Page 2 of Theo of Golden

He did not know a soul in the town.

Well… perhaps one.

He was not yet certain how long he would be there — weeks, months, longer? — but in very short order, he was pleased with the feel of his new temporary home.

First impression: a very pleasant place to be, and appropriately named.

Golden.

CHAPTER 2

As Theo concluded his stroll along Broadway, he returned to the small coffee shop he had passed earlier that morning. The aroma of caffeine hung like a scented cloud (and functioned as highly effective advertising) at the entrance to the business.

A painted windowpane next to the door identified the establishment in gold letters outlined in black:

The Chalice

Light Street and Broadway

Monday through Thursday, 6 a.m. to 10 p.m.

Friday and Saturday, 7 a.m. to 11 p.m.

Sunday, 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.

Once inside, Theo took a deep breath and scanned the room.

Standing, sitting, alone and in small clusters of various generations, ethnicity, and attire, people of all sorts had gathered in witness to the shop’s magnetic pull.

A young man leaving the building with a cello on his back and a coffee in hand skillfully navigated the tables and the incoming customers with occasional whispers of “excuse me.” He caught Theo’s eye with a sideways glance, smiled, nodded, and spoke a greeting. Such a thing was unusual, even suspect, in the big cities where Theo had spent most of his life, but he reciprocated the gesture with a nod and a smile, then stepped toward the short line where orders were placed.

He sensed that he might become a regular there, an intuition that proved true for the year he lived in Golden.

If only the coffee is as rich as the ambiance, he thought.

That wishful possibility seemed unlikely.

Theo was used to the strong coffees of Europe — abatanado and café pingado in Lisbon, café con leche in Madrid, espresso in Bologna, café noisette in Marseilles. The American shops had often disappointed him, even in New York, where, for every excellent cup he’d consumed, he had endured a half dozen letdowns. His standards, he had been told, were rather exacting.

The old man exchanged a greeting with the barista at the counter, placed his order, received his drink, and took a seat in a nearby armchair.

He was more than a little surprised at the quality of the espresso and nodded approvingly as the first sip rested on his tongue.

He studied the room: the customers’ faces, their voices, greetings, and gestures; the care with which the cheerful barista did his work; the activity from table to table.

But in short order, his attention was drawn to and fixed entirely on the artwork that covered the walls of the shop.

On the left, right, and rear walls were portraits, ninety-two of them in total, done in pencil on white paper and in black frames of three sizes. All had obviously been done by the same artist. And, as if to reflect the customers in the shop at that moment, the collection included a full range of humanity — age, race, and expression. Portraits and portraits and more portraits.

Even from the distance between himself and those framed faces, Theo perceived the richness of detail and delicacy with which they had been rendered. There was a quality to them, an aliveness, that would almost make one believe the people portrayed were spectators of the Chalice rather than mere adornments on the walls.

The old man’s mind began to spin a fanciful vision: each of the ninety-two frames is a window. Each face depicted in the frames is standing outside the building, peeking in with amusement at the customers on the inside. At night, when the shop is closed, the faces in the portraits leave their frames, step inside the shop, mingle, talk about who and what they’ve seen or overheard that day, share stories, and then return home by opening.

He smiled at the colorful, if ludicrous, idea. Such things crossed his mind frequently.

He had the imagination of a poet.

But he had, too, the eyes and mind of a connoisseur. Though he was easily interested in many things, he was keenly interested in a particular few. Portraiture fell into that category.