by Cleo Coyle
Strapped to his right wrist was a glittering Breitling chronometer. Encircling his left was a multicolored tribal bracelet made from braided strips of Ecuadorian leather—and that pretty much summed up the paradox that was Matteo Allegro: one part slick international coffee buyer and one part fearless java trekker, lightly folded together in a larger-than-life concoction that I once couldn’t get enough of and now sometimes found hard to swallow.
“How’s our daughter?” I asked, still savoring my double. (Replacing the grinder had fixed all issues. Tuck’s shots were now spot on, the nutty-earthy sweetness of the crema drenching my tongue in the liquefied aroma of my freshly roasted beans.)
“Joy’s doing great,” Matt said. “I have pictures to show you once I get this piece of crap recharged.”
He threw his latest electronic device onto the cold slab of marble between us—PDA, phone, camera, calculator, microwave oven. I’m not sure what tasks it was supposed to multi.
“Why didn’t you just use a camera?” I said.
“Joy did. She’s going to e-mail you photos of my visit when she can find the time. She’s been working extremely hard, but she says she’s still loving it.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. And does she have a new boyfriend?”
“None that she mentioned. But I think she’s too busy. Which is more than fine with me.” Matt rubbed his eyes. “Frankly, if my baby throws in the towel on this chef thing and decides to join a convent in Lourdes, I’ll breathe a whole lot easier.”
“Well, I wouldn’t. Nothing against the good French sisters, but I want to be a grandmother.”
“Bite your tongue!”
“Give it up, Matt. One of these days, Joy is going to settle on a guy, get married, and have kids—and then you’ll have to hear it—”
“Don’t say it—”
“Grandpa.”
Matt visibly cringed.
“Or would you prefer the cheekier ‘Gramps’?”
Ribbing the man was just too easy. I’d married him at nineteen. He’d been twenty-two at the time, although in matters sexual he’d been a virtual Methuselah. We’d met one summer in Italy (I’d been staying with relatives while studying art history), and when I’d ended up pregnant, after a blindly blissful summer of love, his mother had pressed him to the altar.
Back then, she was the one who’d wanted a grandchild—a legitimate one. So we never looked back, which is why he was far from the age of your average granddaddy.
Needless to say, our wedding hadn’t been the wished-for, dreamed-for event of most young couples, planned down to the last flower petal and Jordan almond. It just happened. And for years I thought that was the reason Matt had gone through such difficulty accepting the ring and the vows and that forsaking-of-all-others-in-short-skirts thing.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Matt’s occupation was partly to blame. I was a needy bride, an uncertain new mother, infatuated with her young handsome groom whose job of sourcing coffee beans took him all over the world, all year long.
Matt had lived for it.
I died a thousand deaths.
Now that we were partners in coffee (instead of matrimony), my feelings about the man’s peripatetic gene were completely upended. So go the astonishing ironies of middle age. Live long enough and you come to love the thing you loathed, embrace the thing you dreaded.
These days, I was downright grateful to my ex for trekking the globe, chasing harvest cycles to bring back the world’s finest crops. And that’s what they were: crops. Despite a corner of the industry sealing coffee up in cans with expiration dates implying freshness through a nuclear winter, coffee was seasonal. In Matt’s view (and I didn’t disagree), it belonged in the produce aisle, right next to the fruits and vegetables.
“How was Ethiopia?”
“Great. Our Amaro Gayo is outstanding, picked at the perfect time and the sorting is good. You should see the first shipment any day.”
“I’m looking forward to roasting it.”
“And I’m looking forward to tasting your roast.” He smiled then, a genuine vote of confidence, which I appreciated.
“Does Breanne know you’re back?”
Matt stifled a yawn as he nodded. Annoyed by his own jet lag, he reran a hand over his dark head then waved at Tucker. “Another double!”
“How’s Bree been?”
I hadn’t seen her since the Blend’s holiday party last December. But then Breanne Summour, the ultratrendy, trend-setting editor of Trend magazine, traveled in much different circles than moi. The woman was a definite trade-up for my ex—in wealth and looks.
Before their marriage last spring, wagging tongues had speculated what a wayward coffee hunter and a socially ambitious fashion maven could possibly share. But I didn’t question it.
Despite their wildly different career choices, I knew Matt and Bree weren’t so very different under their toned tans. Both enjoyed living large, both craved excitement, and both jetted around the world for their respective careers. Granted, Matt’s dusty treks through Nairobi and Bogotá were more exotic than Breanne’s glittering tours of Milan and Barcelona, but to someone left behind, globetrotting is globetrotting no matter where your loved one trots. Conveniently, the Allegro-Summour union left no spouse behind while conveniently providing each nomadic partner with the comforting illusion of a rooted marital home.
“We texted each other before I got on the plane,” Matt said. “She’s on her way to Milan by now—another trade show. I missed her at JFK by ninety minutes.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Not really.” Matt shrugged, a little too casually. “Gives me a little space to relax, kick back, enjoy some time alone in the Big Kumquat . . .”
I frowned. After years stranded on Matteo Island, I’d become way too fluent in Matt-speak. Even his eyes were sparking with that regrettable when-the-cat’s-away look.
Before I could challenge the man’s wet noodle of a moral code, the Blend’s front bell jingled. Glancing up, I saw James Noonan’s wife coming through the door.
Valerie Noonan wasn’t much taller than I, but the dynamic charge of her fast-clicking heels across my wood-plank floor appeared to lift her to the stature of her firefighter husband.
“Clare!” she called with the burning energy of a Con Ed plant. “We need to talk!”
SIXTEEN
“HOW are you?” I asked when Val approached our table.
“Great—now that I know I’ve caught you!” Val’s low, throaty voice belied her bubbly demeanor and freckle-sprinkled nose. What it betrayed was a pack-a-day habit.
I felt for her. I’d smoked a little in high school but quickly kicked it (the kick in the pants from my grandmother had helped). Val said she hated her addiction, had stopped for a few years, but the recent stresses of her job had sent her back.
“You made quite an impression on James last night!”
“Really?” It was the last thing I expected her to say.
“Yes, and let me tell you”—she arched a slender eyebrow—“it’s not easy hearing your husband gas on about another woman’s heroism before you’ve even had your coffee!”
“Heroism? Not me. James and his friend Bigsby Brewer were the ones who ran into that burning building. They’re the real he—”
“Don’t say it.” She held up her palm. “James hates the word. He’d say he was just doing his job and that a hero is a sandwich.”
Matt coughed—loudly.
Yeah, okay, Matt, keep your pants on. “Val, this is my business partner, Matt Allegro.”
As Matt rose to give up his chair, Val cocked her head. “Allegro?” She glanced at me then back to Matt. “Clare’s daughter’s name is Allegro—Oh! You must be Clare’s ex—”
“We’re still partners,” Matt said. “But only in business. Very pleased to meet you, Val. That’s a pretty name. Short for Valerie, right?”
Matt took her hand, the simple shake turning into a meaningful squeeze.
He moved a little closer, the dilation in his dark pupils as clear a sign of the man’s interest as a construction worker’s wolf whistle.
If I didn’t know Matt better, I might have assumed he was having a simple, Pavlovian reaction to the rich, russet shade of the woman’s short, bouncy curls and trim business suit, both of which displayed the exact color of a perfectly pulled shot of espresso crema. But I did know Matt, and his reaction had everything to do with woman’s curvy figure beneath that stylish suit.
“Val’s husband is a firefighter,” I told him with pointed emphasis. And he’ll break your head with his Halligan tool. “He’s also the very same fireman who pulled your mother out of that burning building last night.” So poach elsewhere, please.
Matt instantly dropped Val’s hand. With a weak little smile, he asked her to thank her husband for him then excused himself to “freshen up” in our restroom.
As he sauntered away, I noticed Val considering his well-built back. I shook my head. Matt’s Tabasco-colored tee may have appeared to be an easygoing choice, but I knew he’d purposely selected the tighter size to show off his molded pecs. And while his open denim work shirt looked loose and casual, those sleeves had been rolled with strategic precision, giving full exposure to his tanned, sinewy forearms while tempting the ladies with that first teasing curve of his bulging biceps.
Val lowered herself into Matt’s chair and leaned toward me. “You actually divorced that hunk?”
“Yes. With relish.”
“Do dish.”
“It’s a lengthy saga.”
“Let me guess. He’s a womanizer.”
“One of his many issues, yes . . .”
“Too bad you handled it by divorcing him. He looks like a real catch . . .” She gazed after Matt once more to connect with him, but he was gone—a succinct description of my young marriage.
“If James ever cheated on me,” Val said, “I wouldn’t be divorcing him. I’d be dealing with the female involved.”
That view surprised me. “Isn’t James the one who made you the promise of fidelity?”
“A married man is already taken. The woman is the one who’s doing the poaching. She’s the one who needs to be dealt with.”
“But don’t you think your husband owes you—”
“Hey, that’s just my view. To each her own.” She laughed, but it sounded a little force. “I’d love to hear your side of the story. You and me, after work, over a couple of microbrews, okay?”
“Beer?”
“Oh yeah. That’s my drink, don’t mess with it.”
“To each her own, then.” I smiled. “Now how about one of mine?”
She nodded, and we moved to the espresso bar where I fixed her up with our latest special, a Belgian Mochaccino (espresso, foamed whole milk, a pump of coffeehouse vanilla, and a half shot of my homemade special syrup, which consisted of imported bittersweet chocolate, cream, sugar, and a pinch of French gray salt).
I leaned on the bar. “So, Val, what is it that you need me to do for you today?”
Val laughed. “How did you know I needed something?”
“The way you came in here. Most of my customers come for a break. You strode in like a general looking for volunteers.”
“That’s what my husband calls me at home. The Little General.” She sighed. “Well, Clare, you’re not wrong. I need your help . . .”
She pulled a colorful ad card out of her tote bag. “Can you display this?”
I scanned the sign: Bake Sale! Union Square! Be There! Live music, hourly raffles, and the best goodies in the five boroughs. Benefits the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund.
“Riveting.” I smiled. “You wrote the ad?”
“I’m also the gullible chump who had it printed. Tina Wade was supposed to do both, but she crapped out on me—two kids with the flu and a husband pulling 24/7 mutuals. I took care of it. I’ve got a stack of these going to businesses all over town. I was hoping you could take a few and spread the love.”
“Glad to. I’ll post ours right now.”
I moved to the front window and set the placard beside our own plaque, the one that simply read: Fresh Roasted Coffee Served Daily. With the exception of our standing sidewalk chalkboard, the century-old tin was the only sign the Blend had ever displayed—or ever would as long as Madame had anything to say about it.
The bell jingled just then, and I glanced up to find the silver-haired woman herself breezing through the front door, black pants flowing like silk drapery, magenta and lime jacket displaying expressionistic swirls so vibrant they rivaled the feathers of a peacock.
“Clare, we need to talk.”
“You’re the second person who’s said that to me in the last ten minutes.”
I was smiling. She was not. Oh, no. The news was there in her red-rimmed eyes, the strain around her mouth.
“Enzo?”
“When I got there . . .” She shook her head. “They said he had a stroke very early this morning. He’s in a coma. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”
I was dreading exactly this. My initial shock gave away to sadness, and then I remembered Rossi.
“You weren’t able to speak with Enzo?”
“Child, he’s in a coma.”
I closed my eyes. “Sorry.”
When I opened my eyes again, I found hers tearing.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” she said. “This is my fault.”
“No. It’s not.” I took hold of her shoulders. “The person responsible is the monster who set that fire.” In my mind, the connection was automatic. “His daughter,” I said. “Enzo asked me not to call Lucia unless things got worse. I have her number upstairs—”
“Lucia’s already at the hospital. Mrs. Quadrelli called her last night. The child was very upset, of course.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
“Very little. I tried speaking with her, but she brushed me off and not very politely. You saw how she acted last evening.”
“Sorry to interrupt . . .” It was Val, she had crossed over from the espresso bar. I hadn’t noticed her standing right behind us and wondered how long she’d been listening. (I didn’t like anyone eavesdropping on me, although, I had to admit, I’d done it myself enough times in the name of snooping.)
“I should be going,” Val told me, “but I did have one other thing to discuss with you.”
“No problem,” I said, “but first let me introduce you to my employer, Mrs. Dubois. Around the Village, everyone knows her as Madame.”
“Very nice to meet you,” Val said.
“This is Valerie, Madame. The wife of James Noonan, the firefighter who carried you out of that caffè last night.”
A moment of blank surprise passed over the older woman’s features; then she opened her arms and hugged Val tight. “If there’s anything Clare or I can do to thank James for what he’s done.”
“Actually,” said Val, glancing meaningful at me. “I do have an issue you might be able to help me with.”
Madame released her and nodded. “Tell us, dear.”
“Well, I had planned to use the same beverage vendor for the bake sale that supplies my catering events at the hotel. Unfortunately, they’re letting me down. I just got word. I was wondering if you could hook me up with your coffee distributor. I know it’s last minute, but . . .”
“The Blend is its own distributor,” Madame said, “and we’ll be delighted to help.”
Val’s nutmeg eyes widened. “That’s very good of you—”
“Clare, you can set up a kiosk, can’t you?” Madame said.
“Easy.”
“And the Blend will supply a free cup of coffee for anyone who makes a bake sale purchase,” Madame declared.
Val’s mouth gaped. “That’s a lot of coffee!”
“Those young firemen saved my life, and they jeopardize their own health and safety every day. It’s the least we can do.”
“Thank you both!” Val said, then grabbe
d her bag and headed for the door. “Sorry I’ve got to dash. Tons to do yet and only my lunch break to do it!”
Outside, I noticed she stopped abruptly, fished in her handbag, and lit a cigarette. For another moment she stood there, inhaling with visible signs of relief. Then she quickly headed up Hudson.
“Mother!”
I turned from the window to find Matt striding across the floor. Before Madame or I could say a word, my ex had swept his mother up in a hug so enthusiastic her heels took flight.
SEVENTEEN
“SON! Put me down! My goodness!”
Matt complied—after a gentle spin and a peck to her cheek. “I was worried about you!”
She glanced at me. “First a troop of doting firefighters, now a public display by a wayward son. Perhaps I should become trapped in burning buildings more often.”
“Please don’t,” I said. “My heart can’t take it.”
Madame smiled. “I want to show you both something.” She motioned us to the espresso bar where she drew a yellowing snapshot out of her bag. “This came from the photo album Enzo gave me last night. There’s your father, Matt . . .”
Her expression softened, one wrinkled but beautifully manicured finger caressing the image. “And that bouncing little bambino is you as a toddler! Such big brown eyes and thick black hair, just like your daddy . . .”
Tucker peered over Madame’s shoulder. “Bambino Matteo. Très cute, not unlike the big-boy version.” He threw Matt a wink.
Matt smirked. “I’m still straight, too, Tuck.”
“I know.” Tucker waved his hand. “Such a waste.”
The shop bell rang again and a customer rushed in. I barely noticed, too distracted by Matt’s (admittedly) adorable baby pic (and my own disturbing nanosecond of yearning for one just like it—the baby, not the picture). Too late my peripheral vision registered the fedora coming at me.
