The Bean Baile: A Coffaehouse Story: Serena Gray, #1

By Laura L. Hays

       Serena Gray has made a mistake. She has made several mistakes, in fact. First, she has angered the police department with her latest article. A good reporter doesn't add opinion. Even when it is glaring. This left her without a usual haunt to sip coffee and type her latest scoop.

       The Bean Baile seems like any other coffee shop. There are cappuccinos, chai lattes, muffins, and croissants. It is tucked into a cozy strip mall just off the college campus. But this coffeehouse holds more than a caffeine jolt—it holds secrets.

       Gathered behind its doors are professors, athletes, students, and a resident cat—or so it seems. Look deeper and you might see orcs, satyrs, fairies, and gremlins.

        It is little wonder that Barnabas Gentry, owner of the Bean Baile, wants to keep out technology. The old ways are best when dealing with the fae.

Cassie wants to change all that. She's a Youtuber who desperately wants to film with the backdrop of a fireplace surrounded by books. The only thing standing in her way is the lack of Wi-Fi. Her hope for a change comes stumbling in one blustery day in the form of a wayward reporter. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Hays
• Release date: Dec 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201860912

Laura L. Hays

A Bermudian author living in West Texas, Laura L. Hays has spent the past two decades immersing herself in the culture and life of the modern pioneer towns of the Southwest. Traditionally educated in both British schools and American University, she has researched diverse lore from fairy tales to business copy. Bringing these worlds together, she weaves a captivating tale in whichever book you choose. From a coffee shop in The Bean Baile, to the Louisiana marshes of Camp Beaulieu, or even the mythical forests of Jaru, her writing will transport you and delight your senses while you read. Email: [e-mail] Website: laura-l-hays-author.mailchimpsites.com Facebook: @bermudalaura Instagram: @laurahays82 Tiktok: @jennasevle

Book preview

Chapter 1

My latte was warm when it arrived. Usually the drink arrives piping hot and people in a rush will burn their tongue. My friend Sheila believed that’s why the commercial chains stayed in business. If they can’t taste the burnt beans, they’ll keep coming back for the sugar.

Sugar is supposed to take away the burn. Perhaps people just liked the taste of a burnt roast. Maybe they were just there for the sugar in the first place.

This place, though, the coffee was warm. It was the perfect temperature to drink immediately. I had watched them make it just a moment ago. They hadn’t under-extracted the beans. They made it with espresso. The foamed milk was warm. It was just perfect.

I sipped it and felt as if I were pulling a soft blanket around myself. It was that slightly bitter note, with a creamy finish to the espresso. It always felt like home. My grandmother had introduced me to coffee when I was a child. Back then it had been cafe au lait, with a lot of lait. Time changes all things, and by college I took to having triple espresso shots after barely sleeping. Now, my order was the standard latte, sometimes an affogato, after dinner.

The aftertaste of the coffee danced on my tongue. The place was perfumed with the smell of freshly ground beans, wood from the benches and tables, a slight smoky scent from the fireplace in the corner, and underneath it all the distinct smell of a pipe.

Smoking is not allowed in any establishment anymore, and I glanced around the room to locate the culprit.

In a leather armchair by the fireplace was a man in his thirties. He was in a tweed jacket with suede on the elbows. He had a pair of stylish glasses, but since the style was to be retro, they could be called classic. His mop of curly brown hair needed a trim, and it fell into his eyes as he studied his book intently. His legs were crossed at the knee and his mug of presumably coffee or maybe tea sat untouched beside him. He licked his finger and turned a page.

Across the fireplace was a table with several college aged girls. They were dressed in trendy hipster fashion. Beanies, suspenders, shorts, leggings, tight T-shirts, long socks. They all looked cute, if slightly the same. They were like houses in a planned community. Nothing particularly wrong with them, but they seemed very basic, boring, and lacking in true personality. The colors might be different, or an accessory added or removed, but in the end, they followed the same basic premise. As if the outer décor was to give them something to mark an identity as instead of having a complex inner design.

Behind me at the counter were the baristas. One was a black girl with pink locks. She was perky and friendly and laughing with her coworker. The other barista, if you call them that – is there a term for the male, baristo – was sporting his own beanie, gauges in his ears, and a trimmed on the sides, but long and bushy in the front, beard. His dark brown eyebrows complemented the thickness of the beard well. The place didn’t seem to have a uniform, but both workers were wearing dark denim aprons.

And then there was me. I’d recently chopped my hair into a short pixie cut. A green sweater and a pair of skinny jeans. I had a brown scarf, but I tucked it into my bag. The bag was for my laptop. It was army green and had leather additions. I was hoping to do some writing while here, but the scent had distracted me.

My grandfather had loved his pipe. I can remember coloring, spread out before the fireplace in my grandparents’ home on cold fall evenings, listening to them chat with Wheel of Fortune in the background. He’d sit with his pipe in his armchair and my grandmother would be in the adjacent room preparing supper. My mother was always working late back then.

The smell of the coffeehouse was the same. I took a deep breath. No crayons, though.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out the laptop. Flicking it on, I scanned for the Wi-Fi access. The one for the Chinese restaurant next door came up, and the bookstore on the other side. I saw nothing resembling the coffeehouse moniker.

Great. I would have to ask the barista. I come from a long line of socially anxious people. Asking a stranger for help was the last thing we enjoyed doing. In fact, sitting in a coffeehouse to write was not my first choice for a workplace. When you’re struggling to make the bills, you let some things go. The internet bill was one of them.

Excuse me. My voice sounded strained. I cleared my throat.

Yes? How can I help you? The female barista came to stand at the counter with a little hop.

I smiled quickly. I don’t mean to trouble, but what’s the Wi-Fi here?

We don’t have Wi-Fi. The male barista said loudly from near the espresso machine.

The female barista nodded. The owner doesn’t like modern convenience. He says it ‘distracts from the present.’ She rolled her eyes and then leaned over the counter about halfway. One of her pink locks slid down her chest as she whispered. But you can use the Wong’s next door. They don’t mind. The password is ‘Ramen.’

My mouth had formed a little O, and I caught myself looking like a fish. I snapped my lips back into place and whispered, Okay, before practically running back to my seat.

‘Ramen’ worked, and quickly I could access my notes containing all my research. Three girls had gone missing in the past three weeks. In our small town, we rarely had incidents like this. The police thought the first to have run off with her boyfriend. She was headstrong and young, so her family had agreed when the detectives had suggested the possibility.

The next girl was not like that. She was much more like me, a quiet homebody. No boyfriend to speak of. She had also left behind her car, her keys, and her cat. All the earmarks of foul play, except there were no signs of a struggle. Only the front door open in the wee hours of the morning. The elderly neighbor had seen it when she went to get the newspaper. The cat had not ventured outside.

The third girl was older. She was working on her master’s degree in biology. She had been hiking around the lake and her friends said they noticed her missing almost immediately. They had backtracked along the path, but there were no signs of her. Or anyone else.

The girls didn’t feel like they were much younger than me. I was barely in my early thirties. I’d been working as a freelance writer for almost a decade. Articles, blurbs, and one online column didn’t quite make the bills. My writing career wasn’t exactly spectacular. When I got the job with the online newspaper, ‘The Rooster,’ I was thrilled. Finally, my career was going in the right direction and I’d be making enough to cover everything. Until I found out what they paid.

We were a start up. Most people didn’t get their news online, and if they did, they got it from the local paper. It was a reliable publication that had been in business for the past one hundred years. We hadn’t even been around for one hundred weeks.

There were only three reporters and our boss and owner of the company, Jeffery. He was in his mid-fifties. Rumor was that the local paper fired him, but no one knew why. He didn’t seem to be too concerned.

Around here we wear many hats. So besides the tech articles and traffic incidents, you’ll be covering the police beat too. Shouldn’t be much trouble around here. And that will keep you writing full time. We are paying by article, so you want to be always publishing.

Jeff, with his salt-and-pepper beard and clean cut hair, had struck me as a kind person. He wanted to make sure we had full-time work. He’d been adamant about signing us up for the union and getting health insurance. Clearly, he took a liking to us Millennials and wanted to have a company that reflected that.

He seemed to be in a tight spot himself most of the time. He was funding the business off his retirement, and with not much time until he would need it. If his newsreel was successful, he’d have a passive income that made as much as he did in his journalism career. If not, well, we all tried not to worry about that.

We were the first to report the missing girls. The first one was a cut and dry article asking for help to locate her. I did a quick interview with her folks. They were good people. Worried and just wanting their daughter to be okay.

When the next girl went missing, it seemed so obvious that this was more than a case of teenage runaways. I was more biased in that article. We got a little flack for it, but Jeff said the readership doubled overnight.

The third girl missing had us as the primary source of news on the case. It also made several of my police friends stop talking to me as much. They read the article and instantly I went from being a respectable almost colleague, to being an investigative journalist they didn’t want their supervisor to see them near. No one wants to get in trouble for over sharing in the police department, but I had been working with these guys for almost a year. I bought them Friday morning burritos, they got me Monday morning coffee. Until this week.

Usually I enjoyed a cup of joe with the newer officers at the gas station near the campus. When I walked in there a couple of hours ago, it was as if it was February instead of mid-October. Their stares were like ice, and I realized even the campus police, with their youth and inexperience, didn’t want to get caught up with the techie reporter.

So I had gone on the hunt for a new coffee spot.

The Bean Baile was a small coffee shop tucked away near the college district. I’d been past the tiny strip mall thousands of times, but I’d never seen it until today. To be fair, the remaining strip malls featured high turnover, and many were being torn down in favor of national businesses.

Looking around the locally owned place, I was happy there were still a few left. This shop had a coziness to it that a national chain could not hold. They could add leather chairs and high end wood tables, but it could not match the feel of a local place filled with old books and house roasted coffee.

How did you get in here? A voice broke through my thoughts.

I looked up to see a tall, slender, elderly gentleman standing at my table. He dressed smartly, but flamboyantly. He wore a gray suit with a gray sweater vest. Accenting it, though, was a pastel pink woolen scarf and matching silk tie. His beard was long and bushy, but contoured. He coiffed his hair in a cut that suited both the traditionalist mid-century and modern hipster movement.

Excuse me? I stammered out.

How did you get in here? He repeated, his United Kingdom-based accent slightly more pronounced. I could not place it exactly, but he sounded similar to the teachers I’d had growing up. I had attended a prestigious prep school which had imported educators from England, Ireland, and Wales. My chemistry teacher had been Scottish. The gentleman tapped a cane I hadn’t noticed earlier.

I think you have me confused with someone else. I looked back at my laptop.

I most certainly do not! I might be old, but I am sure enough not senile. I asked you how you got in here, and I meant it. Now answer me. He rapped his cane on the ground in a cliche of elderly emphasis.

I met his eyes. They were a clear, light blue. They reminded me of when waves froze in the arctic and light shone through them, beautiful, but frigid.

A rebellious twang in my back made me sit straighter. If he wanted an answer, I’d give him one. I used the door.

You what?

I used the door. If you’re going to ask ridiculous questions, you’ll get ridiculous answers. Now, please, I’m quite busy with my work. I typed a series of nonsense on my keyboard.

He looked towards the baristas behind me. She’s quite busy with her work, he repeated and rolled his eyes. He looked back at me and scowled. Young lady, I am Barnabas Gentry, owner and proprietor of The Bean Baile, and I will not be spoken to with such impertinence. Now, please come with me.

My face flushed. I regretted my snarkiness and looked at him, bewildered. Come with him? Where exactly did he plan to take me?

He