ginger peach

When I worked at the Ground Floor, we hosted a private group for lunch every Wednesday and some Fridays. Most of them had their own personal sandwich slips, kept in a rubber-banded bundle under the counter, and they’d just walk up (a few would even call ahead) and say, “I’m (so-and-so). Can you make my sandwich, please?”

There was Max, the leader, who had three different sandwich slips and whose secretary would call ahead for him and tell me which one he wanted, and whether or not he wanted a cookie. There was Cecil, who called ahead every single week, and Tim, who came in every single day for a latte but also joined us for lunch (we kept an avocado in the fridge just for him). There was Michelle, who, oddly enough, was a big, burly, kind-faced man, and there was Sug (short for “Sugar” and pronounced that way), tiny and graying and always cheerful. I never found out her real name, but it didn’t matter. The Ground Floor was a safe place for them to come and eat and talk about their lives. We supplied them with sandwiches, cookies, chips and pitchers of iced tea and water, rang them up, accepted their gracious tips, poured coffee for a few of them – and then we slipped into the kitchen and closed the swinging door. They were called “Bill’s Friends,” but they were an AA group, and they liked to be alone to share their struggles with each other.

A few months after I started working there, Jere (pronounced “Jerry”) started coming to Bill’s Friends. At first she wasn’t there every week, but she quickly became a regular, and filled out her own sandwich slip in scrunched-up cursive. She had a finely structured face under feathery gold-blonde hair, tanned skin and nervous hands, and an almost eager look in her eyes behind her quiet reserve. I never quite made friends with her, but I tried to talk with her every week.

After a week or two of iced tea and water, Jere started ordering ginger peach tea – a tall 20-ounce cup, golden brown and iced. She always asked for it after that, and whenever I brewed a cup for anyone else, I thought of her. It had a sweet and subtle flavor – slightly fruity, slightly spiced, still hearty enough to chase the heat of a broiling Texas summer.

I haven’t seen Jere in close to five years, not since the last Christmas break I worked at the Ground Floor. I have no idea where she is or how she’s doing, or whether that group of Bill’s Friends has found another place to meet. I hope they have. But last night, my wonderful husband bought me ginger peach tea at the grocery store, and this morning, I brewed a cup and thought of her.

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