A Piedmont Porchlight Story
**A Note from Ol’ Big Jim
Elevated Grounds Coffee Shop is a real place in Piedmont, Alabama, and Brandon is its real owner. Dianne Reynolds, Walter Pritchard, Helen, and the events in this story are products of my imagination. Brandon kindly gave me permission to use photographs of himself and his coffee shop as inspiration for our illustration.
The coffee is real. The mystery is made up. And the love? Well, I reckon that’s real enough anywhere you find it.
Now, I don’t know how many of y’all have ever tried to draw a picture in a cup of coffee, but I can tell you from personal experience that it’s considerably harder than it looks. I’ve attempted it exactly once, and the result resembled a possum that had been struck by a logging truck.
Dianne Reynolds, on the other hand, could pour steamed milk into espresso and produce a heart so perfect you’d swear she’d been practicing under the personal supervision of Cupid himself.
Dianne worked at Elevated Grounds Coffee Shop in Piedmont, Alabama, where Brandon, the owner, had managed to accomplish something that hadn’t been done in town since the invention of air conditioning.
He’d persuaded people to pay good money to sit indoors and talk to one another.
Of course, folks had been doing that for free on front porches for generations, but Brandon had added comfortable chairs, good coffee, and pastries that could make a Baptist preacher reconsider his position on gluttony.
Business was good.
And Dianne was one of the reasons.
She remembered everybody’s order. She knew who liked extra foam, who wanted oat milk, and who insisted on calling a cappuccino a cup of chino, despite repeated attempts at correction.
She also drew a little heart in every latte she served.
Every single one.
It was her trademark.
“You’re gonna wear that heart out one of these days,” Brandon told her one morning.
Dianne smiled.
“Reckon I’ll just have to grow another one.”
“Long as it don’t come out of my payroll.”
“Brandon, honey, if I charged you for everything I do around here, you’d have to sell this place and take up chicken farming.”
He considered that.
“Chickens don’t complain about the price of coffee.”
“No, but they ain’t much for tipping, either.”
That settled the matter.
For nearly two years, nobody thought anything unusual about Dianne’s little hearts.
Until Mr. Walter Pritchard started paying attention.
Walter was seventy-four, a retired postal employee who’d spent forty-one years delivering mail around Piedmont and the surrounding countryside.
He knew practically everybody in town, including several people who’d been dead long enough that their grandchildren had grandchildren.
He was a widower.
His wife, Helen, had passed away three years earlier, leaving him with a house too quiet for his liking and a kitchen table that seemed to grow bigger every morning.
Walter began visiting Elevated Grounds shortly after she died.
At first, he’d ordered plain black coffee.
Then Dianne persuaded him to try a latte.
“What’s in it?” he’d asked suspiciously.
“Coffee and milk.”
“Then why don’t you just call it coffee and milk?”
“Because then Brandon couldn’t charge you four dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Walter had laughed so hard he’d nearly spilled it.
From that day forward, he ordered a latte every morning at precisely nine-fifteen.
And every morning, Dianne drew him a heart.
For the longest time, he never gave it another thought.
Then one Tuesday in October, he noticed something.
His heart was crooked.
Not badly crooked, mind you. Just enough that the left side was slightly larger than the right.
Walter studied it.
“Miss Dianne?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Your heart’s lopsided.”
She glanced into his cup.
“Well, Mr. Walter, at my age I’m just grateful it’s still beating.”
He chuckled.
But the following morning, the heart was crooked again.
Only this time, the right side was larger.
Thursday’s heart was perfectly symmetrical.
Friday’s had a tiny opening at the bottom.
Saturday’s leaned distinctly to the left.
Walter began taking photographs.
Now, a seventy-four-year-old man photographing his coffee might strike you as peculiar, but we’ve reached an age when people photograph everything they eat, drink, wear, purchase, or accidentally step in.
Nobody paid him any attention.
Except Dianne.
She noticed.
And she began smiling a little differently whenever he ordered.
By the following Wednesday, Walter had assembled nine photographs on his kitchen table.
He arranged them in order.
Left.
Right.
Straight.
Open.
Left.
Straight.
Right.
Open.
Straight.
He stared at them for nearly an hour.
Then he got out a pencil.
Walter had spent forty-one years sorting mail. He knew that seemingly insignificant markings could carry important information. He also knew that people sometimes saw patterns where none existed. His late wife had accused him of that on numerous occasions. Usually when he was trying to explain why the Alabama football team had lost.
But these hearts bothered him. There was something deliberate about them. Something familiar.
The next morning, Walter arrived at Elevated Grounds carrying a little spiral notebook.
Brandon noticed immediately.
“Morning, Mr. Walter. You fixing to audit us?”
“Not unless you’ve been stealing government property.”
“Not lately.”
Walter ordered his latte and watched Dianne make it. She poured the milk slowly, tilting the pitcher ever so slightly. A heart appeared. This one had a small opening at the bottom.
Walter looked at her. She looked at him. Neither said anything. He took his coffee to the table beside the window. Opened his notebook. And wrote down a single letter.
D.
He wasn’t entirely sure why. But something about that broken heart reminded him of an old postal marking he’d once seen on a training chart.
The next day, he wrote another letter.
O.
Then another.
N.
By the end of the week, he had four letters.
D O N T
Walter stared at the page.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in peanut butter and rolled in Rice Krispies.”
He looked toward the counter. Dianne was wiping down the espresso machine. Brandon was discussing a pastry order with a customer. Everything looked perfectly ordinary.
Which, as anybody who’s lived in a small Southern town can tell you, is generally when you ought to start worrying.
Walter returned the next morning. Then the next. And the next.
The letters continued.
D O N T F O R G E T
Walter sat very still.
Don’t forget.
He knew those words.
He’d heard them thousands of times.
Helen had said them whenever he left the house.
“Don’t forget your keys.”
“Don’t forget your medicine.”
“Don’t forget we’re supposed to be at church by ten.”
And, during the final months of her illness, when her memory had begun slipping away from her, she’d said something else.
“Don’t forget me, Walter.”
He’d promised he wouldn’t.
But lately, he’d begun worrying.
Not that he’d forgotten Helen.
Never that.
He could remember their wedding day, the yellow dress she’d worn on their first date, and the way she’d laughed whenever he tried to dance.
But he’d begun forgetting little things. The exact sound of her voice. Whether she’d taken sugar in her tea. The name of the hymn she’d always asked him to sing when she couldn’t sleep.
Little things. Terrible little things. He looked down at the notebook.
DON’T FORGET.
His hands trembled.
The following morning, he arrived fifteen minutes early. Dianne was arranging cups behind the counter.
“Morning, Mr. Walter.”
“Morning.”
“The usual?”
He shook his head.
“Not just yet.”
She stopped.
Walter placed his notebook on the counter. Opened it. And turned it toward her. Dianne looked at the letters. Her expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Where’d you get those?” she asked.
“From my coffee.”
She glanced toward Brandon.
He was in the back room checking inventory.
“Mr. Walter…”
“Are you sending me messages?”
Dianne looked down at the notebook again.
Then she sighed.
“Well, I reckon I ought to have known you’d figure it out eventually.”
Walter felt the room tilt slightly.
“Why?”
Dianne didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she reached beneath the counter and brought out a small, faded envelope.
It was yellowed around the edges.
On the front, written in a delicate, familiar hand, were three words.
For my Walter.
He recognized the handwriting. He’d have recognized it in a thousand years.
“Helen?”
Dianne nodded.
“She gave it to me about a month before she passed.”
Walter stared at the envelope.
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Because she asked me not to.”
He looked up.
Dianne’s eyes were moist.
“She said you’d spend the first year grieving, the second year trying to convince everybody you weren’t grieving, and the third year wondering whether you were allowed to be happy again.”
Walter made a small sound.
Not quite a laugh.
Not quite a sob.
“That sounds like Helen.”
Dianne smiled.
“She said you’d eventually start coming here every morning, because you couldn’t stand eating breakfast alone.”
“How’d she know that?”
“She knew you.”
Walter looked at the envelope.
“And the hearts?”
Dianne hesitated.
“She wanted you to have something to figure out.”
“Why?”
“Because she said you were never happier than when you had a puzzle to solve.”
Walter laughed softly.
“That woman.”
“She made me promise I wouldn’t give you the letter until you’d figured out the message.”
He looked down at his notebook.
“Don’t forget.”
Dianne nodded.
“But there’s more.”
Walter stared at her.
“More?”
She reached for a clean cup.
“Sit down, Mr. Walter.”
He obeyed.
She made him a latte.
Poured the milk.
A beautiful heart appeared on the surface.
Perfectly symmetrical.
Except for one tiny dot near the top.
Walter looked at it.
Then at his notebook.
Then at Dianne.
“That’s a period.”
She smiled.
“Yes, sir.”
He frowned.
“Don’t forget. That’s the whole message?”
“Not quite.”
She pushed the envelope toward him.
“Open it.”
Walter’s fingers shook as he broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of stationery.
Helen’s stationery.
The kind with little blue flowers along the border.
He unfolded it.
And read.
My dearest Walter,
If you’re reading this, you’ve finally figured out what Dianne’s been putting in your coffee.
I hope you haven’t driven that poor girl completely crazy.
Now, I want you to listen to me, because I know how stubborn you can be.
Don’t forget.
Don’t forget the good years.
Don’t forget the bad ones, either, because we got through those together.
Don’t forget the trips we took, the arguments we had, the meals we burned, or the nights we sat on the porch and didn’t say a word because we didn’t need to.
But most of all, don’t forget that you’re still alive.
You hear me, Walter Pritchard?
Still alive.
And I didn’t spend forty-eight years loving you just so you could spend the rest of your days waiting to join me.
Go somewhere.
Make somebody laugh.
Buy yourself a ridiculous shirt.
And if some nice lady asks you to supper, for heaven’s sake, don’t act like you’re betraying me.
I had you for forty-eight years.
Somebody else deserves a turn.
All my love,
Helen.
Walter sat motionless. Then he folded the letter. Very carefully. Placed it back in the envelope.
And began to cry.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just an old man sitting beside a window in a coffee shop, crying over a letter from the woman he’d loved most of his life.
Dianne came around the counter. She didn’t say anything. She simply sat beside him.
After a while, Brandon appeared. He took one look at Walter, then at Dianne.
“Everything all right?”
Walter wiped his eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
Brandon looked doubtful.
“You sure?”
Walter nodded.
“Better than all right.”
He held up the envelope.
“Just got some mail.”
Brandon glanced at the handwriting.
Something softened in his face.
“Well,” he said quietly, “I reckon that’s a mighty special delivery.”
Walter smiled.
“The best kind.”
Brandon pulled out a chair.
“Coffee’s on the house today.”
Walter looked at him.
“Brandon, I’ve been coming here nearly every morning for three years. You’ve never given me a free cup of coffee.”
“Well, don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They laughed.
And for the first time in a long while, Walter laughed without feeling guilty afterward.
Now, you’d think that would be the end of the story.
And for most folks, it was.
Walter continued visiting Elevated Grounds every morning.
He even bought himself a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt covered in pink flamingos, which caused considerable discussion among the regular customers.
One afternoon, he asked a widow named Margaret Ellis if she’d care to join him for supper.
She said yes.
And Dianne kept drawing hearts in every latte.
But something happened a few weeks later that nobody could quite explain.
Walter arrived one morning to find Dianne taking the day off.
Brandon was behind the espresso machine.
“Morning, Mr. Walter.”
“Where’s Dianne?”
“Visiting her sister. Won’t be back till Monday.”
Walter ordered his usual.
Brandon made the latte himself.
Now, Brandon was a fine coffee-shop owner, but his artistic talents with steamed milk were somewhat limited.
His hearts generally resembled potatoes that had experienced emotional difficulties.
Nevertheless, he tried.
He poured the milk.
Tilted the cup.
And produced something that was, against all reasonable expectations, a perfectly formed heart.
Walter stared at it.
“Well, look at you.”
Brandon grinned.
“Been practicing.”
Walter lifted the cup.
Then stopped.
There was a tiny opening at the bottom of the heart.
And another small mark beside it.
Walter looked closer.
His smile faded.
He recognized the pattern.
He reached for his notebook.
Turned to the page where he’d recorded Dianne’s little alphabet.
Then looked at the cup again.
Two letters.
H. P.
Helen Pritchard.
Walter stared at the coffee.
Brandon leaned over the counter.
“Something wrong?”
Walter shook his head slowly.
“No.”
He looked toward the window.
Outside, the morning sun lay warm across the sidewalk.
A little breeze stirred the leaves.
Somewhere down the street, a church bell rang.
Walter smiled.
“No, Brandon. Not a thing.”
He lifted the cup.
And drank.
Now, I don’t know whether Brandon accidentally poured those two letters into Walter’s coffee.
I don’t know whether Dianne had been teaching him more than she’d admitted.
And I certainly don’t know whether Helen Pritchard had anything to do with it.
But I do know one thing.
Walter never asked Brandon about those markings.
And Brandon, when questioned years later, swore he’d never learned Dianne’s secret alphabet.
He said he’d just been trying to draw a heart.
Which brings me to something I’ve been meaning to tell y’all.
If you ever find yourself sitting at Elevated Grounds with a warm cup of coffee in your hands, take a moment before you drink it.
Look at the little heart floating on top.
It might not mean anything.
Then again, it might.
Because sometimes the people who love us find ways to remind us they’re still around.
And sometimes, if we’re fortunate, all it takes is a little milk, a little coffee, and somebody who knows how to draw a heart.
Just don’t let it get cold while you’re trying to figure it out.
