Latte Trouble

At Matt’s unexpected compliment, I nearly tripped on my four-inch heels. “Thanks,” I replied, thinking he looked pretty good himself, leaning casually against the Blend’s coffee bar with his athletic form draped in a slate gray suit, an azure dress shirt worn fashionably open at the collar.

I teetered toward him across the Blend’s polished plank floor, trying earnestly to recapture my ability to balance on fashion forward stilts. When I reached the counter, I spread my hands.

“See, not a pillbox hat in sight.”

Matt seemed less interested in my lack of Jackie O hat than in my ample J.Lo cleavage, now displayed by the plunging neckline of a chic, aqua Prada wrap dress I’d bought on deep discount at the Chelsea Filene’s Basement. I’d worn it once, for Madame’s New Year’s Eve party last December. Matteo had been in Rio at the time—so, of course, he hadn’t seen it, or the striking Y necklace of translucent blue stones that had caught my eye at a local artisan’s fair.

“You’re going to be the hottest woman at the party,” said Matt with a smile.

“That’s sweet. But I needed a shoehorn to squeeze into this thing. And let’s get real. This party is a Fashion Week event. The women will be so willowy they’ll make Twiggy look like a rhinoceros.”

“My point exactly, babe,” he teased. “Twiggy don’t come with that cleavage.”

I nearly blushed as Esther, who’d been listening from behind the counter, wrinkled her brow. “Who’s Twiggy?”

Matt and I stared at her, then exchanged mournful glances.

“What? What did I say?” she asked defensively.

I waved my hand. “It’s an old person thing.”

Matt smiled and offered his arm. “Our horsepower and buggy await.”

I said goodnight to Esther and Gardner and eagerly took my ex-husband’s arm—less out of a desire to feel his prominent bicep than to make certain I didn’t fall on my face in front of my staff. With all my crazy running around this week, their respect for me was already waning, and I was still getting used to the heels.

We sauntered through the Blend and out to the waiting limousine, eyes following us, and I knew why: Matt and I made an attractive couple. Instantly, of course, I cursed my own powers of observation. Was I going mental? This outing with my ex is strictly business. All business. Totally business.

On the sidewalk, I noticed it had rained briefly while I’d been getting ready, and the wet streets were ablaze with reflected light. At the curb, a limousine driver stood waiting, and I was surprised to see that even our chauffeur was dressed in a formal black uniform, cap included.

Clearly, Matteo had bypassed the typical Queens-based, leisure-suited limo rentals and sprung for the Manhattan executive service. He’d spared no expense in his effort to put forth a sophisticated image to potential investors—though I recalled that the last time I’d seen him looking this polished he’d ended the evening by tumbling over the side of a yacht and into the Hudson River.

“This is nice,” I said, my hands running across the supple leather seats. I’d made the comment innocently. By the way Matteo took my hand and squeezed it, however, then smiled suggestively at my cleavage, I realized he’d taken it a whole other way.

“This is nice,” he replied and leaned toward me. His freshly shaved jawline was sweetened by the subtle scent of an expensive cologne.

I extracted my hand from his and pushed him gently away. “I have enough excitement on my plate tonight.”

“As I recall,” he said leaning close again, “you never had trouble juggling more than one thing on your plate.”

“Matt, please,” I said, pushing him back once more. “This isn’t a date. I’m only coming tonight to ask Breanne some questions about Lottie.”

He sat back, sank into the leather upholstery, and folded his arms. “You know, Clare, this Nancy Drew fantasy you’re living. Maybe it’s a sign of something.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe you’re ready to see more of the world. Do more than just be a mother and a coffeehouse manager.”

I laughed. “What do you have in mind? Bungee jumping in Borneo? Surfing in Malaysia? A quickie with you and some beach bunny in Rio?”

“How about coming back with me to Ethiopia, to the plantation, and help us change the way the coffee business is done in that part of the world…hopefully for the better.”

I almost laughed again, but checked myself when I realized Matteo wasn’t kidding. I shook my head. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I can’t trust you—”

He sat up. “What? That lipstick thing again. I told you, it was Joy—”

“Drop it, Matt. I’m no fool. Not anymore. In that respect I have changed. For the better.”

Matt frowned, acting wounded. He glanced out the window.

“Anyway, it’s not just the lipstick and you know it,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “If you were to let me down again, at least I know I can always run back to New Jersey with my tail between my legs. I did it once and survived—but things would be different in a place like Ethiopia. Where you go, in the wild parts, I’d have to trust you with my life.”

“You think I’d let anything happen to you, Clare? Christ, you’re the mother of my daughter. The woman I —”

“Let’s drop it, Matt,” I said quickly. “Now is not the time and this is not the place.”

Fortunately uptown traffic was surprisingly light considering Saturday night’s pre-theater crush, so before Matt could press his argument any further, we were already rolling up to the front door of the Pierre. Located on Fifth Avenue at Sixty-first Street, this grand hotel sat directly across from Central Park, one of the most expensive addresses on the face of planet Earth. The place was so pricey, in fact, Madame once told me that Dashiell Hammett, who had stayed there in 1932 while working on The Thin Man, couldn’t pay the massive bill he’d run up, so he’d thrown on a disguise and tiptoed out.

After the limousine halted, Matt emerged, then took my hand and helped me exit. Clearly, there were no hard feelings on his part, or maybe hard feelings wasn’t the best way to put it. While I was stupidly worried my rebuff had been too harsh, my ex was stealing yet another suggestive glance at my neckline. Obviously, he’d taken my rejection as a challenge. He offered me his arm again and grinned like a conquering victor when I took it. As we approached the glittering entrance, a doorman tipped his hat and we ventured inside, joining the leisurely flow of the high-toned crowd through the gilded, chandelier-draped lobby.

The Pierre, with its French décor and Old World charm, had been a hostelry for very rich since the 1930s when big band sounds were broadcast nationwide via the radio. In the forties, the place served as the home away from home for presidents and prime ministers, princes and kings displaced by war and revolution. Throughout the 1950s, right up to the present, the luxuriously appointed Cotillion Room has been the venue for New York’s most exclusive debutante balls.

The Rotunda, where we were now heading, was the hotel’s signature room. An extravagant and whimsical space with a domed ceiling, twin curved staircases and a floor-to-ceiling trompe I’oeil mural that covered the circular walls, it was a regular stop among the old money smart set who preferred their high tea and gourmet meals amid five-star surroundings.

Created in 1967, the Rotunda mural really was something to see. The artist, American painter Edward Melcarth, had chosen the three-dimensional trick-of-the-eye style of the Renaissance era but he’d decided to add a twentieth-century twist. The overall intent was to transform the restaurant space into a paradise, giving guests a sense that they were visiting with the gods. Not content with the deities of antiquity, however, Melcarth added to the Pantheon by painting in the cultural giants of his own era. Images of Venus and Neptune were intermingled with more modern figures—including, of all people, a life-sized portrait of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

“You see, Clare, it’s good you didn’t try to look like you-know-who.” Matt said with a laugh as we passed the portrait. “She’s already here.”

“Ha, ha.”

The classic lines of the Rotunda were only marginally spoiled by the hasty hanging of