Decaffeinated Corpse

Madame opened her eyes again. “What would you like to know?”

“If life on Costa Gravas was so wonderful, then why did Ric’s family relocate to Brazil?”

Madame stared at me as if I’d just suggested we replace our thirty-five dollar-a-pound, single-origin Jamaica Blue Mountain with Folgers instant crystals.

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Matt didn’t share that with you?”

“Matt and I were divorced then. The last thing I remember about Ric was his over-staying his education visa for Ellie, then returning to Costa Gravas anyway—and without proposing, which I also remember had absolutely devastated her.”

Madame nodded. “Then you never heard the story.”

“What story?”

“Ric’s family didn’t move out of Costa Gravas voluntarily. The government turned into a socialist dictatorship practically overnight, and all private farms and companies were seized.”

“You mean like Cuba, in Godfather II?”

“I mean like Cuba in reality, dear. Federico’s father had been an outspoken opponent of Victor Hernandez, who had close ties to Castro. The man’s military swept over Costa Gravas. So the family fled to Brazil. It’s a good thing too. Hernandez could have imprisoned Ric’s father... or worse.”

Now I felt like a geopolitical idiot.

I could only say, in defense of my ignorance, that I was overwhelmed those years with concerns closer to home (e.g. raising my daughter, keeping food on the table, paying New Jersey Power and Lighting somewhere close to on time). Regardless of Costa Gravas’ political history, however, I knew one thing—quality coffee no longer came off that little island.

Farming coffee was an art as exacting as any. Years ago, the trade journals had downgraded the quality of Costa Gravas cherries as well as their crop yields. I’d never researched why. I’d simply focused on other regions and coffee crops.

“Why exactly did Ric’s family end up in Brazil?”

“A relative down there had some lands, and he gave them a section of it to farm.”

“So that’s why...” I murmured, turning south onto Broadway.

“What?” Madame asked. “That’s why what?”

“That’s why Ric buckled down... I mean, his botanical breakthrough came after his family lost their farm on Costa Gravas.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I just couldn’t reconcile a man who’d painstakingly create a new hybrid plant with the sort of carefree playboy Ric had been during his college years. You know that Brazilian term Matt uses?”

“A carioca?”

“That’s the one.”

Madame sighed. “Alas, my son’s favorite foreign word.” “We’re talking about Ric.”

“Not just.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I want to talk to you about Matt. That’s why I was coming to see you.”

“Okay...” I said, curious at the suddenly hushed tone. “What did you want to talk about?”

“That woman.”

“Excuse me?”

Thinking my ex-mother-in-law was speaking about a pedestrian, I glanced out the window. To our left was Little Italy, although lately it was hard to tell. Swanky Soho (to our right) had jumped the avenue, bringing its chic boutiques and trendy watering holes into the neighborhood of old school Italian restaurants and mirror-walled patisseries.

“Which woman?”

Madame saw me searching the crowded sidewalk and shook her head. “No, dear, not out there...”

“Where?”

“Right under your nose, that’s where!”

“Right under my... ?”

“Breanne Summour.”

By this time, my reaction to the woman was an autonomic response. At the sound of her name, my grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“What about her?” I asked levelly.

“I know Matt’s been networking with her.”

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Madame sniffed. “That’s the word he used.”

“Networking?”

“Yes,” said Madame. “I’ve seen their photos together in the tony magazines—you know, those charity party mug shots? I’ve met her a few times, too, and Matt continually tells me it’s a casual thing, a collegial relationship.”

“He’s sleeping with her.”

“Well, yes, of course.”

I sighed. “You know your son better than anyone.”

“What I know, Clare, is that Matt doesn’t love this woman. Not even remotely.”

I shrugged uneasily. “The caricoa strikes again. He’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t need to love a woman to sleep with her.”

“If all he was doing, or intended to do, was sleep with her, I wouldn’t be so worried.”

“Worried?” My ears pricked up. Had Madame heard something suspicious about the woman, something that might be linked to what was happening with Ric? “What worries you?”

“I think Matt may be getting serious about her.”

“Oh, is that all...”

I tried not to laugh. Matt and serious—when it came to women, anyway—just didn’t go together in the same sentence. To prove it, I considered telling her about the pass he’d just made at me the night before, but I held my tongue. Madame still entertained the ludicrous idea that I might one day remarry Matt. Why give her hope?

“I saw them together yesterday,” Madame continued in a grave tone.

“Uh-huh.”

“They were at Tiffany, Clare. They were looking at rings.”

“Rings?” I repeated. My brain seized up for a second, but then I thought it through. “Breanne’s quite the fashionista. She was probably just shopping for a new bauble—”

“They were diamond engagement rings. I kid you not.” Good lord. I managed to keep my foot from jamming on the brakes, but only barely. “Did you ask Matt about it?”

“No. I was with a friend and we were on our way out. But I tell you Matt and Breanne were very close together, very intimate.”

“He is sleeping with her, Madame. I wouldn’t think standing cheek to cheek in a jewelry store would be an issue.”

“I want you to find out what’s going on.”

“Why?”

“I told you. My son doesn’t love this woman. I can’t have him marrying her.”

“He married me.”

“You’re the only woman Matteo’s ever loved, Clare. Don’t you know that?”

“Frankly, no. His behavior during our marriage was unforgivable—the women, the drugs—”

“I can’t defend him, and you know I’ve never tried. But that was a long time ago. He’s been off the drugs for years now, he’s working very hard, has wonderful ambitions for our business, and—”

“Please stop. We’ve hiked this hill already.”