When I glanced up, I found Barry watching all this with a cross between curiosity and amusement. “Wow. I didn’t realize so much scientific rigor went into making my latte.”
“You have no idea.”
I’d once explained it all to Mike, or tried to. When things went wrong in making espresso, any number of variables could be the offending agent — a good barista had to go through each variable
Mike replied with one sentence: “Sounds like my job.”
I smiled at Barry. “Would you like another latte?”
“Yes, please! You have the best in the city.”
“In that case,” I told him, “this one’s on the house.”
Twenty minutes later, Barry was gone, and Tucker and Esther had returned to the espresso bar to help with a brief flurry of prelunch rush customers. I was just finishing the pour on my last order in line — a Hazelnut-Caramel Latte, which I topped with the flourish of a heart-crowned rosetta — when I heard a familiar door slam.
A minute later, our shop’s front bell was ringing and so were my eardrums.
“Clare!”
The customers in my half-filled shop came alert at their tables.
“What the hell is going on with my mother!”
My ex-husband had arrived.
Fifteen
Matt dropped his suitcase (loudly) next to a barstool while simultaneously sliding a heavy backpack off his Nautilus-sculpted shoulders. It hit the ground with an equally subtle thud.
“I touched down at JFK an hour ago, after a truly horrendous red-eye out of Charles de Gaulle, and what do I see when I pass the first newsstand?” Matt threw a folded-up
I sighed.
“She’s okay?”
I nodded.
His hard body sagged a moment — until his righteous anger got a second wind. “Why didn’t you call me? I mean, last night she wasn’t okay, was she?”
Before I could answer, Esther snatched up the paper. “Boss! Front-page news and you didn’t mention it! I knew I should have watched
“Excuse me,” Tucker said, “but why should Boris have anything to do with it?”
“Because he didn’t want me to watch New York One first thing in the morning. He wanted to, um... I mean, well, he
“Distracted you?” Tucker folded his arms. “Esther, I’m shocked. A euphemism?”
“A girl has a right to her boudoir privacy.”
By now Matt was fairly vibrating with impatience, but he failed to interrupt our baristas, primarily because he was still doing a double-take at Esther. He hadn’t seen our most popular employee since she began piling her wild dark hair on top of her head in an ebony half beehive à la torch singer Amy Winehouse.
Tuck, who was familiar with the pop star’s unfortunate bouts with alcohol and drugs, had already dubbed it the “Detox Rock look.” According to Esther, it was driving her boyfriend mad with desire.
“What’s the point of having a news anchor read from the papers, anyway?” Tucker was saying. “Why don’t you just read the papers yourself?”
“Because if I watch
“Okay, Esther. If you don’t read the papers, then hand that one over. I’d like to read all about it.”
“No!” She clutched the dog-eared tabloid to her Renaissance chest.
“Listen,” Tucker said, “I can do New York One’s morning anchor in my sleep. I’ll read it to you.”
“You can do Pat Kiernan?”
“The Clark Kent of local news?” Tucker waved his hand. “He’s your basic cross between Mr. Spock and Mr. Rogers.”
“Okay.” Esther offered up the now substantially wrinkled
I glanced over at Matt who was standing stiffer than Oz’s Tin Man. His jaw was grinding so visibly, I thought he might actually need the oil can.
“Esther, Tucker,” I quickly said before the man blew, “I need to speak with Matt in private. So you two ‘read all about it’ while you’re covering the counter, okay?” I met Tucker’s gaze. “Two
“No problem.”
I gestured for my ex to follow me to a corner table. “Like I said, your mother’s fine.” I kept my voice low as we walked, hoping he’d take the hint.
(He didn’t.) “Then why didn’t she answer my calls this morning!”
“Please lower you voice. Your mother went to sit with a friend in the Elmhurst ICU. They don’t allow cell phones in there. Last night I tried to make a call and I couldn’t even get a signal.”
“Who’s in the ICU, Clare? What friend?”
“Lorenzo Testa.”
“Aw, no...”
We came to our usual little corner table, which stood next to the line of tall French doors. On days like this I expected a drafty chill, but our old hearth was close by; and even though the fire wasn’t what it used to be, the heat was still there for Matt and I, providing just enough warmth to keep us comfortable.
I sat with my back to the smoldering embers and pointed to the chair opposing mine. “Sit. I’ll tell you the whole story...”
Matt dropped heavily and I talked... and talked. Finally, I ran out of words.
“Sorry I blew up,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
Tucker brought over our double espressos. Matt thanked him and bolted his. I sipped mine slowly.
With an agitated hand, he rubbed the back of his short, dark Caesar. Then (at last) my ex relaxed, stretching out his wrinkled khakis until they extended well beyond the tabletop’s disc of coral-colored marble. His shoes — black high-top sneakers with white laces — were purposefully urban hip. In New York they ran over a hundred dollars. Matt had purchased his in a South American market stall for under two bucks.
Strapped to his right wrist was a glittering Breitling chronometer. Encircling his left was a multicolored tribal bracelet made from braided strips of Ecuadorian leather — and that pretty much summed up the paradox that was Matteo Allegro: one part slick international coffee buyer and one part fearless java trekker, lightly folded together in a larger-than-life concoction that I once couldn’t get enough of and now sometimes found hard to swallow.
“How’s our daughter?” I asked, still savoring my double. (Replacing the grinder had fixed all issues. Tuck’s shots were now spot on, the nutty-earthy sweetness of the
“Joy’s doing great,” Matt said. “I have pictures to show you once I get this piece of crap recharged.”
He threw his latest electronic device onto the cold slab of marble between us — PDA, phone, camera, calculator, microwave oven. I’m not sure what tasks it was supposed to multi.
“Why didn’t you just use a camera?” I said.
