by Cleo Coyle
The smile was slightly more pronounced. He interlaced his fingers across his chest. “Nothing you want to hear about, believe me.”
Great.
“Try me anyway,” I suggested.
But there was no answer. He just looked away, across the room again—toward my Joy.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked.
“Paint. I’m a painter. And a genius.”
Bing!
“TIME!” called Nan.
Mars stood up, put his hands in his leather jacket pockets, and stared down at me intensely. “Charmed,” he said, then walked away.
I shivered. Crossing my legs, I propped the notepad on my thigh, scratched out Mr. Intensity and replaced it with Mr. Weirdly Intense Painter.
There was just no way I could let Joy near that guy. No way. If there was any prospective “connection” more potentially dangerous than Mars, I had yet to meet him.
“Well, well, well,” said a familiar voice. “Together again.”
I looked up to find the refined features and curly black hair of Brooks Newman. He wore a cream-colored crewneck sweater over tailored charcoal-colored slacks. Brooks seemed to be on the prowl because his hazel eyes appeared much sharper tonight as he looked me over.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought SinglesNYC.com was your stomping ground?”
Brooks shrugged. He moved to the armchair opposite me, sat down, and crossed his legs. “I told you I liked your cappuccinos.”
“Decaf.”
“Not tonight.” A small smile lifted his thin lips. “Tonight I feel like I might enjoy some…stimulation. How about you?”
“I’ve had mine,” I said flatly, holding up my empty French café cup.
“Yes,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “but on a cold, cold night like this…wouldn’t you like more to warm you up?”
“No.”
“You look very nice tonight,” he said, leaning back and surveying my green velvet dress. I instantly regretted the low cut of the sweetheart neckline, which is where his gaze remained fixed. “That color brings out your eyes.”
Oh, really? That must be why you’re staring at my cleavage. I glanced toward Nan, trying to estimate how many more minutes I had to endure this.
“I can’t imagine you’re enjoying yourself,” I told him. “This sort of thing really doesn’t seem your cup of java.”
“Yours, either, Clare. I thought you weren’t interested in hooking up with men. Just screening them for your daughter.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing.” I took the pencil and scribbled on the notepad. Brooks Newman: Mr. No Way.
His eyebrows rose. “I’ve met your daughter already—around the little circle here. Joy Allegro. I didn’t consider your having different last names, but then, you’re divorced, so I assume Cosi’s your maiden name? Anyway, she’s quite attractive. Very bubbly. Energetic. I can see the resemblance.”
I frowned and changed the subject. “And how are you coming with the lingerie model fundraiser for vegans?”
My caustic tone didn’t seem to phase him. His smile just broadened. “Younger women threaten you, do they?”
Not for the first time, I pictured pointing the espresso machine’s steam nozzle at his face—with the valve opened full throttle.
“Listen, buddy, I’m not the one visiting Renu Spa every weekend to ward off the wrinkles.”
“Clare, I know what women like you need,” he said lowly. “And it’s not a shot of caffeine.”
“No?”
“No. It’s a good, potent shot of sex.” He leaned forward, toward my crossed legs, and with the tip of his finger, drew a little circle on my stocking-covered knee. “How about it? You and me…let’s hook up tonight.”
A shudder of revulsion ran through me, and I pushed his hand away.
“I’m not your type, Brooks.”
He laughed. “To tell you the truth, the young ones aren’t always as energetic as your daughter. Out of bed, and a lot of times in, too. And I’m betting a mature woman like you makes things interesting…between the sheets.”
The man was dancing around his intentions, but I’d swear he was actually contemplating getting me and my daughter into bed with him at the same time.
If looks could kill, I gave him one that would at least send him to St. Vincent’s ER. “Brooks, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m being less than receptive.”
“Where there’s sparks, there’s fire.” He moved farther forward, and before I could stop him, his fingers were on my knee again and moving up my thigh.
Bing! Saved by the kitchen timer.
“Hands to yourself,” I hissed, shoving him away a second time. “Move along. I mean it.”
Man, what a creep, I thought with a shudder. Only Brooks Newman could turn Nan’s innocent little playgroup into a playgrope.
“All right, gentlemen,” Nan called. “Let’s move to your next potential Ms. Right!”
Still agitated, I flipped the Hello Kitty notepad to a fresh pink page. “More like Ms. Right Now,” I muttered.
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Now.”
I looked up to find the next Power Meet participant, a fortyish man with chiseled features and a thick head of brown hair. His caramel-colored eyes looked curious and slightly amused by my comment. He held out his hand and smiled.
I shook it. A warm, firm shake.
“I’m Bruce,” he said. “In case you can’t read the ‘Hello, My Name is’ tag covering half my chest here.”
My turn to smile. “I’m Clare.”
I politely looked him over. A gorgeous suede jacket hung handsomely off broad shoulders. Beneath the jacket was a white, open-collared button-down that tapered into worn jeans.
“I’ve seen you here before,” he said. “But downstairs.”
He sat down and leaned back, crossing a workbooted foot over a jean-clad knee. He seemed totally relaxed. “Comfortable in his own skin,” was how Madame would put it in one of her favorite French phrases. In her view, too many urban Americans—“over-educated, over-stressed, over-anxious urban Americans” as she put it—too often weren’t.
I looked at Bruce again. He did seem slightly familiar. “You’re one of our customers?”
“I come in when I can. You have the best cappuccinos in the city.”
Oh, I like this guy, I thought. But not for Joy. Too old for Joy. I relaxed with that thought, knowing I wouldn’t have to grill him with my “Screening for Psychos” list of questions.
“Thanks,” I said. “Are you from New York?”
“Originally, I’m from San Francisco.”
“That’s a real coffee town.”
He nodded, his caramel-colored eyes brightening. “Absolutely. You know, your espressos are like nothing I’ve tasted before. They’re like the perfect cross between the North Beach espressos I used to drink back home and the espressos I’ve tasted in Milan.”
My jaw dropped. “You can’t know that. Like ten people in the world know that.”
He shrugged. “I can’t pull an espresso worth a damn. And I can’t tell you why it tastes like that. I just know it does.”
I nodded. “It’s the beans and roasting process. The Milanese Italians like a subtler, sweeter espresso. The North Beach Italians like the more pungent, rougher espresso. Madame likes to say we’re geographically and gastronomically between the two.”
“Fascinating…” He smiled, his gaze ever so subtly moving over me. “So how exactly do you get the different tastes?”
“A lot of ways. To get that more pungent, rougher version, you’d roast your beans darker—and you’d start with beans that have rich, acidy elements like a Kenyan AA or a Sidamo. For the Milan taste you’d want softer profile Arabica beans—something like a Brazilian Santos. And you’d be careful not to add any beans to the blend with acidy elements. You might even add an Indian grown washed Robusta for sweetness—though typically Robustas are an inferior, f
oul little low growing bean, the sort you’d find in pre-ground tinned coffee, and you’d want to steer clear of them. The best beans are Arabicas, and they’re grown at high altitudes—a good rule of thumb is the higher the altitude, the higher the acidity, and the better the coffee.”
Bruce’s eyebrows rose. “Wait. You want an acidy taste in your coffee?”
Give the man points for actually listening. “Acidity is an industry term. In coffee-speak it doesn’t mean bitter or sour. It means a brightness, a pleasant sharpness. Basically, when you create a blend you want to pay attention to three major elements: acidity, aroma, and body. The beans that provide acidity are the high notes, the ones that provide body are the low notes. In the middle, you want beans that provide aroma, which can range from fruity to herby.”
“Just like a musical chord. That’s a nice way of explaining it, Clare.”
His smile was genuine and I liked the way he said my name. “Thanks. That’s nice of you to say.”
“So give me an example of one of your blends.”
“I’ll give you a basic one: Kenya AA for acidity, Sulwese for aroma, and Colombian for body. But it’s not just the coffee types that are important. For the perfect cup, what’s also key is getting the highest quality beans possible, roasting and brewing them expertly, and enjoying them while they’re still fresh.”
“I’m getting it…and I can see there’s a lot that goes into your business.”
I shrugged. “We roast green beans right here in the basement. It’s a century-old family business and every year it can change, depending on the worldwide coffee crops—not to mention the tastes of our customers. So you’d better love it and stay on top of it, or leave it, you know? And I do love it.”
“Yeah, I love my business for the same reason—the constant challenge and the creativity.”
I glanced at his workboots. “So what do you do?”
“I started out in construction, then became an architect to specialize in historical restoration—and I’ve done nothing but expand my business since I moved East. I’ve been in the tri-state region about ten years now, and I just moved down here from Westchester about two months ago. I’m divorced. No kids.”
“What are you working on?”
Bruce laughed a little at my question. “I’ve got crews all over the city. Dozens of projects—interiors and exteriors. For myself personally, I’m jazzed about restoring the interior of a Federal townhouse over on Leroy. The exterior is more archetypal than your building here, even has a horse walk. Yours is a beauty, and its got a high level of integrity, but I can see there’ve been some liberties taken with alternations—I assume to make it workable for your business. The first floor’s line of French doors and front windows for starters.”
“Those were put in decades ago, sometime between 1910 and 1920, when the Blend shifted from being purely a wholesale roaster to a roaster and a café. I take it you’re renovating the Leroy property for a residential owner then?”
“For myself. I bought it outright the second I saw it.”
My eyes widened. This guy was a multi-millionaire. No question.
“How about you? What’s Clare’s story—in five minutes or less.”
He smiled warmly again, and I tried to ignore the ridiculous pulsing of blood through my stupid veins. So this guy was drop-dead gorgeous, a self-made millionaire, charming as hell, and genuinely turned on by the perfect cup of coffee. So what? Underneath, he was probably as smarmy as Brooks Newman, looking to dangle a pretty package long enough to bait as many women as possible. Shop-and-drop. Grind ’em up. Spit em out…
Still…there was no reason not to be civil.
“Let’s see,” I began. “Well, I’d originally managed the Blend between the ages of twenty and twenty-nine. Then I got divorced, left this life for the hinterlands of New Jersey, and spent the next decade raising my daughter, fighting crabgrass, and launching a part-time career writing for trade magazines.”
“Which?”
“Cupping, In Stock, and other magazines published specifically for the coffee and restaurant trade. Once in a blue moon, I come across a topic I pitch to a bigger publication. I had a Sunday New York Times Magazine piece run not too long ago about coffee-drinking trends.”
“Impressive.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but my priority now is this place. Just a few months ago, my daughter moved to Manhattan to attend culinary school, so when Madame, the owner of the Blend, made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, I came back to managing again.”
“An offer you couldn’t refuse? Let me guess…equity?”
“I’m impressed. Equity and the rent-free use of the duplex upstairs. You read tea leaves, too?”
“Not tea leaves—coffee grounds.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “My grandmother taught me tasseography when I was just a little kid.”
“Mine, too.”
“No way,” he said, skeptical.
“Way.”
We both smiled that disbelieving smile two people smile when they share something special—something so few people share that it seems to bond you together, at least for the moment.
Bing!
Nan’s kitchen timer.
Damn, I thought. Damn. Damn. Damn.
It was the first time in this entire evening I hadn’t wanted the thing to bing.
“Wrap it up, everyone!” called Nan. “Say your goodbyes.”
I shrugged. “Our playgroup leader has spoken.”
“Playgroup,” he repeated with a laugh. I liked his laugh. It was deep and genuine and reflected its bright energy in his eyes. “Yeah, you know, you’re right. This whole thing is sort of one big sandbox, isn’t it?”
“That or a Hopper painting,” I quipped.
He glanced around. “Yeah, I can see it. The crowded yet lonely scene of couples not connecting in the stark light and shadows of the hearth’s dying fireplace.”
“An urban study in oil on canvas,” I added. “Very Room in New York.”
“Or Excursion into Philosophy,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
Excursion was an odd choice, I thought, remembering Hopper’s desolate couple: the man sitting fully clothed on a narrow bed, indifferent to the beautiful, half-clothed woman stretched out behind him, facing the wall, her red hair on the white pillow, her naked round bottom sunwashed, looking like ripe fruit ready to be enjoyed. Beside her, the man’s face remains in shadow, full of angst. He ignores the fruit within his reach, staring instead at the floor, lost inside himself, possibly contemplating the book laying open next to him.
Did it represent the isolation of modern life? The depressive folly of the intellectual, brooding instead of living? Was Hopper laughing as he painted it? I used to wonder.
“I always saw that painting as the end of the road,” I said. “No longer being able to connect. You know, years after the marriage vows. When disillusion sets in.”
“Not for me,” said Bruce. “I see it as the morning after the one-night stand, waking up with the wrong woman. He’s tasted the fruit, and he’s suddenly dejected, maybe even feeling a little fleeced, because she’s not what she seemed. And he’s no longer interested.”
“You’ve seen the Whitney collection, I take it?”
“Maybe twenty times.”
“You won’t believe this, but my duplex includes two framed original charcoal Hopper sketches. They were done right here, too. It’s amazing—one of the perks of living upstairs.”
“I can’t imagine a better one.”
We smiled that disbelieving smile again—like we’d both found a three carat diamond in a Cracker Jack box.
“All right, gentlemen, and that means all of you!” Nan called in our general direction. “Please move along to your next Ms. Right. The clock will soon be ticking down!”
“Run, runner,” I murmured.
Bruce laughed. “I hope I’m not ready for ‘Carousel’ yet.”
My god, I thought. He actually got my Logan’s Run joke.
As a Goth twenty-something with black lipstick and a tattoo approached us, Bruce rose from the chair. I held my breath as he extended his hand.
“Would you like to go to dinner with me tomorrow, Clare?” he asked.
OH, YES.
“Uh…tomorrow…yeah, sure. That would be nice.”
I placed my small hand in his large one. To my unending delight, he didn’t just shake and release—he held on.
“Bowman. That’s my last name.”
“And mine’s Cosi. Clare Cosi.”
“You have a nice smile, Clare Cosi,” he said quietly.
“Thanks. So do you.”
“Tomorrow then.”
EIGHT
“MOM! I cannot believe these notes of yours. They are, like, so out there.”
As Joy flipped through my notepad’s pages, I hung a blue Village Blend apron around my neck, brought the long strings to the front of my waist, and jerked them into a tight bow.
After the Cappuccino Connection had officially ended and most of the customers had departed, I had tried to “casually” discuss the evening’s McMeetings with my daughter, but truthfully all I could think about was Bruce Bowman.
Bruce Bowman. Bruce Bowman. Bruce Bowman.
After shaking his warm, strong, slightly callused hand, I’d been on what felt like a super caffeine high, reciting his name like a New Age chant—until it hit me that every woman sitting on the Blend’s second floor tonight was tracking Bruce’s movements around the Cappuccino Connection circle.
Obviously, Bruce was the big Kahuna, the catch of the night, and Nan Tulley, the evil witch, had insisted all of us make three connections, at least. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise to me when Bruce left the Blend with another “connection” on his arm. A tall, beautifully dressed redheaded woman.
I could have strangled her.
And him.
Of course, the fleeting flare of emotion quickly passed, and I coolly regained my composure, maturely resolving to forget about him forever.
Easy, right?
Wrong.
It was an hour later, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about him.
