by Клео Коул
“I drink tea. Not coffee.”
“We have tea. How about a nice Earl Grey—”
“Green. Decaffeinated. Better for the skin,” she said as she began to dig into her Coach bag for a pack of Camels.
A chimney. Great. There was no smoking in the coffeehouse. Or in any coffeehouse, for that matter, ever since the city’s new statutes against smoking in public places. So I thought fast.
“How about we go up to the second floor?” I suggested. “We don’t open it up until evening. It’ll be nice and private.”
And, I added silently, I can sit you and your pack of Camels beside an open double-pane window to prevent your smoke from driving out half the customers down here.
“Fine,” she said. “But I don’t have all day.”
So far so good, I told myself. At least four yeses and she hadn’t once threatened fisticuffs—a routine occurrence in my old neighborhood, where use of brawn was preferred to use of brain by a margin of at least two to one.
After I prepared the coffee and tea, we settled in at a table on the deserted second floor. I learned her name was Darla Branch Hart. I told her my name was Clare Cosi. And the accusations instantly resumed—
“Anabelle is in the hospital for one reason—negligence,” the woman said, stabbing the air with her unlit Camel. “She had a workplace accident. So I expect you to pay Anabelle’s hospital bills.”
“Anabelle’s covered, Mrs. Hart,” I said, watching her place the cigarette between her lips and fire it up. (Why was I suddenly picturing the small burst of flame igniting the fuse of a cannon?)
“What do you mean, she’s covered?”
“When I promoted Anabelle to assistant manager,” I said, “she received health insurance and hospitalization coverage under our HMO plan. The bills will be paid. Except for the fifteen-dollar copayment. And there might be some deductibles—”
“Well, you have to cover all that. In fact, I’d like that fifteen-dollar copayment. Right now.”
I stared at her. “Fifteen dollars?”
“Yes,” she said, sucking in a lungful of tar and blowing it out the side of her perfectly lined lips. “Now.”
I suddenly found myself reconsidering the use of fisticuffs as a conflict resolution strategy. After all, as I’d already mentioned, it was preferred two to one in my old neighborhood. And in the words of Joe Pasquale Cosi (aka my father), who was often forced to collect his fair share of earnings from one deadbeat business partner or other: “Cupcake, you just can’t beat the purity of communication in a simple punch to the nose.”
But Grandma would have disapproved.
“Mrs. Hart, I’ll gladly give you fifteen dollars if it will make you feel better.” I dug into my Old Navy jeans and came up with a ten and a five. I moved to place them on the table between us. She snatched them up and stuffed them into her Coach bag before the worn green bills even touched the coral-colored marble.
“Where’s my daughter’s things?” Darla next demanded. “The hospital told me she didn’t have a purse when they brought her in—and her roommate, that ethnic-looking girl, what’s her name? Esther? She told me Anabelle must have left the purse here.”
“The police have it,” I told her, trying to hold my temper (“ethnic-looking” could pretty much describe me as well as Esther and I didn’t appreciate the insulting tone she’d used in stating it).
“The police?” Darla Hart’s face looked stricken. I made a significant note of that. “Why would the police have it?”
Why would you look stricken at the mention of the police? I wanted to ask, but saved that question and instead asked—
“Why do you think the police think Anabelle’s fall wasn’t just a workplace accident?” I asked. (Okay, so I fudged the facts—the police did think it was a simple accident. But the Petty-Cash Queen here didn’t know that.)
Darla’s mouth turned down, her eyes widened, then shifted to stare out the open window. She took a long drag. The white of the cigarette paper against the blood-red polish of the woman’s manicured nails reminded me of a line from Clare Booth Luce’s play The Women: “Looks like you’ve been tearing at somebody’s throat.”
“What do they think?” she asked, still staring into the afternoon rain clouds. Her fingers were slightly trembling.
“Well, the police called it a ‘crime scene,’” I said. “They took fingerprints, collected evidence, that sort of thing. Seems like she could have been pushed.”
Darla turned back, stared hard into my face. “Who do they think would have pushed her?”
I didn’t know, of course. So my instinct was to turn away, but I didn’t. I forced myself to hold her gaze. “Whoever they suspect. They wouldn’t tell me.”
Darla frowned again. Abruptly, she rose to her feet, almost spilling her untouched green tea. “I have to go.”
“Where can I reach you?”
“The Waldorf.”
She searched the table a moment and, after finding no ashtray, carelessly dropped the burning butt into her teacup. I grimaced, watching the pale rolled paper rise to the top of the green liquid and float there, dead and cold.
“I want you to know—and you can let all the owners of this place know—I’m hiring a lawyer,” she said. “I don’t care if all Anabelle’s hospital bills are covered by insurance. My stepdaughter deserves some money for her pain and suffering, and I’m gonna see she gets it.”
With that, Darla shoved the short handles of her fashionable Coach bag onto her shoulder, turned on her Gucci boot heel, and headed for the exit.
I watched her go, noting that her movements were as graceful as her stepdaughter’s. A former dancer, no doubt.
I leaned back, averted my eyes from the cold, dead butt floating in the green tea, sipped my house blend, and considered the fact that Darla was staying at the Waldorf yet snatching up a worn ten and five like she was down to her last dime. And I remembered Esther had said something about Darla showing up a few days ago to take care of some sort of “business.” I needed to find out what exactly that “business” was.
As I cleared the table, I quietly thanked my Grandma Cosi. I guess her method (not to mention Socrates’s and Abe’s) was really the best way to go—at least when you were trying to gather information from an angry source. Hostility handled and channeled through reason and strategy—
“Clare? Are you up here? It’s dire I speak with you!”
It was Matteo. Back from god knows where, doing god knows what. And using the dreaded D word again.
I sighed, wishing my grandmother were still alive—then maybe she could tell me why, when it came to my ex-husband, I almost always wanted to use the more straightforward conflict resolution strategy my father employed—and (need I add) preferred two to one in my old neighborhood.
Fourteen
A few hours later, I was heading up the back stairs to my new second-floor apartment. Everything was under control downstairs. Tucker was on duty as assistant manager, and our evening barista, one of our many part-time workers, had just arrived.
After the events of the day, I really needed a few hours off. Joy was coming for dinner, and I wanted the time to clean up, set a nice table, and listen to some Frank Sinatra.
When I unlocked the door to the duplex, Java greeted me with her usual ear-piercing jaguar yowl. She wasn’t used to her new surroundings. Well, neither was I. But at least Java’s problem could be solved by a scratch or two behind the ears and a can of Fancy Feast Chopped Grill Platter. My dilemmas weren’t so easily solved.
After I presented Java with the attention and the food, the little ball of coffee-bean-brown fur chowed down, then contentedly sprawled across Madame’s living room Persian and began to groom.
I decided to groom as well. My first shower of the day was a dim memory—back in my former New Jersey home. It felt like another decade. I entered the bathroom (small but tastefully designed with a terra cotta floor, Mediterranean-aqua tiles, a marble sink, luxuriously large tub, and two
watercolor originals from a student of twentieth-century American Realist painter Edward Hopper—“Boats in Brooklyn Harbor” and “Long Island Sea Foam”).
I dropped my clothes in a heap and jumped into the marble tub. The shower nozzle above had a spa-quality massage head. No time for that, unfortunately, just a hot spray and a quick soaping. After drying my hair, I stood before the closet pondering my wardrobe. I’d moved most of it in batches over the last few weeks. I’d done some shopping recently, too. What to wear suddenly had me stumped. I considered my ex-husband, remember he liked me in skirts—
Oh, god, what am I doing!
Disgusted with myself for giving Matt’s preferences even one moment’s consideration, I quickly grabbed the first clothes I saw—a pair of black slacks and a red blouse.
I finished dressing and set the table in the dining room. I pulled out the handmade lace tablecloth Madame had bought in Florence and put tapers in the crystal holders. Madame’s finest china was displayed in an antique cabinet in her Fifth Avenue dining room. Her second best was stacked in her Fifth Avenue kitchen. Here she kept a set of her third best dishware. But to be honest, I liked it the most: Spode Imperialware’s “Blue Italian” pattern, which has been in continuous production since 1816. I think I liked it best because it felt so cozy and homey, and the blue Northern Italian scenes set against the white earthenware matched the cheerful blue color in the marble of the Village Blend’s main counter.
I set three places.
Next I headed for the kitchen, complete with finished oak cabinets and brass fixtures. The dishwasher was small, but the refrigerator/freezer was large, and the stove was huge, with six burners and a double oven—all with shiny stainless steel finishes.
I’d stocked the tall wall cabinet last week with essentials like sugar, flour, oils and assorted can goods—everything I needed for the dessert I had in mind, Clare’s Cappuccino Walnut Cheesecake, one of Joy’s favorites.
I had phoned Madame earlier and invited her to join us for dinner. She loved to spend time with Joy, and my daughter loved Madame, too. But Madame had declined, claiming she was feeling tired.
The way she had said it—hesitating between “feeling” and “tired”—made me want to cry. It sounded like an excuse, like she’d wanted to say “ill” instead of “tired” but had caught herself. After seeing her in a wheelchair at St. Vincent’s cancer ward, I wasn’t going to press her. I’d wait until she chose to reveal the truth. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her a thing about our problems at the Blend.
Earlier today, I’d told Matt my worries about his mother’s health. I felt bad doing it, but he might have otherwise burdened Madame with the Blend’s problems, and his mother had enough troubles. She didn’t need to know about Anabelle’s fall, the threats made by Anabelle’s stepmother to sue, or the highly disturbing news Matteo had brought to my attention a few hours ago.
There would be other dinners, I told myself, even if Madame was ill and even if, God forbid, she wouldn’t be with us much longer. With that thought, I promised myself that I would make sure Joy and I had dinner with her in the very near future. Perhaps at her penthouse instead of here—so she wouldn’t have to travel.
For now, however, I had a dessert to prepare.
Fortunately, the rest of dinner was taken care of. Matt had insisted on making Joy’s favorite appetizer, which sent him on a shopping trip: first to Dornier’s, a gourmet butcher shop in the meatpacking district; and then to Carbone’s, a local Italian market that specialized in homemade mozzarella cheese and pastas.
Joy, of course, was bringing her “surprise,” which I took to be yet another dish she had learned to prepare at culinary school. All of Joy’s recipes were fully tested before she brought them home to share, so I had no doubt that we were in for a gastronomic delight. And in any case, Matt was also planning a quick side dish—one substantial enough to be a main course in itself.
That thought alone spurred me into action. Matteo would be arriving within the hour, and when he was cooking, he always (and I mean always) completely dominated the kitchen. I was in no mood to fight for elbow room in my own place, so I got right to the cheesecake.
After tying back my hair, I preheated the oven then began pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and spices off the oak rack. The great thing about my Cappuccino Walnut Cheesecake was that you could whip it up fast. After rummaging through a stack of boxes still piled in the corner—my own well-used supply of cooking equipment, shipped from New Jersey a few days ago—I located my nine-inch springform pan.
I blended the walnuts, butter, and sugar for the crust. Then I poured the mixture into the pan and patted it down. Next came the food processor—another item I’d brought from New Jersey. As I spooned cream cheese into the hopper, my mind went back to the unpleasant meeting I’d had with Anabelle’s stepmother—who had threatened to sue the pants off the Blend for what happened to her daughter—and the ironic surprise Matteo brought me a few minutes later, when I’d heard Matteo’s voice calling, “Clare? Are you up there? It’s dire I speak with you…”
I was still angry at Matteo for rushing off and abandoning Tucker to deal with the afternoon crowd alone, and I planned to let him know it.
“Up here,” I called, not wanting my staff to see me argue with my ex. After all, he was still the Blend’s coffee buyer—and now he was part owner, too.
I heard his heavy tread on the stairs and a moment later he appeared, his face flushed. It looked as if he’d been running.
“We’ve got trouble,” he announced. No surprise there, I thought. Whenever Matteo’s around, trouble follows.
“What?” I said, my voice tinged with anger. “It couldn’t be nearly as much trouble as leaving the Blend during lunchtime rush with only one person to handle everything. Tucker was swamped when I got here. What the hell were you thinking, Matt, disappearing like that, and—
“Clare, listen! I’ve just seen Gordon Calderone. You know, Gordon from Parasol.”
My face must have gone blank because my mind sure had.
“Parasol Insurance,” Matteo said. “You know: ‘Your Umbrella in Times of Need’? He’s been the Blend’s insurance representative for over two decades now.”
“Oh, that Gordon from Parasol.” I did remember the man. Short and stocky, built like a football player (with an outgoing personality to match), Gordon used to stop by at least once a week, back during the ancient history around here—when Joy was a little girl and Matteo was still my husband.
“How is Gordon?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him in years.”
Matteo sat down in Darla Hart’s seat. I was glad I’d cleared away the mess because cigarette butts gross out Matteo almost as much as they do me.
“There’s a reason you haven’t seen him,” Matt said, his voice even. “It seems that when Moffat Flaste was managing the Blend, he failed to make the quarterly insurance payments. Gordon sent notice after notice, but they were ignored. He stopped by and Moffat brushed him off, implying the Blend had found another provider. Can you believe that? I could kill the guy. The liability insurance on the Village Blend lapsed months ago. In case of accident or personal injury, we’re not covered—not for liability.”
I sank down into the chair opposite Matt.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no…”
I told Matt about Darla Hart’s visit, and her threat of legal action. After that we sat silently, just staring.
“My god,” I said, “for once you weren’t kidding. The situation is dire.”
“She could own this place by the time she’s through,” said Matt.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“I’ve renewed the insurance coverage,” Matteo said. “It just about emptied my checking account, but it could have been worse. I was honest with him about what happened, and he did what he could, which is sign us up to cover anything that happens in the future—”
“So we’re not covered for Anabelle?” I asked, even though I knew the answer
.
“No, we’re not covered for her,” Matteo said. “But when the police report about Anabelle’s accident is filed, it will be too late for the parent company to deny our renewed coverage or raise our rates. We owe Gordon big time for this favor!”
I nodded in agreement. At least the business was now covered in case another barista took a tumble down the stairs, or a customer slipped on a wet napkin. That was something, at least.
But for me the real surprise was Matteo. I was always the level-headed, pragmatic adult in our relationship, he was always the Peter Pan, yet I didn’t even think of checking with the insurance company—something I should have done immediately after the incident (I still didn’t think it was an “accident”). Matt, however, was right on it, and he may have saved our butts and our business—at least from future liability. His generous gesture of paying the insurance bill was doubly unexpected.
“We can’t tell Madame,” I admitted to Matt during that same conversation. “Not about Anabelle, not about the insurance. Not now.”
“Why not?”
I told him about St. Vincent’s cancer ward, about her saying she was too “tired” to come to see Joy for dinner. Matteo nodded, his face grim.
“No, we can’t tell her,” he agreed.
I sighed, remembering the look on Matt’s face as he said that. Then I slid the cheesecake into the oven, and set the timer.
Maybe Madame would beat the cancer, I told myself.
And Anabelle…maybe Anabelle would wake up tomorrow, tell us all what happened, and everything would be solved. Maybe.
But then I recalled the girl’s butterfly pulse, her pale face, her twisted rag-doll body at the bottom of the steps, and I felt my heart despair.
Suddenly, a series of rhythmic knocks sounded at the front door. There was only one person who knocked that way—my pride named Joy. I smiled, my spirits lifting.
Fifteen
I opened the door to the apartment, fully expecting to find Joy standing on the threshold. Instead I found Matteo, arms weighted with grocery bags.
