Latte Trouble

worked with Lottie during her heyday over twenty years before, and he was now the key to her current success. He’d not only given Lottie a substantial financial investment to mass-produce her line, he’d also provided a spectacular launch pad by agreeing to pair her jewelry with his fall collection on runways around the world. Her new spring line would be showcased on Fen’s models once again—at the end of this week.

I had hoped to see what the legendary Fen thought of one of the Village Blend’s lattes, but he hadn’t attended. “Too busy finalizing the upcoming show,” Lottie had informed me.

I finished crossing the length of the packed room, squeezed around the wrought-iron spiral staircase and finally spotted my ex-husband next to the roaring fireplace, one hand casually braced against the exposed brick wall, which was adorned with coffee antiques gathered over the last century: a French lacquered urn, a cast-iron, two-wheeled grinding mill (used in the late 1800s, when the Blend was primarily a wholesale shop), copper English coffee pots, Turkish side-handled ibriks, and an array of 1920s tin signs advertising coffee brands.

Matt’s attention, however, was not on the aforementioned décor, but on (no surprise) an attractive woman.

Two

Just a few days ago, Matteo had returned from Ethiopia looking like something my cat Java had dragged in from the Blend’s back alley. But tonight, even I had to admit he’d cleaned up well. In fact, he looked better than a French-pressed pot of Jamaica Blue Mountain. His muscular shoulders were draped in fine Italian fabric, his chiseled jaw, usually brushed in black stubble, was closely shaved, his Caesar haircut in masculine trim.

Matteo wasn’t just my ex-husband. He was also the Blend’s coffee buyer, an astute coffee broker, and the owner’s son. Thanks to his French-born mother, Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, Matt and I had not only remained partners in the raising of our daughter, we were now partners in the running of the Blend. Madame had offered me co-ownership of the Blend’s business and the multimillion dollar Federal-style Greenwich Village townhouse to entice me back into managing the family business, only to reveal later that her pirate of a son was slated to be the other co-owner.

After a decade of divorce and my self-imposed exile to raise my daughter in New Jersey, I knew that a reconciliation with my ex-husband was, in the words of The Godfather’s Michael Corleone, “an impossibility that would never happen,” so I subsequently convinced myself that the Blend was worth the aggravation. I bit the bullet and agreed to put up with Matteo’s intermittent stays in the duplex between coffee buying expeditions.

Admittedly, it wasn’t always an aggravation. Our daughter Joy loved her father, and saw more of him now (since she’d moved to Manhattan to attend culinary school) than she ever had growing up in New Jersey. And in rare moments of truth I had to admit—to myself and myself only—that Matt had changed for the better lately. Not that he wasn’t still exasperating. But he’d been helpful and supportive in ways that actually astounded me.

I approached my ex-husband and the elegant, fortyish woman with whom he was now deep in conversation. She was a sleek New York sophisticate type, tall and Waspish with salon-highlighted blond hair smoothed into a perfect french twist and a sexy suit with a plunging neckline and fabric the color of a mochaccino (not surprising since Fen had made brown the new black this season). Earlier in the evening, Matt had cornered a young pixie- haired bubble-head in a spandex minidress. I hadn’t felt a thing when I saw him speaking with that type—it was just Matteo being Matteo. But, for some reason, seeing him with this woman closer to my own age sent an annoying and totally unwanted twinge of jealousy through me.

I, of course, instantly repressed it.

“Excuse me,” I said through a smile of gritted teeth.

“Clare!” said Matteo, snaking an arm around my waist. He flashed an easy smile at the elegant woman. “This is my business partner in the Blend,” he informed her, then turned his big, brown innocent eyes back on me. “What’s up?”

“Well, partner, you’re supposed to be stationed at the door.”

“I asked Esther to cover for me.”

“Ah, but you see,” I told him, “that’s problematic.”

“Problematic?”

“You appointed an openly hostile anti-fashion activist to meet and greet a crowd of people who mainline designer labels.”

Matt laughed nervously and shot a glance at Miss Elegant, who sipped her latte and looked away as if bored. Then he leaned close to me.

“I’ll be there shortly,” he whispered into my ear, “and if Esther turns out to be a problem, then you can always look after the door until then.”

With that, I felt his muscular arm spin me at my waist. Then his hand dropped to my lower back and pressed me back toward the front door in a gentle but infuriating send-off. Capping more steam than a two-boiler espresso machine, I marched away—but not to the front door. Instead, I returned to the coffee bar for a much-needed shot to calm my nerves. In the words of Moe Howard, “I wanted to brain him.”

Back at the bar, I found Tucker pulling espressos and chatting with Lottie’s two business partners, Tad Benedict and Rena Garcia.

“How’s Tuck doing?” I whispered to Moira.

The girl shrugged. “He won’t talk about it. Just said, ‘Men are pigs, and they should die’ again and left it at that.”

Well, whatever happened, Tucker seems over it now, I thought with relief.

Just then, Esther Best appeared at the bar. I blinked in surprise. “Shouldn’t you be at the door?” I said.

Esther shrugged. “The frou-frou train has slowed considerably. I left one of those walking brown string beans to guard the entrance since it sure looks like Matt is too busy hitting on Breanne Summour to relieve me anytime soon.”

“What’s her name again?” I asked, since Matt hadn’t bothered to mention Miss Elegant’s name.

Rena Garcia, Lottie’s business partner, overheard me and replied, “Breanne Summour is the editor-in-chief of Trend magazine. And Trend is very influential with the upscale crowd. Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily are Seventh Avenue staples, but Trend covers more than fashion…it follows whatever is on the cutting edge for a wide range of…well…trends.”

I thanked Rena, then turned back to Esther. “For someone who doesn’t care about fashion, you certainly seem to know your fashionistas.”

“New York One’s running their annual Fall Fashion Week Is Here Again! story,” Esther replied with a shrug. “They interviewed her in the piece and ran it every hour over the weekend. It was hard not to recognize her when she walked in tonight.”

My disturbed state must have been more than a little obvious because Lottie’s other business partner, Tad Benedict, sidled up to me. “So how are you holding up, Clare?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

“Fine. I just desperately need an espresso,” I said.

“Coming up,” said Moira, overhearing.

“Well, you’re doing a great job,” said Tad. “The drinks are delicious—and so are the pastries. Lottie’s very pleased. She said she only wished she could have gotten another of those little white diamonds before they all disappeared!” He smiled and patted his chubby stomach. “What were those anyway?”

I smiled. “Ricciarelli. They’ve been a popular celebration cookie for a long time—a really long time, actually. Documents from the Renaissance describe the cookie as being served in Italy and France during lavish, important banquets—”

Tad’s eyebrows rose and I realized I was lapsing into “too much information” again. But for years, while I was raising my daughter in New Jersey, I’d written a cooking column for a local paper, and ever since obscure details about food and drink had looped themselves into my everyday conversations. So sue me.