counter. “Yours is to come here and give your mother a proper greeting.”
Matteo swept around the counter, and his mother held out two hands, ready for the customary shake and polite Continental kiss on each cheek. Instead, Matt opened his strong arms and enveloped the frail, impeccably tailored woman in a big old American bear hug.
Madame’s pale blue eyes widened with flabbergasted shock as her Fendi heels left the ground, but then her features transformed into a state of surprised pleasure I hadn’t seen since Pierre had been alive.
“What’s all this?” she asked. “Oh, I know! You need a loan, don’t you?”
“A loan? Sure. How about a million five? I always wanted my own jet.”
“Can’t do,” said Madame. “But I’ll let you have my frequent flyer miles. I think you can get half a coach seat.”
“Nope. It’s my own air bus or nothing.” Matt released his mother then all of a sudden hugged her again. The sight nearly melted my heart.
“Espresso, Madame?” I asked.
“Please—” she said, her expression of happy surprise now changing to one of puzzlement. “Matt, enough!” she cried, downright dumbfounded by her son’s unusual out-pouring of affection. “What’s got into you?”
Matt released her, turned abruptly, and headed back behind the coffee bar. “Can’t a man miss his mother?”
“No,” said Madame, “not when
I glanced away quickly, finished Quinn’s latte, and handed him the paper cup with the plastic sip lid.
“What do I owe you?” Quinn asked quietly.
“Are you kidding?” I said just as quietly. “You’ve just saved me a hundred and five dollars and all the pleasures of traffic court. Your money’s no good here.”
He nodded in thanks and took the cup. “Hot.”
“Oh, sorry. Here you go—” I snatched a heat sleeve from the pile near the pickup area. The regulars knew the drill, so we saved time behind the counter by putting the sleeves right where the customers could reach them.
“Thanks,” he said, taking it. Then he stopped and stared at the two-inch swath of folded cardboard. “Uh. What’s this?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean—” He turned it around in his hand, staring at it so helplessly I nearly burst out laughing. Clearly, Quinn needed a tutorial.
“Here, let me show you. First you open the cardboard, then you drop the bottom of the cup in. See, it slips right in, a nice snug fit through the hole—”
Quinn looked uneasy. Embarrassed even. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Forget it. I mean, thanks, but I gotta go—”
I glanced back over my shoulder. Matt was standing there, arms folded across his chest, a smirk on his face.
Matt’s eyebrows rose. He lifted his hands, palms up.
Quinn gave Madame a polite nod as he passed, heading for the door.
“You two should come by about eight,” said Madame, leaning on the counter. “The auction starts at nine, but we’ll have some fabulous music and food, of course, and—”
“Matt should go,” I said. “But I can’t.”
“And why not, for heaven’s sake?” asked Madame.
“It’s Friday,” I said. “The Blend will be packed. I should be here.”
“Nonsense,” said Madame with a wave of her wrinkled hand. “It’s only a few hours. And you have reliable assistant managers. At least you told me that you have them. Let that sweet girl handle it. What’s her name? Anabelle—”
I drew in a breath, looked toward the door. Had Quinn left?
Oh, god! I realized he hadn’t. He’d stopped by the door. He’d heard Madame. His eyebrows rose and he looked about to speak. I grimaced at him—gave a few quick silent shakes of my head.
“The Blend is my responsibility now,” I said as gently as I could to Madame. “Matt can go tonight—”
I noticed Quinn motioning me to come over to him. “Excuse me, Madame,” I said, then I turned to Matt. “Please make your mother that espresso.”
“What does he want now?” Matt asked quietly as I passed.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“More help slipping something into a hole, no doubt,” he muttered, disgusted.
I shot Matt the angriest look I could summon.
At the door, Quinn looked down at me. He seemed so tall now that we were standing so close to each other.
“I forgot to tell you something,” he said quietly. “Funny. It’s the reason I came by to see you in the first place.”
“What?” I asked.
He took my hand in his. My throat closed on me and my heart began pounding so hard, I was sure he’d think I was having an attack. But it wasn’t anything close to what I’d imagined was happening—
“Here,” he said.
I felt a small, hard object being placed into my palm.
“It’s caffeine,” he said.
I looked down. Cradled in my hand was Matt’s vial of white powder. The one Langley thought was cocaine— and Quinn thought could go either way.
“So there it is,” said Quinn, lifting his chin in the direction of Matt. “He was telling the truth.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“S’okay,” he turned. “And, uh, thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, then watched his tall, trenchcoated form exit the Blend and negotiate the traffic across Hudson. I held up the vial and found myself wondering why the man almost forgot to tell me something he’d come here in the first place to tell me—unless he didn’t
“It’s at the Waldorf,” said Madame.
He didn’t want to tell me, I continued to consider, but he’d told me anyway.
“What’s that?” I asked, walking back to the coffee bar.
“I said you must come, Clare. The auction tonight. It’s at the Waldorf.”
Matt looked at me, mouthed “Anabelle’s mother is staying at the Waldorf,” and smiled. I nodded, thought of Quinn, and smiled for my own reasons.
“Okay, then,” I said. “I’ll come.”
Twenty-One
“Mumble, mumble, mumble, LOVELY AFFAIR, mumble, mumble, BUT…”
The gaunt-cheeked Vera Wanged, second wife of a Fortune 100 executive, paused after her “BUT” and smiled. A small treasure in orthodontia now gleamed at me amid the itinerant babbling and clinking glasses of the Waldorf-Astoria’s four-story grand ballroom, site of state dinners, gala weddings, and historic press statements.
