Espresso Shot

confess I enjoyed it for a while. ‘A woman in every port,’ as my American friends used to say. But I soon discovered that I did so much traveling I didn’t have a home. That’s why I grow coffee now, in Colombia, the land where I was born.”

His eyes caught mine, and Javier smiled slyly. “When I long to travel or lack for feminine companionship, I explore the nightlife in a nearby city, or—excuse me, one moment—”

Javier hailed someone and gestured him forward. The short, sad-eyed man approached us. “Madame Dubois. Clare Cosi,” Javier said with great formality. “I am pleased to introduce you to my manager, Hector Pena.”

Like Javier, Pena had clearly spent hours in the scorching sun. But the older man’s deep tan didn’t appear glowing and healthy like Javier’s. His flesh almost seemed to sag, and there were dark circles under his eyes. There was an air of heaviness about the man, as if he were bearing the weight of Job on his slouching shoulders.

“I was just telling Clare it is good to get away sometimes. To travel, eh, Hector?”

Still unsmiling, Hector nodded. “I very much needed to make this journey.”

A waiter appeared with a tray of lomo saltado, a hearty meat dish that’s a favorite in Peru. Marinated strips of sirloin are sauteed with hot and sweet peppers, cilantro, garlic, and oregano. Usually served over rice and garnished with crispy French fries, the chef made the dish “hand-friendly” by skewering the beef, along with chunks of succulent peppers and a fried potato square. I took a bite of the marinated meat and slipped into a food trance. When I came out again, Hector Pena had drifted away.

“Why is your friend so sullen?” Madame asked.

“A recent personal tragedy,” Javier replied in a lowered voice. “His young daughter was a beautiful and talented singer. She moved to Bogota to pursue her career. About a month ago she died quite suddenly, by gunshot.” Javier frowned and shook his head. “I have never seen Hector so desolate, and I have known him for fifteen years, since we were both with the Lanceros—”

“My, that sounds dashing.”

“There is little dash to be found in the Colombian army,” Javier replied. “Only an endless battle against drug cartels and terrorists.”

“It’s appalling, the tragedy in the world,” Madame said, shaking her head. “Roger Mbele was telling me about Kenya’s troubles not long ago. The post election violence left over a thousand dead in his country.”

“Yes, yes, there is much sadness in the world. That is why I encouraged Hector to come with me to the wedding. He knows Matteo, of course, and is very happy for him, but I am personally grateful for this opportunity to get Hector away from home, away from his troubles, and cheer him up. I am afraid, however, that I am not doing a very good job. Perhaps a lady’s touch?”

“Let’s you and I try together,” Madame said with a wink. She took Javier’s arm and led him off in the direction of his sad friend.

“That’s what happens when you come to the party late,” a deep voice said to me a moment later, “you lose your best girl to a younger man.”

I turned to find Otto Visser standing beside me—Madame’s latest love interest. He was a tall, dapper fellow, leanly built with thinning but still-golden hair. In his late sixties, Madame had met her “younger man” a few months ago, while we were having dinner uptown. They “eye flirted” across the room at each other (Madame’s version anyway), and then Otto approached her, and they’d been dating ever since.

I smiled up at him. “Madame wondered why you hadn’t showed.”

“Work, as usual,” he said, his voice carrying a slight Dutch accent.

An art dealer now, Otto had originally studied to become a Roman Catholic priest, but he left the seminary and became an art historian instead, working for years at the Vatican museums. Now he ran the Otto Visser Gallery in Chelsea and performed private consulting work for several of the city’s most prestigious museums and auction houses.

“I know all about working too many hours, but one of these should cheer you up.” I snagged the waiter.

Otto sampled a bite of the new tapas offering: chicharron de calamar, a crispy fried squid served with crema de recoto, a kind of Peruvian creole sauce.

“Mmmm, delicious,” Otto said. “I’ll have one of these, too.” He snatched a glass of the flowing sangria blanco from a passing tray. After a long drink, he sighed. “I was caught in the middle of another dispute between a buyer who’s willing to spend the moon, and an artist who refuses to sell.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I doubt it. The artist in question is Spanish, famous in some circles, but not yet widely known—”

Apparently, Breanne was near enough to overhear our conversation, because she walked right up to Otto and without even a polite greeting asked, “Do you know Nunzio?”

“The Italian sculptor?” Otto shook his head. “Only by reputation.”

Breanne shot me a sidelong glance. “A shame, because I just got a text message with some very bad news for you, Clare.”

“Me?” I blinked.

“Yes, it seems Nunzio has had second thoughts about loaning us his fountain.”

My breath caught. The fountain was to be the centerpiece of the wedding’s coffee and dessert station. Janelle Babcock and I had worked like dogs planning the details of the tablescape around it.

“That fountain was part of Nunzio’s profile in the magazine,” Breanne said. “Without it, your little display won’t be included in that section. I don’t think our photo editor will even bother including it in the magazine’s wedding spreads.”

I gritted my teeth. The Village Blend certainly didn’t need Trend to make it popular. If I it were up to me, I’d drop the whole damn thing, but it wasn’t just me involved here. I’d be letting Janelle Babcock down big time. She’d just started Pastries by Janelle and she’d worked on the wedding presentation for over a month. Janelle was counting on this national exposure to showcase her dessert catering.

I faced Breanne. “Why is Nunzio backing out?”

“I don’t know for sure.” Her eyebrow arched. “But I have an idea.”

“Well?”

“From the wording he used, I believe it has something to do with spending the last few nights alone.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t you remember that card he slipped you?”

Matt appeared just then. “Card? What’s this about a card?”

Breanne glanced over her shoulder at Matt. “It seems our favorite Italian sculptor took a shine to our little barista here. I told her she should give the man a whirl, and now she has a second chance. The text message said Nunzio will talk only with you, Clare. He’s expecting you to ‘discuss the situation’ with him in his hotel room tonight.”

Matt’s jaw dropped. So did mine.

“It’s your coffee and dessert station,” Breanne added blithely. “If you want it featured in the magazine, then you have to find some way to change Nunzio’s mind. I have enough to do. Oh, look who’s here! Come, darling.” She crossed the room, a slightly stunned Matt in tow.

“Unbelievable,” I whispered. Otto was still standing beside me. I noticed he was wearing a half smile. “Otto, did you just hear what she implied?”

“I heard.”

I closed my eyes, massaged the bridge of my nose. “How in the hell am I supposed to handle this?”

Otto softy chuckled. “I may not know Nunzio personally, Clare, but I’m sure he’s like almost every other artist I’ve dealt with. Their most vulnerable organs aren’t their hearts or their brains but their egos.”

“Their egos?”

He nodded. “A tortured artist wrestles with a negative self-image. A confident artist brandishes an arrogance that can undo him. Paint it bold or shade it shy, on either end of the spectrum, it’s the artist’s ego that’s in play.”

Otto drained his glass and set it aside. “Believe me, Clare, I deal with it regularly. Today, for instance, my travails were with Tio, that rising Spanish sculptor I was telling you about. An important collector wanted to purchase the man’s most famous work. It’s called The Trellis. Oh, you should see it. I’ll