’m helping my grandfather out while he’s laid up from hip surgery.”

      “Culinary school. That explains a lot. So, Karla, what do you want to do after you finish helping Grandpa out?”

      It seemed like a hundred years since anyone had asked her that question. Everyone in Gordon Falls only inquired how long she planned on staying—nobody seemed to care that she had shelved big plans to do time behind the counter. “I want to open a downtown breakfast eatery. A coffee shop like this, only a bit less...” She didn’t know how to finish that sentence without seeming to put down her grandfather’s beloved establishment.

      “Rustic?” Jim finished for her.

      Karla felt her face flush. “Well, yes.” She didn’t want to insult Grandpa’s place, just wanted to explain—especially to someone like him—that her dream had a lot more style and sophistication.

      “It’s a well-used real-estate term. Useful when explaining grilled cheese to the panini crowd.”

      She managed to laugh at that. “I get it.”

      “It’s a very good grilled cheese,” Jim added. “Takes me back, you know?”

      “I’m glad you liked it.” She looked at the other men. “Your breakfasts all okay?”