by Cleo Coyle
The Genius emerged from the shadows and crossed the street, heading into the Blend.
“Ah, well,” murmured the Genius, “at least I’ll get an excellent cappuccino out of the evening.”
“Clare, I have one word for you,” whispered Tucker as he offered me a French café cup of cappuccino from his half-empty cork-bottomed tray.
Cradling the heat in my cold hands, I sipped at the warm froth, then peered over the cup’s rim, apprehensively taking in the crowd of milling bodies filling up the Blend’s second floor.
“One word?” I asked Tucker.
“Tadpoling.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what they call it when an older woman dates a younger guy.”
“Tadpoling. Right. I see. Thanks for clearing that up, Tuck. And I thought you were having a bayou flashback.”
“No, seriously, sweetie. I know you probably wouldn’t look twice at a guy who was like ten or twelve years younger than you.”
“Tucker…”
“But tadpoling is the hottest trend around.”
“Older women and younger men?” I asked. “In what universe?”
“Uh, honey, don’t you know? It’s totally all that. Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher? Hugh Jackman and his wife? Cher, Madonna…the list just goes on and on. Don’t you remember that movie with Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson—the one where cutie Keanu Reeves has the hots for post-menopausal Diane? You know she even got an Oscar nomination for that role.”
“Hollywood, Tucker. All of your examples are Hollywood. I’m sure if I were a millionaire movie star with houses in the Hamptons and Malibu, tadpoling would be a lovely option to consider, but this is the real world.”
“My point exactly! The real world does nothing but obsess over Hollywood—trends trickle down, Clare, remember that. Trends trickle.”
“Everyone! It’s time to get started!” called Nan Tulley, our Cappuccino Connection hostess.
Although these sessions were nondenominational, even advertised in New York magazine’s Personals, these evenings were actually part of the fundraising and outreach committee work for Grace Church over on Tenth and Broadway (one of the most magnificent examples of Gothic Revival architecture in the country, with lacelike stonework and gorgeous stained glass. New Yorkers always gape when they pass it, but few realize it was built in 1845 by the same architect who would later erect the monumental uptown landmark St. Patrick’s Cathedral.).
“Come, everyone! Gather ’round…” Nan called again, clapping her hands.
Nan’s regular job was managing the Wee Ones daycare center on Twelfth, which might have explained why I couldn’t shake the impression I’d just entered an elaborate playgroup.
“Shoo, Tucker,” I whispered. “I’m not really here to meet anyone anyway. You know that.”
“If you say so, sweetie.”
With an annoying roll of his eyes, Tucker was off to serve more caps to the crowd.
I moseyed over toward Nan, trying to keep my distance from my daughter, Joy, as I’d promised.
Right after my date with Brooks Newman two days ago, I’d phoned Joy and made her promise to quit the SinglesNYC on-line dating site. She agreed to try the tamer (a.k.a. “dud”) sites that Brooks had scrawled on the back of his business card for me, but Joy also informed me that she’d decided to sign up for the Blend’s Cappuccino Connection night.
I let it go for about twenty-four hours. Then I signed up, too.
Joy was furious.
“Mom, I can’t believe you’re doing this!” she’d said when I told her.
“It’s got nothing to do with you,” I lied. “They’ve been meeting in my coffeehouse two times a month for how long now—and all I’ve ever done is send my part-timers upstairs with trays of cappuccinos. It’s about time I saw for myself how the whole thing works, don’t you think?”
Joy really didn’t buy it, but I promised her I wouldn’t interfere with her participation—and she finally said that maybe it would be good for me after all.
My daughter was still under the delusion that I needed to discover that no man out there could hold a candle to her dad, an admittedly larger-than-life type, who, despite his inability to remain monogamous, had loved Joy unconditionally and with all his heart—and therefore could do no wrong in Joy’s eyes. As exasperating as it was for me, I saw no reason to rob the girl of her love for the man, even though there were still times Matteo could make me angry enough to fantasize about pouring a few steaming hot Speed Balls down his pants.
Nan clapped a final time in a way that made me feel like I’d have to raise my hand before using the little girls’ room.
“Quiet now, quiet! Okay, good! Now, I want you all to put your Listening Caps on. The first rule of connection night is that everyone must make at least three connections. Even if you think you’ve only met one person with whom you have chemistry, you must make dates with three people. This rule ensures that many of you will have more than one chance to connect! Isn’t that great!”
Nan had the sort of enthusiastic voice I imagined worked very well on a dozen sugared-up four year olds. This crowd, however, seemed less than receptive. They murmured warily.
“Now, now, I know what you’re all thinking!” Nan continued. “Why? Why do I need to ask people out with whom I don’t necessarily feel a strong connection? Well, I’ll tell you why: many happily married couples have had bad first meetings—and many fantastic first meetings have ended in bitter splits. You can never tell what may happen if you just give a person a chance to grow on you!”
“Like fungus?” some joker called.
“Hostility will get you nowhere,” snapped Nan. “Remember, a bad first impression can still lead you to the right person…maybe not the perfect one, but the right one…”
I was dying to look around a little more, check out the people who’d gathered, but I didn’t want Joy to think I was spying on her. The room was packed, too, which made it hard to see the entire field very clearly, anyway. So I just sipped my cappuccino and kept my eyes on Nan.
“Now, let’s get started!”
The second floor of the Blend was quite roomy, with marble-topped tables and chairs as well as an eclectic mix of mismatched furniture. Overstuffed chairs and French flea market sofas, along with floor and table lamps, gave customers the feeling of relaxing in a bohemian living room. (With so many Village apartments being nothing more than tiny cramped studios and one bedrooms, it literally was that for many.) And tonight it was romantically lit with a roaring fire in the brick hearth at the front of the room.
To start what was termed the “Power Meet” session, our chipper hostess told us she was going to position all the women around the room at different tables and seating areas. She would then select men at random and pair them with the various women.
But before Nan began seating us, I noticed her having a little side discussion with Tucker. It looked rather tense. I motioned him over.
“Everything all right?” I asked while Nan got busy seating the women around the room.
“Nan’s upset,” he whispered. “You’re not going to believe this, but your group is actually short a woman—someone cancelled without calling.”
“She just figured this out?”
“Yes, and she asked me to find someone downstairs who’d be interested in trying the Power Meet for free tonight.”
The usual fee was forty dollars per participant, which included your three cappuccinos. It worked well for the Blend—since the cappuccinos were pre-purchased by the church group, we were guaranteed to move one hundred and twenty drinks right off the bat, and often couples would descend the stairs and hang out for another hour on the first floor, talking and purchasing even more coffees. All in all, the singles sessions were a boon for the Blend.
“Got any ideas?” I asked him.
Tucker shook his head. “I’ll make the rounds. Latitia’s down there, but she’s already on a date with a guy from the symphony. Kira Kirk’
s doing a crossword, but that woman acts like she hates all men. Martha Buck is at a table editing a manuscript, but I think she’s meeting someone. And Winnie Winslet stopped in, but she’s already said this isn’t her style.”
I thought a minute. “What about Inga?”
Tucker paled a little. “You mean Inga Berg?”
“I do indeed. Maybe shop and drop Inga will actually meet someone here worth holding onto.”
“Clare, Inga’s dead.”
“Dead!”
I’d said it a little too loudly. A few heads turned.
“Dead?” I whispered. “How? When?”
“Suicide. She jumped from the top of her building last Thursday night. I just heard about it from a Voice journalist doing a piece on it. The police kept the lid pretty tight on what happened at first, and she was so new to her building that the tenants weren’t even sure of her name—”
“Which is why we didn’t hear any rumors until now,” I guessed.
“It’s a terrible shame,” said Tucker. “But I better get going. Nan’s coming our way.”
My head was still spinning after Tucker left and Nan guided me to an armchair by the brick fireplace.
Inga Berg and Valerie Lathem. Both Blend customers. Both attractive young women. Both seemingly had everything to live for—yet both had committed suicide within weeks of each other.
Coincidence?
I’d once heard Mike Quinn say, “In my business, there are no coincidences.” And thinking of Quinn made me remember he’d been called to a crime scene the night of our dinner—and the night of our dinner was the night Inga had killed herself.
As Nan passed out small Hello Kitty notepads and pencils to everyone, I wondered if that was the reason I hadn’t seen Mike. Had he been assigned to investigate Inga’s suicide?
By the time Nan was done, Tucker had reappeared with the twentieth woman, Kira Kirk. She seemed a bit apprehensive, still clutching her crossword puzzle book. As usual, her hair was in its long gray braid, but she’d probably stopped in after a consulting appointment because she was dressed much nicer than usual—in a tailored black pantsuit rather than her usual oversized sweaters and jeans. And she was wearing makeup, too. She looked quite pretty, actually, and I was glad to see her up here.
My eyebrows rose at Tucker and he just shrugged. As Nan took Kira to a seat across the room, I motioned him over again.
“How did you manage to persuade her?” I whispered.
“Free, unlimited cappuccinos for two weeks, that’s how.”
“You’ll have five minutes to get to know each other,” announced Nan. With the women already seated, she quickly paired the men and women randomly. “When you hear the timer, shake hands and the gentlemen must then move one seat to the right. You then have a new five minutes to get to know the next person. There are twenty men and twenty women in this room, which means this session will last two hours. You’ll have fresh cappuccinos delivered to you during the course of the night; and don’t worry, we’ll take a few breaks so you can visit the little girls’ and little boys’ rooms!”
I just knew I wouldn’t get through this night without hearing Nan’s rules for the little girls’ and boys’ rooms.
“Okay, remember, five minutes!” cried Nan excitedly, setting the dial on an old-fashioned kitchen timer. “On your marks, get set, go!”
SEVEN
MR. Slick.
Mr. Jock.
Mr. Type A.
Mr. Freeloader.
Mr. Superficial Artsy.
Mr. Far Too Old.
Mr. FunnyBook Boy.
Mr. Cabby/Musician.
Mr. Mama’s Boy.
Mr. Moviefone.
Mr. Wall Street.
Mr. Borderline Clinically Depressed.
Okay. I know it’s demeaning to reduce people to single-phrase descriptions, but what can I say? I’d been reduced to twenty separate five-minute “McMeetings” with twenty different men—and our hostess had given me a Hello Kitty notepad and pencil. So how else could I keep track?
Besides, label-writing was in my blood. I’d done it for years growing up in Pennsylvania, helping my immigrant Italian grandmother jar her tomatoes and peaches every August.
Consequently, given a uniform process, I couldn’t see why selecting potential dates had to be any more complicated a recipe than preserving fruit. I simply pictured each man’s face on a canning jar with a succinctly written summation of his chief identifying traits.
In any event, I was still reeling from the news that two of my customers, attractive and intelligent young women, had killed themselves within weeks of each other. And my only child was sitting on the other side of the room, ready to offer herself to one of these potential heartbreakers.
I looked at each with a mother’s critical eye and the underlying question, “Okay, which of you jokers actually thinks in your wildest dreams that you’re good enough to play with my daughter’s affections?”
Scorecard at the ready, I showed no mercy.
Currently at bat was an attractive, well-groomed, well-dressed blond in his early twenties with the nametag “Percy.” Graphic designer. Well educated. Good potential for my Joy.
“Okay, Percy, are you on any drugs or medication?” I asked him.
His gray green eyes widened. “No…well, just an anti-histamine for my allergies.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Uh.” He blinked. “No.”
“Are you sure? I saw that blink.”
“Well,” he admitted, “when I was seventeen, I was swept up in a police raid of a club that allowed underage drinking. But that was it. Really.”
I nodded. It sounded innocent enough. Next question: “What made you come here tonight?”
The young man crossed and uncrossed his legs, then nervously tapped one foot. “Well, I’ve been dating around on-line, you know? LoungeLife.com and SinglesNYC mostly, but nothing serious came out of those encounters, so I decided to try this. My last long-term relationship lasted for a little over two years though.”
“What was the reason for the breakup?”
“Oh, we just weren’t communicating. But mostly, he was insanely jealous, and I couldn’t take it anymore. One of those high I.Q., high-strung types. Know what I mean?”
“Where do you see yourself in five years—” I stopped and looked up from the pink notepad. “Wait. You mean she, don’t you? She was insanely jealous?”
“No.”
“You’re telling me you were dating a man?”
“Yes.”
I frowned. “But tonight you’re looking for a woman?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Switch-hitter, I wrote.
“Aren’t you familiar with the term bisexual?” he asked.
“Aren’t you familiar with the movie Far From Heaven?” I responded.
“Okay, now your sounding like my ex, forever telling me to pick a team.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
“It’s my life.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Not if you involve another person in it and then change your mind.”
“That’s harsh.”
“No, honey, that’s a mother’s point of view—the truth is, I’m screening you guys for my daughter, not myself.”
“Oh,” said the young man. His gaze shifted, first to my ringless left hand and then to my outfit.
I’d wanted to fit in tonight, so I dressed in what I felt was appropriate—high-heeled black boots, black stockings, and a form-fitting dark green burnt-velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline. Nothing too upscale or down.
“But you’re not married, right?” Percy said, gesturing to my left hand. “And you’re pretty much a hottie, if you don’t mind my saying so. Why not look for yourself while you’re at it?” He gave me a flirty little smile.
“Thanks. Really. But I’m too old for this. And for you,” I added gently.
“Nonsense. Haven’t you heard of ‘tadpoling’?”
Bing! went the kitchen timer. “TIME!” cried Nan. “Wrap up your meetings and shake, everyone!”
I stuck out my hand. “You should introduce yourself to my assistant manager, Tucker. He’s right downstairs. Something tells me you two would hit it off.”
Mr. Switch-hitter shook my hand and shrugged. “Whatever.”
“All right, gentlemen,” Nan called, clapping her hands. “Let’s move to your next potential Ms. Right!”
I flipped the Hello Kitty notepad to a fresh pink page.
Next at bat: a muscular guy in his mid-twenties with a strong chin, short black hair, and a trimmed black goatee. He wore trendy, black-framed glasses, black jeans, and a distressed leather jacket. His nametag read “Mars.”
He sat opposite me and stared.
“Mars is an interesting name,” I said, trying to break the black ice.
“It’s a nickname,” he said without changing his expression. Or blinking.
Mr. Intense, I wrote while waiting for him to say more.
He didn’t.
“We don’t have to talk,” I said. “I mean, if you’ve already made your connections for the night.”
“Connection,” he said. “Singular. One. You’ve guessed correctly. I’ve already made it.” He looked across the room—in the general direction of my Joy, which made me extremely nervous.
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself anyway,” I suggested, trying to remain calm. Just in case my daughter completely ignores my pleas to shred your phone number and goes out with you anyway.
“Whatever,” he said, shrugging again.
I waited. Nothing. He just kept staring across the room.
“Are you on any drugs?” I asked pointedly.
That got his attention. He swung his dark, intense gaze back toward me. “Are you?” he asked.
“Yes. Caffeine,” I said flatly.
His eyebrows rose, and there was the slightest lifting at the corner of his lips. The minimalist’s version of a smile, I presumed.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll play. I’m not on any drugs. At present.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Yes, actually.”
Why was I not surprised? “What did you do?”
