Once Upon a Grind (13 page)

M
ATT'S
wife, Breanne, had called the Village Blend an asylum, and I thought of it that way, too, just not the kind of asylum she'd meant.

Like Greenwich Village itself, this century-old coffeehouse was a refuge, a safe place where people of all kinds were welcome without judgment. I even had my own private asylum upstairs. The beautiful duplex apartment came rent-free, as long as I managed the coffee business below.

That business had been close to ruin when I'd come back to it. These days it was purring along like an Italian sports car. Even now, twenty minutes before closing, nearly every table was occupied, and I wasn't surprised. Gardner Evans was on duty.

A young, African-American jazz musician, Gardner was my star night manager. He always came to work with sultry playlists that enticed customers to stick around for an extra cup or two.

Athletically built with a trimmed goatee, cocoa complexion, and liquid brown eyes, Gardner was a favorite of NYU co-eds and jazz aficionados alike (and there were plenty of both in the Village).

Gardner sometimes spoke about missing his family back home, but he enjoyed his barista work, especially the late shifts, which gave him a chance to “caffeinate up” (as he put it) before going out to midnight jam sessions. He'd play all night with his group, treat himself to fried chicken and waffles at Amy Ruth's in Harlem, sleep through the morning, and wake up, ready to pull shots by early evening.

Now I knocked on our French windows and waved good night. But when Gardner looked up from behind the counter, something bizarre happened.

As a crack of thunder shook the sky, a sharp shock rocketed through my body. The jolt came with a feeling of elation followed by loss, and then great sadness.

When it passed, Gardner was gone. He simply
vanished
before my eyes!

I blinked hard, trying to bring him back. But he didn't come back, and I felt frozen in place. “Clare?! What's wrong?”

I shook my head, unsure of where I was. Mike's hands were on my shoulders, and I was gazing up into his furrowed brow.

“Are you okay? You zoned out. Didn't you hear me calling you?”

“I'm fine. But Gardner, he
vanished
right in front of me. He's gone!”

“No, he's not.”

I looked through the window again. Gardner was standing behind the counter, chatting with a customer.

I tried not to panic. “Mike, you have your key to my apartment, don't you?”

“Sure.”

“Go around to the back stairs without me. I want to check on the shop.”

“No, Clare, I think you should take it easy. Come up with me now. You obviously need to rest.” He took my hand and held my eyes. “I was hoping we could talk—remember that question I asked you two weeks ago? About moving to DC?”

Oh, no, not now.

“Have you given it any thought?”

“I have. But—” I swallowed hard, “can we please talk about it in the morning, after we've both had a good night's sleep?”

He paused, face unreadable. Mike Quinn was a patient man, but even his patience was running out.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said tightly. “Now come upstairs. We're about to get a downpour.”

I pulled lightly against his grip. “First I need to check on the shop. I have a feeling something's wrong. This place is my responsibility. You understand, right?”

If anyone was familiar with the weight of responsibility, it was Mike Quinn. He didn't like my answer, but he didn't argue. Letting go of my hand, he turned away.

“I won't be long,” I called after him.

Thunder rumbled again and the air filled with dampness. Wet drizzle brushed my cheeks and I squeezed my eyes shut. For weeks now, I felt as though my future was in the hands of a fickle fortune teller. I would decide one thing, sleep on it, and change my mind in the morning.

Okay, Clare, deal with the shop, then get it together and talk to him.

Opening my eyes, I headed for the Blend's front entrance. As I reached it, the door swung wide, and an attractive young woman burst out.

“Excuse me,” she said, hurrying by.

Her face looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. Then lightning flashed, and I saw the streaks of red color in her soot black, chin-length hair.

The Red Princess!

She'd swapped her sparkly gown for black jeans and a scarlet sweatshirt, but I remembered her from this morning when she'd flirted with Matt and told him she was a friend of
Anya's
!

“Wait!” I called.

Ignoring me, she flipped up her red hood, rounded the corner, and disappeared.

Dodging sluggish raindrops, I followed. “Miss, please wait!” But as I made the turn, the girl was already ducking inside a big Lincoln Town Car, the vehicle of choice for practically every car service in the city.

She slammed the door, and the driver smiled, greeting her in a friendly, familiar way. He was a thirtyish Caucasian male with shaggy brown hair topped by an
English bowler
—not something you saw every day, even in Greenwich Village.

As the two sped away, I saw the license was a standard Taxi and Limousine issue. But it was the odd bumper sticker that drew my attention.

Many of these livery drivers hailed from other countries, and the bumper sticker looked like a national flag that was slapped on the car out of pride. This one displayed a right triangle on a field of blue with a line of five twinkling stars along the hypotenuse.

I mined my memory, running through all the UN flags on a scarf my daughter had bought for me during a grade school field trip. She and I had memorized them all, quizzing each other for fun, but the bowler-wearing driver's flag eluded me, along with the obvious question—

What was the Red Princess doing at my coffeehouse?

As the downpour struck, I pulled Mike's jacket over my head and dashed inside for answers.

A
S
I shook off the cold rain, smooth jazz washed over me.

The lights were low, the fireplace crackling, and all around me date-night Saturday was evident with couples nursing lattes and cappuccinos at our marble-topped café tables, their heads bowed in intimate conversations.

Moving behind the counter, I approached Gardner.

“Hey, boss, you okay?” he asked. “Esther said you had a rough night. What's with the hospital clothes?”

“I'm fine—forget the clothes. Did you happen to notice the young woman who just left?”

Gazing down at me, Gardener gave me a little smile. “I always notice young women.”

“Not
that
kind of notice.” I described her. “Red hoodie, red streaks in her hair.”

Garner rubbed his trimmed goatee. “Sounds like the girl who was talking to Esther.”

“Wait, back up.
Esther
was here? Tonight?” I glanced around. “Did she leave?”

“No. She's been here for the past few hours.”

“But Esther's off duty tonight. Why isn't she home with Boris, getting some rest?”

“Couldn't tell you.”

“What about you?” I asked anxiously. “Everything okay with you?”

“With
me
? Never better.” He flashed a toothy grin. “In fact, I got some fantastic news today . . .”

Thank goodness
, I thought.
That strange vision of Gardner disappearing was obviously a stress reaction,
nothing woo-woo about it.

“Remember my auntie? The one who makes the best Caribbean Black Cake on the planet?”

“How could I forget?” Gardner had created a Black Cake Latte one Christmas season (with homemade Burnt Sugar Syrup), which now had a permanent spot on our holiday menu.

“Ten years back, my auntie and her husband went their separate ways, but they never divorced, and when he passed away, she got everything, an estate in the Islands and a big pile of stocks and cash.”

“I'm sorry for her loss,” I said sincerely, “but I'm happy as long as she is. And you are.”

“And my cousin.”

“Your cousin?” I studied Gardner's excited expression. “I'm not following you.”

“I'm leaving, boss. My dream is coming true.”

“What dream?”

“When my cuz and I were kids, we hatched this dream to open a club together. I want it to be a jazz club, and he's down with that. Now that his mama's got some money, we're gonna try it.”

“Here in New York?”

“No, closer to home.”

“Home as in?”

“Baltimore—or somewhere close by. He's got a handle on a few places up for sale that might be right. We're still talking it through.”

“But you're really going? Your mind's made up?” I felt like a mother hearing about her child's acceptance to college in some faraway land, where she'd never see him again.

“When a dream's this close, you've got to give it a shot, don't you?”

I forced a smile. Gardner was right, and I wanted him to thrive, but my heart was sinking. His departure would be a hard loss for the Village Blend family. And then it hit me—

What I saw outside was true.
Well, part of it anyway. I felt loss after Gardner's elation, and he was literally going to disappear from my coffeehouse. But he wasn't profoundly sad about it.
So why did I have that feeling, too?

“Hey, you two, something's up!”

Dante Silva hurried toward us with a five-pound bag of freshly roasted beans in his hands and a look of distress on his face.

“I saw Esther in the roasting room and—”

“In the roasting room?” I said. “What's she doing down there?”

“Crying like a baby!”

Gardner and I glanced at each other then looked to Dante.

“I've never seen her like that before,” he said.

No kidding
, I thought. My resident slam poetess had mood swings that rivaled Sylvia Plath's, but none of us had ever seen her that upset.

Gardner appeared skeptical. “Esther's not the crying type.”

“Well, she is now,” Dante replied. “And it's kind of scary.”

“Did you talk to her?” I asked.

“I tried, but she told me to hit the road, so I grabbed the beans and backed away.”

“I'm going down there . . .”

After swerving to grab a stack of Village Blend napkins, I headed for the back of the shop. Behind me, the two young bachelors sighed loudly with relief. It didn't surprise me.

The heart was a mysterious organ, and the men I knew didn't have the first clue how to investigate it. Most would rather face a fire-breathing dragon than try to comfort a Goth girl in tears.

O
N
the steps to our ancient basement, I recalled my own purgatory spent down here, sobbing over one or another of Matteo Allegro's indiscretions.

Close to the bottom, I spied Esther, slumped on the raised concrete base that supported our big roasting machine, a few lost beans littered like cinders at her feet. She was crying so hard she hadn't heard my approach.

I cleared my throat (loudly), and she froze.

“Esther?” I called, trying to sound casual. “Are you down here?”

“Yeah, boss,” she replied after an awkward pause.

My zaftig Cinderella had changed from her festival outfit into black jeans and a
Poetry in Motion
tee the deep purple shade of a day-old bruise. Her raven hair was still in its beehive, but it stood about as straight as the Tower of Pisa.

When she heard my approach, she turned away. I stepped forward and sat beside her, gently nudging her ample hips to make room.

“I'm fixing my makeup,” she said with a sniffle.

I held out that stack of Village Blend napkins. “Then I guess a few of these will come in handy.”

Esther took them all. The thick mascara had run down her cheeks. Lower lip quivering, she swiped at the black tears.

“Won't you tell me what's wrong?”

She stared at me, as if I'd spoken Greek, then threw her arms around my neck and broke down.

The smell of freshly roasted beans and the racking sobs of a young female brought it all back, those early married years when Matt had sent my heart through the grinder.

The young embarrass easily, and like Esther, I'd thought I wanted privacy. It was those times when Matt's mother sought me out. Madame offered her counsel, a shoulder to cry on, and (yes) a stack of Village Blend napkins.

My mother-in-law was the one who kept me going, because it was her open arms that told me I was still valued, still loved . . .

“I'm worried about you,” I now told Esther, holding on tight. “Talk to me.”

Sitting back, she dabbed her raccoon eyes with a crumpled napkin.

“You know my roommate is moving out at the end of the month,” she began. “Not to bring up that
raise
again, but I still need help with the rent.”

“Stated before, and duly noted. Go on.”

“Well, last week, I got up the nerve to ask Boris if he wanted to move in with me. He's working at Janelle's Bakery so many hours now it made sense. He crashes at my place four nights a week already because it's easier than trekking all the way back to Brighton Beach.”

“What did he say?”

“He claimed he was tired and we'd talk about it the next morning. But instead of a heart-to-heart, Boris snuck out while I was still snoring.”

“Didn't you bring it up again?”

“Only every day! He kept putting me off, saying he needed to think things through—which made me feel like crap, by the way . . .”

I tried not to show it, but her words shook me up.

I couldn't help flashing on Mike and the fallen expression on his face when I'd put him off yet again. It was a hard realization, but the rapping Russian baker and I were in the same position, with the same unintended result. We were hurting the people we loved by our inability to make a decision.

“Tonight, I texted him,” Esther went on. “I said I was tired of waiting and wanted an answer. I asked Boris to meet me here to talk it out. He texted back. Look—”

Sorry. Have given much thought.

Mind made up. Will explain tomorrow night at Poetry Slam.

See U then. –Boris

I kept my tone upbeat. “Sounds like he's finally going to answer you. That's good, right?”

“That's bad, boss. Very bad . . .” Esther's Tower of Pisa hair fell even more as she violently shook her head. “Don't you see? I pushed him too far. Now he's rethinking our whole relationship. He's not only going to say
no
to living with me. He's going to dump me!”