by Cleo Coyle
Stupid, silly me just could not shake the feeling that we’d connected on some significant level, and I began to obsess about whether he’d actually keep his date with me tomorrow—and where exactly I ranked on his list of dates. Was it just under the redheaded amazon? Or was I farther down? Who else in the room had made “Cappuccino Connections” with him?
This was the state I’d been in when Joy rushed over to me to begin discussing the evening’s men (and I couldn’t remember any of them clearly but Bruce). Anxious to make sure my girl didn’t end up with a loon, I’d resorted to reading over my notes.
Joy put up with my flipping back and forth through the pages for about two minutes before she’d snatched the Hello Kitty pad right out of my hand. “Let me see that,” she’d cried.
Now she was leaning on the Blend’s blue marble front counter, flipping through the pink pages, her eyes incredulous saucers.
“Tucker, you are not going to believe this. My mother asked these guys about their personal drug use, their arrest record, and the reason for their last breakup. Then she labeled every guy she met. Like they were coffee blends or something!”
“Joy, not so loud,” I cautioned from behind the counter. It was almost midnight and most of the customers had drifted out, but a few couples still lingered quietly at the far end of the main floor, near the first floor fireplace. Reluctant to throw them out, I decided to give them one last hour of romantic firelight—while Tucker and I cleaned and restocked.
“Coffee is not exactly a bad analogy,” Tucker told Joy. “I mean, if you think about it, men can be like coffee blends. A very subtle blending of elements can form the most interesting tastes. Some are bolder, some rougher, some sweeter…”
“Some have whiney overtones,” I quipped.
My assistant manager frowned at my caustic remark. Pausing in his cup-stacking duties, he wiped his hands on his apron and said, “Let me see that notepad.”
Joy handed it over and he flipped through its pages.
With a concerned sigh, he began to read aloud, “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…” Tucker looked up and wrinkled his nose. “Mr. Moviefone?”
I shrugged. “He had that voice.”
“You mean the guy sounded like Mr. Moviefone?” asked Tucker.
“Yes, and I found it very distracting.”
“I remember him!” said Joy. “He had a mustache and his cologne smelled like Gummy Bears. Did you know Kira left with him?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, they looked pretty chummy, too.”
I nodded, remembering the man. “He did mention crosswords were his passion. Maybe I should have labeled him Mr. Crossword Puzzle Man.”
“Clare, you know, I’m really surprised at you,” said Tucker, shaking a finger. “Such catty, cynical evaluations are usually beneath you.”
“It’s not catty. It’s practical.”
“Practical? All right, this I gotta hear,” said Tucker.
“If you’ve only got a first impression to go on, the most practical thing you can do is reduce the guy down to his basics. It’s no different than my grandmother’s method of putting up preserves. Very sensible. Boil the substance down and label it.”
“I see,” said Tucker. “So for you the only discernable difference between canning and courting is straining the guy in question and coating him with a thin layer of wax?”
“Technically yes,” I said. “Even though I got the impression that some of these guys were just weird enough to consider being strained and waxed a vaguely kinky form of foreplay.”
“Mom!”
“Sorry, honey. Forget you heard your Mommy say foreplay. But don’t forget what I’m about to tell you. There are a few guys in my little notepad that under no circumstances you are to go out with should they call you, starting with a man named Brooks Newman.”
Joy rolled her eyes. “Brooks Newman, what a character. I think he took the number of almost every woman he sat down with. Isn’t he the guy who gave you those other on-line dating sites for me to try? The ones you said are more ‘appropriate’ for me than SinglesNYC?”
“Yes, but—” (Okay, so Brooks actually called them “duds,” and it was me who told Joy they were more “appropriate” for a girl her age. But what else could I do? I couldn’t very well tell my daughter she’d be better off on-line dating through two “dud” sites, could I?)
“Mom, I’m not in high school anymore. I can make my own decisions about my personal life. Don’t you trust me?”
I didn’t see any way to answer honestly without causing World War Three, so I didn’t answer. Not directly. “Okay, then, why don’t you just tell me and Tucker who you liked?”
“No. You’ll just shoot them down.”
“I won’t,” I said.
“Promise?” asked Joy.
My reassuring smile felt as though it were wilting into an anxious grimace. “I’ll do my best.”
“Okay, Mom, I’ll tell you who I connected with. But only if you tell me who you connected with.”
“I didn’t make any connections. Your turn.”
Joy narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me.”
“But Nan said we were supposed to make three. Those were the rules.”
“I know, honey. I just chose not to play by them.”
Joy flipped though the notepad. “What about Mr. Wall Street?”
I closed my eyes, trying to picture that meeting. “Nice kid. Strong head on his shoulders, handsome, pleasant, good sense of humor. Late twenties. I liked him—for you.”
“I liked him, too,” said Joy. “And he asked me to lunch.”
I smiled. “See. I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Okay, so we agree on one guy.”
Joy flipped through more notes. “I can’t tell what you thought of this one.” She pointed. “Mr. Weirdly Intense Painter.”
“Mars?” Oh, god, no. “Did you know he admitted to being arrested?”
“He was sort of intense wasn’t he?”
“Sort of intense? That man would win a stare-off with Charles Manson.”
“Who?”
“Never mind, honey. You didn’t like Mars, did you?” My teeth clenched.
“It wouldn’t matter if I did. He said he’d already made his connection.”
I exhaled with extreme relief. “He told me the same thing.”
“Yeah, but you know the weirdest thing about the guy wasn’t his intensity—I found that sort of a turn-on actually. The weirdest thing was he said he’d already made his connection before he even started talking to me.”
“Like I said, Joy, he did that with me, too. Don’t feel bad.”
“No, Mom, you don’t get what I mean. It’s not that I feel bad. It’s that it doesn’t make sense. I mean we all paid forty dollars each to supposedly meet as many people as we could in two hours, right? But I was only the second girl he sat down with.”
“That is odd,” said Tucker. “Who was the first? She really must have been something.”
“The first woman he sat down with was this tall redhead named Sahara McNeil,” said Joy. “She was sitting at the table to the left of mine and Mars just kept staring at her. It was kinda creepy, actually.”
There was only one tall redhead in that room. The one Bruce had left with—and I had wanted to strangle.
“How did you find out her full name?” I asked. “Did you talk to her?”
“No, one of the guys mentioned her name,” said Joy.
“Which one?”
“Let’s just see,” said Joy, smiling mischievously. She snatched my notepad back from Tucker and thumbed through it. “It wasn’t Mr. Slick…or Mr. Cabby/Musician.” Joy paused on that page. “I kinda liked Cabby/Musician. He invited me to see his band at CBGB Wednesday night.”
Tucker snorted.
“What?” aske
d Joy.
“Sweetie, when you’ve lived in Manhattan a little longer you’ll learn that every third or fourth straight little boy under thirty with a rock star complex gets his sucky band a call-in gig at CBGB. But look on the bright side—you’re sure to meet his colleagues, friends, and family, because that’s pretty much the only way these bands fill those Bowery seats.”
“Now you’re the one being catty,” Joy said.
“Bring earplugs,” Tucker advised.
With a sigh of annoyance, Joy went back to my notepad and kept flipping. “Here’s the guy—the one who told me the redhead’s name? It was this really cool dude named Bruce.”
My heart sank. Completely sank.
“I need an espresso,” I said.
I turned to put the coffee through the grinder. Funny how the hardest beans were no match for these sharp, little blades. When they whirred and spun, every whole little bean was aloofly chopped into unrecognizable bits—which is exactly what I felt was happening to me.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Ohmygod. Look what you wrote here about Bruce.”
“Give me that,” I said reaching. Joy stepped backward.
“Mom…what does this mean?”
“Honey, it’s just a few scribbles. Give it here!” I lunged but the counter stopped me.
“What does it say, Joy?” asked Tucker. “What did she label Bruce?”
“Mr. Right.”
NINE
“HE just made a good impression on me, that’s all,” I tried to tell Joy.
“Mr. Right?” said Tucker. “I’d say that’s a little more significant than just ‘a good impression.’”
“Did he make a date with you?” asked Joy.
I studied my daughter’s pretty, pensive face, dreading her reaction. I knew very well that a part of Joy had never given up hope that I would one day get back together with her father.
Her grandmother (my ex-mother-in-law) felt the same way. Madame’s offer to me of equity over time—in the Blend and the duplex—was not a sole offer. She’d made the same deal with her son, Matteo, arranging our future so that we’d both one day co-own this building and its business, which, if fortune smiled, I assumed we would both eventually leave to Joy.
With her strategic little deal, my ex-mother-in-law was clearly harboring the same hopes as my daughter—that I’d one day remarry Matt.
But I couldn’t live my life by other people’s hopes.
Not anymore.
Getting back together with my ex-husband was off the charts. Out of the question. I’d remain civil to Matt, of course—sometimes even more than civil. There were times when I actually enjoyed Matt’s company, but as a friend. Nothing more.
I was through loving Matt too much. Through being infatuated with his larger-than-life presence. Through letting him hurt me. And if part of that meant becoming romantically involved with another man—or men—then so be it. It was time I moved on.
Still, I hated the idea of hurting Joy. This whole night was supposed to have been about my trying to prevent her from getting hurt.
I met my daughter’s green eyes. “I’ll tell you the truth, okay? Bruce Bowman and I had a very nice little meeting, but that’s all it was. He asked me out, but I really don’t think he’ll call. He left with that Sahara McNeil person, and it’s obvious he’s much more interested in her than me.”
“No, he’s not.”
I blinked. That was the last thing I’d expected Joy to say. “Of course, he is, honey. So just forget about it.” I turned to my assistant manager. “Tucker, we need more cardboard heat sleeves. Can you bring some out from the pantry?”
“Sure, Clare.”
I abandoned my espresso beans and turned to continue checking inventory, but Joy wasn’t taking the hint that I’d closed this discussion. She came around the counter and began following me as I surveyed the shelves and cabinets.
“Listen, Mom, Bruce told me Sahara McNeil is just an old college friend. He was glad to see her only because he was hoping to reconnect with some other classmates they both knew.”
“Honey, it sounds like this McNeil woman is an old flame, and he wants to date her again.”
“No. Listen. When Bruce sat down, he told me right off the bat that I was too young for him—he was really nice about it, too, but he said he’d tried dating someone a year ago in her early twenties, someone who worked in his office, and it was a disaster, so I was definitely not even in the ballpark. So we just chatted in general and he mentioned being surprised at seeing his old classmate sitting at the table next to mine. I quietly asked him if he was interested in her, and he shook his head no. He told me she was always too far out for him. Too edgy. Said her real name was Sally but in college she’d changed it to Sahara because it sounded more artsy. I could tell by the way he said it that he thought that was sort of silly and phony. He said he liked more down-to-earth women. So, of course, I told him about you.”
“You what?” I stopped checking inventory and faced my daughter in shock.
“I told him he should keep an eye out for someone special around the circle, a woman in a green velvet dress named Clare, because she would be the best connection he’d have a chance at making. Ever.”
“You said that?”
“Yeah, Mom. I want you to be happy, you know. And I liked Bruce. So I’m glad you and he connected.”
“I’m not sure we did, honey. But I’m…I’m very glad you’re glad.”
“Why do you look so surprised?”
“Because I thought…” I shook my head and took a break from checking inventory. I went back over to the grinder and processed more beans, enough for three espresso shots.
“What did you think?” asked Joy. “C’mon, tell me.”
“I thought you were hoping I’d get back together with your dad.”
Joy shrugged. “I do…but…”
“But what?”
“But I want you to be happy. And…to tell you the truth…well…you remember Mario?”
“Sure.”
“You remember how I told Esther I hadn’t really been into him or anything?”
“Yes.”
“I lied. I really liked him, Mom, and I was really hurt when he broke it off with me…”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was personal, and I was…I don’t know…embarrassed, I guess. I thought it would be easier to pretend he didn’t matter to me. And, you know, after the hurt, I was so angry with him, Mom, I could have killed him.”
I sighed. “Honey, believe me, I know what you went through.”
“Exactly…Look, remember when you said you wanted to try dating again? I wasn’t thrilled at first, and I did want you to get back together with Dad, but then I thought how I would feel if you wanted me to get back together with Mario, even after he broke my heart and made me so angry and everything…and well, I wouldn’t be very happy with you if you dumped that on me, you know?”
“That’s different, Joy. Mario and I don’t have a relationship. You and your father do. So it’s natural you’d want me to get back together with him. But no matter what happens with me and your dad, your dad will always love you. And so will I. That’s not going to change.”
“Sure, Mom. You’ve told me that, like, a million times. And for a long time I still couldn’t help feeling like the whole world would be right again if only you and Dad remarried…but I’m starting to think that maybe it’s not realistic. And so…I figure if you and Dad aren’t going to get back together…then there’s no reason you shouldn’t be happy. I mean, if any Mom deserves to be happy, it’s you.”
I reached under the counter—way under, behind the unopened coffee syrups and boxes of wooden stirrers.
“You know what this calls for?” I announced, motioning for Tucker to come over and join us.
“What?”
“Frangelico lattes.”
Into each of the three c
ups, I splashed the translucent gold, added a freshly pulled espresso shot, poured in a tsunami of steamed milk, and topped it with a fluffy cloud of foam.
“She’s underage, you know,” teased Tucker as I handed out the drinks.
“She’s old enough to vote, drive a car, have a baby, and fall in love. I say she’s old enough for two ounces of hazelnut liqueur. Joy, just pretend we’re in Milan.”
“Okay, Mom,” said Joy. She lifted her cup. “C’ent anni, mama mia.”
“C’ent anni, mia fia.”
“One hundred years,” said Tucker.
And we all drank.
I sighed, tasting the sweet hazelnut flavor of the Frangelico, the glowing heat of its alcohol, the earthiness of the espresso, and the soft, milky froth of the steamed milk.
I hated myself for speculating, but I couldn’t help wondering if Bruce Bowman could possibly taste this satisfying.
“Uh-oh,” said Tucker.
Looking up from my pathetic, unattainable reverie, I saw why Tucker had complained. We hadn’t locked the door yet, and a new customer had walked in, a young man in a long gray overcoat.
“Shall I tell him we’re closed?” asked Tucker.
“No, I’ll take care of his drink order and tell him it has to be to go. You grab the keys and lock up after him.”
“What about the lovebirds?” asked Tucker.
The last three couples, spillovers from the Cappuccino Connection “Power Meet” session, were still nursing coffee drinks near the fireplace, heads together, talking with that intimate tell-me-everything-about-yourself intensity that always comes during the first fiery flush of an infatuation. I still didn’t have the heart to pull the plug.
“We’ll let them out one at a time as they approach the door,” I said. “I have another thirty minutes’ work here at least, then we’ll kick their butts into the street.”
“Sounds good,” said Tucker.
He turned and strode toward the back pantry, where we kept our thick ring of shop keys on a hook. I took another satisfying sip of my Frangelico latte, waiting for the new customer to approach our coffee bar counter and place his order.
But he didn’t.
Like a ghost, the young man drifted hesitantly over to those last three remaining couples. He approached one of the tables, hands in the pocket of his long gray overcoat. He stood there, waiting for them to look up. When they did, he mumbled to them. They shook their heads and looked away, then he moved to the next couple.
