Twenty Blue Devils

Folgerses, the Maxwell Houses. The arabica sector, the specialty growers and roasters, were doing better than fine, and not just for the time being either. They now had twelve percent of the market, up from less than one percent only a few years ago, and were still climbing, with Paradise near the front of the pack. As for coffee prices, when had they not been going up and down and up again? Back in the eighteenth century it had been $4.68 a pound for ordinary green beans, four times what it was now— had they known that?

They hadn't. “Even so—” said Nelson.

But Rudy wasn't easy to cut off when he chose not to be. Did they know that the coffee industry employed almost thirty million people in one capacity or another? Would they care to guess what the earth's most-traded commodity just happened to be?

'Coffee?” asked John, being helpful.

'Wrong,” said Rudy, “petroleum. Now: Would anyone care to guess the world's second-most-traded commodity?'

'Coffee?” asked John.

'Excellent guess,” said Rudy. “Somebody give that man a coconut. Last year, eleven billion pounds were traded at the wholesale level alone.'

For all his waspishness, Rudy was amusing in a dry, puckery kind of way. With his balding dome, his pruney, disapproving mouth, and his baggy-eyed sad sack of a face, his sharp, funny thrusts rarely failed to surprise.

'I take it,” Nick said, on the dry side himself for the moment, “that you're suggesting that we don't accept their offer?'

Rudy nodded. “As before, padrone.'

The others started talking again. Nick held up his hand. “Let's save some time. Maggie, Nelson—you think it's time to sell.'

More nods. “A training center would be a fantastic legacy, Poppa,” said Maggie, her eyes shining. “A way to pay back all we've plundered from the island.'

'Right, plundered. And Celine? You'd still like to sell the farm, of course?'

'You bet, Nicky! Buy a nice villa in Antibes, get out of this dump.'

'So everyone feels the same as they did before,” Nick said reflectively. “The only thing that's changed is the money.” He turned to his right. His voice, his entire manner, became gentler. “Therese, do you want to say anything, honey?'

Therese looked startled. She too hadn't said much until now, and what little she'd said had left Gideon with the impression that she was very sweet, very solicitous of others— of John, of her parents, of her children—and not very bright. Not very self-assured either. Most of her remarks faded away in mid-sentence, in a soft, not unattractive flurry of confusion and discomposure: oh gosh, she seemed to be saying, there I've gone and put my foot in my mouth again, haven't I?

That said, she was certainly a knockout, with clear, fresh skin somewhere between copper and bronze, features that combined the best of her Chinese and American heritage, and as classically beautiful, heart-shaped, and perfectly symmetrical a face as Gideon had ever seen.

'What a skull she must have under there,” Gideon had said to John in quiet admiration shortly after they arrived.

'You be sure and tell her that, Doc,” John had said. “I mean, what female wouldn't love to hear that? No wonder you swept Julie off her feet.'

Therese's reply to Nick's question was, as usual, self-effacing. As far as she was concerned, she would be happy with whatever he decided—but in her heart of hearts she hoped they wouldn't sell, that was all.

Nick prompted her to continue.

Therese chewed her lip and went hesitantly forward. Since she had been a little girl, not a day had passed, not a single meal, when coffee hadn't been discussed, and pondered over, and argued about. For as long as she could remember, the growing of coffee had been the focal point of the family. More than that, much more, it was the coffee farm into which Brian had poured so much of his energy and thought and devotion. He had left his stamp on it, and to her—she knew how silly this sounded—it was a kind of monument to him. The idea of abandoning coffee simply because someone offered them money—did they really need more money?—of letting all that work and achievement be bulldozed away for just another tourist hotel...

As usual, she trailed off into mumbled fragments. “I'm sorry...I just...I can't really...you know...” She hunched her shoulders and looked down at her hands.

Treacly as it was, Therese delivered it with such patient, awkward sincerity that Gideon found himself moved. Nick was moved too. Moist-eyed, he put his hand over his daughter's.

Nelson, who was not moved, rapped peevishly on the table. “Pardon me, but may I suggest that this has nothing whatever to do with Brian, for God's sake? We grow beans here, not holy relics, and the reason we grow them is so people can make something called coffee out of them. And what is coffee? Coffee is no more than a mixture of burnt hydrocarbons, alkaloids, and mineral salts suspended in an aqueous solution...'

That was one way to look at it, Gideon thought.

Next to him, Rudy raised his glass of Medoc in a salute to Nelson. “Here's to a true romantic,” he said.

Nelson glared briefly at him. “My point is—'

'Enough,” Nick said, his hand still on Therese's. “Tell Superstar we're still not interested. We're doing fine right here.'

Therese, still looking down, said something so softly that Gideon couldn't hear it but read it on her lips. “Thank you, Poppa.'

'Anybody have any more comments they just have to make?” Nick asked.