Smart vs. Pretty by Valerie Frankel Read Free Book Online

said Amanda, “you don’t seem like the daytime coffee bar type.”
    Walter Robbins flashed her a flawless grin. “I’m between jobs and, as a vain egotist, I’m in constant need of positive reinforcement.”
    “Can you wait over there for a second?” asked Amanda. She wanted a moment of privacy to confer with Clarissa. Once Walter was out of earshot, Amanda whispered, “He’s a ringer.”
    Clarissa whispered back, “So what? The customers will love him.”
    “It’s not fair to ask a quirky type like Chick Peterson to compete with a professional model.”
    “Amanda, they’re not fighting to the death in a pit.”
    Clarissa motioned Walter back over. “Congratulations! You’re a finalist. Be here tomorrow night at seven o’clock.” He doffed an imaginary hat and left.
    It took another hour to pick the last three contestants: an adorable twenty-four-year-old editorial assistant at a men’s magazine; a forty-year-old, recently divorced construction worker who described his mental state as “very vulnerable right now”; and last, a nebbishy guy with a pointy chin and round glasses.
    Amanda insisted the neb make the cut. It was an altruistic gesture, and payback for the man’s politeness. Clarissa agreed, driven more by fatigue, Amanda thought, than bigheartedness.
    In just over twenty-four hours, the coffee shop would reopen. The contest would begin. The place would be saved—or die. Either way, Amanda couldn’t wait. She’d get to see Chick Peterson again.

5
     
    F rank watched the mass of customers from behind the cash register on the big night. Four of the five Mr. Coffee contestants were circulating through the crowd (the exception being the nebby guy, who hung in a corner, downing mug after mug of French roast). Each guy was wearing a Romancing the Bean T-shirt—designed and printed by Claude as a parting gift. Frank had asked Clarissa repeatedly how much money had been spent during the renovations, but she never got a firm answer. This worried Frank. Even the crush of paying customers in their revamped space didn’t completely calm her concerns. Optimism, apparently, was something to settle into slowly.
    Amanda flitted by in her red scoop-necked dress, shouting at Frank, “It’s the best night in the history of Romancing the Bean!” It was the only night in the history of Romancing the Bean, but Frank didn’t quibble. Amanda was right—her parents had never seen such action in all their years with Barney Greenfield’s. Frank had personally rung up orders for about thirty pounds of various varietals for at least nine dollars per (wholesale prices were roughly five dollars a pound, providing a profit of four dollars. Depending on weather and availability, some beans were much more expensive—Jamaica had a tiny, finicky crop, so Blue Mountain cost as much as twenty-five dollars a pound wholesale and up to forty dollars retail). But the real profit was in individual mugs. The store made a profit of $1.30 per $1.50 cup. Frank needed to sell four thousand cups a month to cover overhead, or 133 cups of joe a day (over the last year, the sisters averaged a dismal forty). Frank had sold at least a hundred in the last hour. She’d questioned whether a fresh coat of paint could increase business by more than 300 percent. Now she had an answer.
    Frank tried to allow herself to enjoy (not quietly distrust) the press of people crammed into the café (so crammed that it was impossible for anyone to appreciate the new tables and paint job). For once, she thought, she was in the right place at the right time. The tinkle of money on the counter was aural heroin. Frank took the change with something close to a smile. The customers seemed to enjoy her new house blend (a pinch of Guatemalan, Costa Rican, and some Indonesian for kick).
    Finally, at eight o’clock, Clarissa cleared a space in the center of the room. Pockets of women at tables clapped their hands. Frank wondered if they were applauding