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“There has to be a way to make coffee without burning down the inn,” Ivy muttered to herself. She’d once started a kitchen fire as a newlywed in Boston. Now she kept a fire extinguisher handy.
Everyone had stayed up late celebrating the Thanksgiving harvest feast yesterday, especially the younger ones. Ivy expected Sunny, Misty, and Poppy would sleep in, along with other guests at the inn, though her parents were often early risers.
With the electricity still off, Ivy stared at the bag of coffee beans on the kitchen counter as if some magical presence might intervene and transform them into a drinkable beverage. The coffee maker sat useless on the counter.
However, the old gas cooktop worked fine.
The sun had just risen, but the marine layer was foggy and thick. Still, it was light enough to start breakfast for their guests.
They had survived yesterday’s harvest feast without electricity. So many people had gotten creative to manage outdoor grills, candles, and flashlights. With propane heat lamps, fireplaces, and blankets, everyone stayed warm.
But brewing coffee without an electric coffeemaker? Her foggy, pre-caffeinated brain couldn’t recall how to do it.
Not that she ever had.
She texted Shelly. “How is Mitch brewing coffee at Java Beach this morning?”
After a small lag, Shelly replied. “On the cooktop. He says it’s easy. Just water and coffee. Mitch took Vanz and Melinda to help him at Java Beach, so I’m coming over with Daisy.”
“If he can do it, so can we. I’ll have it ready when you arrive.” Ivy pushed up the sleeves on her sweater and brought out a pot that looked large enough to make what they’d need.
Fortunately, everyone was sleeping in and wouldn’t see her fumbling around. They’d wake up to a delicious aroma and all would be well with the world once they were sufficiently caffeinated.
She filled the pot with water, lit an old burner with a match, and placed the pot over it. While the water came to a boil, she folded a clean dishcloth over the beans and brought out a wooden rolling pin. She began crushing them with vigor, releasing an earthy, roasted scent.
Grinding them felt primitive, but at least she was making progress.
Then she lifted the cracked, crumbled beans on the cloth and poured them directly into the boiling water.
So far, so good, she thought. She turned back to the counter to clean up the mess she’d made.
Behind her, the pot sizzled and popped.
She whipped around to see the brew foaming and bubbling over the sides, hissing as it hit the flame.
“Oh, no,” Ivy cried. She grabbed the handles, nearly burning her hands, then turned off the knob. Coffee-tinted water pooled on the stovetop and trickled down the side.
Shelly appeared in the doorway in fleece sweats, her hair swept into a messy bun. She held Daisy by the hand. Their eyes widened at the scene before them.
“I suppose your rescue team has arrived.”
“Better put Daisy up first.” Ivy grabbed a pair of dishcloths, sopping up the brown liquid seeping over the edge of the stove and onto the floor.
She had to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Shelly strapped Daisy into a highchair and gave her a bottle of apple juice and a soft wafer. “What were you doing?”
“Making coffee,” she replied, gesturing to the rolling pin. “I had to crush the coffee beans. Can’t use the grinder without electricity, so I got creative.”
Shelly quirked a grin. “Actually, that was pretty smart.”
“Crushing coffee beans was easy enough—until I got to the actual coffee-making part. Now what?”
“Let’s pivot, Sis. Do we have any instant coffee?” Shelly opened the pantry and looked inside.
Ivy shook her head, though mentally, she added that to her emergency list. “If Mitch is cooking coffee on the stovetop for the masses, I figured I could manage a pot for us.”
“A pot? That’s practically a cauldron.”
“You’ve got that right.” Ivy wiggled her fingers at the pot as if casting a spell on it. “‘Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble.’”
Daisy giggled at the rhyme.
Shelly laughed, tickling her little girl behind an ear. “Shakespeare for breakfast is impressive. But you still can’t make coffee without a machine.”
“Apparently not.” Ivy wrung out the dishcloth at the sink. “Do you have any other ideas?”
Shelly found a smaller pot and started filling it with water. In the meantime, she pulled her phone from her pocket. “I’ll look, but I didn’t have much time to charge my battery in the car.”
“No telling when the electricity will be restored,” Ivy said. “Bennett checked with the emergency department this morning, and they just said they’re working on it.”
Shelly scrolled through her phone. “Do you have a moka pot?”
“I wish. Not even that.”
Shelly eyed the mess on the stove. “Spice grinder?”
“Electric.” Ivy brightened. “Hey, I have Mom’s molcajete.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the Mexican mortar and pestle she used. It’s made from basalt, or volcanic stone. She used it to crush garlic and chili peppers. I do the same.”
“I remember that.” Shelly raised her eyebrows. “Whatever works, I guess. Here’s something. You boil grounds with water. Then—” The screen went black, and she sighed.
“Let’s ask an expert,” Ivy said.
From a kitchen shelf, she pulled a vintage cookbook she had received as a wedding gift years ago. Joy of Cooking. She scanned the glossary, then flipped to the front. “Look, it’s one of the first recipes in the book. That’s how important it is.”
Daisy squealed as if for emphasis.
Shelly gave her some fresh blueberries from her bag. “So what does Irma Rombauer say?”
Ivy tapped the stained, yellowed page. “Two spoonfuls of ground coffee per cup for each cup of water. Boil for five to ten minutes, then drain. Sounds easy enough, but we should watch it.”
While Shelly tended to Daisy, she brought out the stone mortar and pestle to grind coffee beans. “Let’s start over.”
Working together, they measured grounds into the water. When the mixture began to bubble, they stood watch, guarding it like gold.
“Imagine making this over a campfire beside a covered wagon,” Shelly said, shaking her head. “I feel like a pioneer on the Oregon Trail.”
“Only in a fairly modern kitchen.” Ivy grinned at her “We have little reason to complain, do we?”
As they watched, the water grew darker and released a rich aroma.
When the color looked about right, Ivy turned off the flame. “Now we let it settle, then we strain it.”
“With what? The strainer’s holes are too large, except for the tiny one for tea.”
Upstairs, footsteps sounded in the hallway. Guests were coming downstairs.
“We don’t have time for that,” Ivy said. “Oh, wait a minute. Diya left something here that might work.”
She brought a folded cheesecloth from a drawer and positioned it over a bowl with a spout placed in the sink. Shelly lifted the pot and poured. The coffee that emerged was murky, with visible sediment swirling through it.
“That looks awfully rustic.” Shelly reached for two cups and filled them. She gave Ivy one and lifted hers. “Cheers.”
Ivy tasted what they’d made. “Wow, that’s strong.” Suddenly, her mouth was on fire.
“And spicy.” Shelly breathed out, fanning her mouth. “What did you add to the beans?”
Ivy filled a glass of water from the faucet and gulped it. “That kick must be from leftover chili peppers. I didn’t think to wash the mortar or pestle.”
They looked at each other and burst out laughing. Shelly also reached for a glass.
Just then, Bennett walked in the rear door. “What’s so funny here?”
“Try the coffee,” Shelly said, grinning.
Before Ivy could warn him, Bennett took a long drink. A moment later, his eyes bulged and perspiration appeared on his forehead. “Wow, that’s strong enough to wake the dead. And hot. Spicy hot, I mean.” He grabbed the water from Ivy and finished it in one long swig.
Ivy chuckled. “But better than nothing, right?”
He ran another glass and drank it down. Catching his breath, he put his arm around her. “You never cease to amaze me.”
Lifting the smaller bowl, Shelly poured it into a thermal container for the dining room. “Guests might not love it, but they’ll appreciate the effort. We’ll call it our special spicy blend.”
“I don’t think we can serve that,” Bennett said, coughing. “Not without a defibrillator.”
Just then, the overhead lights flickered to life. The refrigerator hummed, louder than usual.
Bennett hugged Ivy and whirled her around. “The electricity is back. Thank goodness.”
“Yes!” Shelly shouted, slapping their hands in a high-five.
Excitement swept through the inn as guests came downstairs. Ivy looked at the thermos they’d prepared, then at the modern coffee maker.
“Should we even mention our first attempt?” Shelly asked, already reaching for the real coffee maker.
Ivy dumped the coffee down the sink. “That was my second attempt. And no, not if we want to maintain our dignity.”
“This stays between us,” Bennett said, drinking more water.
“Deal.” Shelly turned on the faucet to fill the coffee maker’s reservoir. “Although people might wonder why the place smells like charred jalapeños.”
“Wait, I remember now,” Ivy said. “Not long ago, I ground the habañeros you grew.”
Shelly coughed and refilled her glass of water. “No wonder it’s so spicy. Those are a hundred times hotter than jalapeños. And I’m not kidding.”
Bennett drew a hand over his face, chuckling.
Shelly pressed a button. The stainless-steel machine ground the beans, then gurgled coffee into a carafe. This was a miracle of modern convenience.
Ivy leaned against the counter, relief washing over her. “I will never take electricity for granted again.”
Bennett kissed her cheek and whispered, “I didn’t miss it last night. That fireplace in our bedroom was awfully cozy.”
“And romantic,” Ivy said, kissing him back.
“Oh, you two,” Shelly said, chuckling. “You’d think you were still newlyweds.”
At that, Daisy screamed and waved her hands.
“That’s her alarm for me to serve another course,’ Shelly said, covering her ears. “Yogurt coming right up.”
“Everyone else gets leftovers today,” Ivy said, turning to Bennett. “Want to help before you take off for your run?”
Bennett grinned. “That’s not really a question, is it?”
“Stay and say hello to Mom and Dad. Then you can go running.”
Bennett lifted the carafe. “I’ll serve the coffee.”
Voices drifted from the hallway where people were gathering. Within minutes, the quiet morning erupted into the familiar bustle of guests.
With Shelly’s help, Ivy took charge of breakfast. They warmed cinnamon-spiced baked apples and pumpkin muffins while arranging an assortment of fruit, cheese, and sliced vegetables.
When she entered the dining room, Bennett stood chatting with the young Italian couple, who had enjoyed their first Thanksgiving feast. Adelina sat with Carlotta and Sterling, their conversation flowing. They all wore warm sweaters as it was a little cool.
Ivy signaled to Bennett to turn on the heater now that they could. He nodded and left the room.
“Good morning,” Ivy said, joining her parents and Adelina. “I see you’ve found each other.”
Carlotta looked up, her silver earrings catching the light. “We were just catching up, recalling the pieces we bought from Adelina in the past.”
“Her work was exquisite,” Sterling added. “I recall clients asking when we might get more.”
Adelina smiled, the compliment bringing color to her cheeks. “That almost feels like another lifetime ago. So much has changed.”
“Yet here you are, getting ready to relaunch your career,” Ivy said, settling into the chair beside them.
Adelina smiled at her. “I was wondering if I was too old to start over—not that I have much choice if I want to eat and keep a roof over my head. And then your parents shared their adventures. If they can sail around the world, I can do what I need to.”
“And what you love,” Carlotta said, patting the other woman’s hand. “You’re so talented, and your love of art shines in every piece. We’ll reach out to some of our contacts for you.”
Bennett reappeared in the doorway with something tucked under his arm. Ivy nodded for him to join them.
They had shared the bunker discovery with her parents and Adelina over dinner last night and promised they’d share more of it today.
“Here’s the logbook,” Bennett said.
The cover was stained, its spine cracked in places. He gently opened it, revealing pages filled with neat, measured handwriting. Dates lined the margin. 1942, 1943, 1944.
“Someone kept a meticulous record,” he said, reading the first entry. “It appears to be a lookout log.”
Adelina sucked in a breath. “May I see that?”
