Once Upon a Grind (3 page)

“M
IKE?
Is anything wrong?”

“Everything's fine, Clare, except . . . I'm sorry about today. I was looking forward to being with you and my kids.”

“I'm the one who's sorry—I'm sorry for your loss. In fact . . .” Moving the phone to my other hand, I glanced at my watch. “Shouldn't you be heading to Virginia by now?”

“I'm on my way to the car . . .”

I pictured Mike Quinn striding across the parking garage of his Washington high-rise. The man would have shaved close this morning, and his light brown hair would be in military trim. Given the somber event ahead of him, he would be wearing his charcoal suit, the worn leather shoulder holster creasing a crisp, white shirt beneath. His blue eyes would stay flinty cold all day, unreadable as a slab of city concrete. But during the funeral service, I knew they'd go glassy with held-back tears—and none of his coworkers would ever know it.

His
current
coworkers, that is.

As a decorated narcotics cop, Quinn was still the head of his own NYPD task force. In fact, he'd been based in New York for his entire career, until a U.S. Attorney drafted him for the temporary assignment in Washington, DC.

Sadly, that same attorney stepped down a short time later, when he was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. He lost the battle a few days ago, which changed our weekend plans.

“You didn't work with the man long,” I said, “but I know you respected him, unlike your new boss—”

“Let's not go there. Not now, anyway . . .”

(That was fine with me. Katrina the blond battle-ax had ruined more dinners and weekends than I could count. Why let her ruin this phone call?)

Mike paused. “I need a favor.”

“Shoot—not literally.”

I could hear Mike's little laugh. Then he took a long breath and let it out. “Leila rang me a few minutes ago—”

“Your ex-wife?” I bristled (couldn't help it). Leila was far from my favorite person, and I knew she felt the same.

“Leila is at your Storybook Kingdom right now. She's waiting at the entrance ropes. Is it possible to wave her in early?”

“Why in the world would she need to get into this festival before it opens to the public?”

“If you'd rather not do this, I completely understand—”

“No, it's okay. I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks,” Mike said. “I mean it. I'll owe you—”

“Oh, I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you might.” I could almost hear him smiling over the cellular signal, and that made me smile, until he added: “Can you do me one more favor?”

“I'm listening.”

“Leila should be bringing her mother's helper along. If not, can you keep an eye on how things go with the kids today?”

“Mike, I love your kids, and I'll do what I can, but won't Leila want to look after her own kids?”

“She's been flaking out lately,” he confessed. “She's late for things, forgets to pick up the kids when they're visiting friends, going to the movies. I'm a little worried she's . . .”

“She's what?”

“I'll tell you more when I see you. You're still coming down tomorrow, aren't you?”

“Are you kidding? I can't wait to get on that train.”

“Then help me out today, okay?”

“I'll go right now to speak with Leila.”

“Clare.”

“Yes?”

He lowered his voice. “I know you, sweetheart. And what you do in the absence of answers. Do not investigate Leila. Whatever she's up to,
let it go
.”

“Let
what
go?”

A familiar beep-beep sounded. Mike had auto-released the lock on his SUV door. “For the moment, you'll have to let
me
go.” He paused again. “Remember, no matter how obnoxious Leila is . . . I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Hold that thought.”

I
found Leila Carver Quinn Reynolds waiting on the lawn at the rear of the majestic Metropolitan Museum of Art, where velvet ropes marked the entrance to our little park Kingdom.

A crowd had gathered already, but Mike's ex-wife was easy to spot. A svelte redhead with the complexion of latte milk and exquisite makeup skills, Leila looked uber chic with her chunky platinum jewelry, designer skinny jeans, and forest green cashmere sweater coat to ward off the morning chill.

Molly and Jeremy were at her side, along with their adorable collie, Penny, straining at her leash.

A few weeks back, Molly had mentioned a girl named
Annie
had become her mother's new part-time helper, but I had never met Annie and I didn't see a young woman.

Leila spied me in my peasant dress and snapped her fingers, beckoning me over like a duchess commanding her scullery maid.

I gritted my teeth, indulging in a moment's fantasy of strangling the woman with her own chunky necklace.

Patience, Clare. Be an adult.

I'd already talked to Samantha Peel, the busy festival director, who approved three guest passes. Now I was trying to keep my focus on Mike's kids—although it was Penny who ran to greet me first, breaking Jeremy's hold on her leash.

With a bark and tail wag, the little collie clearly remembered me from our past Sunday together. Mike and I had taken his kids on an apple-picking outing north of the city, and I'm sure Penny
also
remembered those warm, fresh apple cider doughnuts I'd shared with her.

“Sorry, no doughnuts today, girl.” Petting her copper-patched white fur, I gathered her leash and returned her to the kids.

Eleven-year-old Molly threw her arms around me in a tight hug. She had her mother's pretty features and flawless complexion, but (thankfully) not the haughty poise of the fashion model her mother used to be.

That unguarded innocence of childhood was still evident through her joyful smile (despite the newly acquired braces). Her shoulder-length hair was like mine, on the chestnut side of auburn. And like me, she'd brushed it back into a neat ponytail, sunny yellow ribbons matching her sweater.

At Molly's age, my own daughter had leaned toward being a tomboy. Molly preferred girly things—ballet, figure skating, fashion. Even her outfit was feminine with a lemon-and-cream-plaid skirt and matching tights.

Her older brother, Jeremy, in blue jeans and windbreaker, had his father's strong chin, light brown hair, and striking blue gaze. Since he'd turned thirteen, he'd even started taking on Mike's reserve.

“Cool outfit, Aunt Clare,” he said, hands in pockets.

“Wait till you see our coffee truck!”

Both kids lit up at my description of the balloon Dante had designed of a giant coming down a beanstalk. I handed the kids a program for the day and pointed out the knights, jousting in all-day tournaments, including NFL stars.

“Awesome!” Jeremy said. “I'm totally up for that!”

“And I want to see the Princesses!” Molly insisted. “Annie told me she's going to be the Pink Princess!”

“Well, there is a Pink Princess,” I said. “But I'm pretty sure her name is
Anya
, not Annie.”

Leila sighed with profound impatience. “Molly calls Anya ‘Annie' as a nickname.”

“You're telling me that Anya, the Pink Princess, works part-time as your mother's helper?”

“Wow, Clare, you're
right
on top of things, aren't you?” Leila rolled her eyes. (And yes, I controlled my urge to take a poke at one.)

“Annie said there would be twelve princesses,” Molly continued, “just like her favorite Russian fairy tale, where the beautiful girls secretly dance all night around trees with leaves of silver, gold, and diamonds. Have you heard the story of the Secret Ball?”

“No, honey,” I replied and focused back on Leila. “So let me get this straight. You
have
no
mother's helper with you today?”

“
Obviously
,” Leila said to her French manicure. “I knew
you'd
be here.”

Before I could respond, Molly tugged on my peasant sleeve.

“Aunt Clare! Aunt Clare! What is this twisty part on the map?”

“That's the Ramble,” Jeremy answered. “I'll take you to see the ducks at Oak Bridge—”

“No,” Leila snapped. “You two
stay away
from the Ramble. Those woods are confusing, and they're not part of the festival.”

“Molly can see the ducks at Turtle Pond,” I suggested. “We're parked right next to it.”

“See?” said Leila. “Now go with Aunt Clare to see the ducks and funny beanstalk coffee truck. I have something to do.”

Molly grasped my hand, swinging it happily, as Jeremy studied the festival program, Penny wagging her tail at his side.

“Leila,” I called as the woman's stiletto boot heels clicked swiftly away from us, “you
do
know I have a business to run?”

“Have fun,” Leila sang as she hurried down the tree-lined path and toward the Delacorte Theater.

Now why in the world is she going there?
I wondered.
The first
Mother Goose Storytime
show wasn't due to start for another ninety minutes . . .

Mike's warning came back to me:
“Do not investigate Leila. Whatever she's up to, let it go . . .”

“Okay,” I whispered to the absent Mike. “I won't spy on Leila.”

Instead, I led Molly and Jeremy back to my truck, and set them down at a picnic table with mugs of hot cocoa.

Then I sent a
casual
little text to my assistant manager, Tucker Burton, who was on vacation this week. Tuck also moonlighted as a professional actor and director, and he
just happened
to be at the Delacorte right now with the rest of his
Storytime
cast, preparing for a long day of kiddie shows . . .

Mike's X heading 2 Delacorte.

Keep I on her.

X-tra paid vacation day in it 4U . . .

There you go, Leila. How's that for being on top of things?

With a satisfied smile, I slipped my smartphone back into my peasant pocket, ready to handle the day. That's when I saw the next crisis coming at me.

“Clare! Clare Cosi! I need your help!”

R
OCKETING
toward our coffee truck was festival director Samantha Peel.

An intense, middle-aged brunette, Sam was the commanding general brand of socialite. Instead of a riding crop, she carried a clipboard and her “war room” was a Bluetooth dangling from one ear, connecting her with a small army of festival workers.

With her designer safari jacket belted tightly around her waist, her long dark hair scraped back into a battle-ready ponytail, and her knee-high riding boots swishing swiftly through the park grass, she was dressed for the day's challenges. She also wore a strained expression, one I knew well. This poor woman was in desperate need of caffeine!

“What can I get you?” I asked.

“Prince Charming—and fast.”

Over the years, I'd heard nearly every slang term there was in this coffee business from the “Ben Franklin” (black iced coffee) to the “Little Lydia” (small latte). I even knew about the “Osama Bin Latte” (quad cappuccino with raw cane sugar). But a Prince Charming?

“I'm sorry, Sam, but what exactly goes into a Prince Charming?”

“What goes into a—” She burst out laughing. “Oh, no, Clare! I'm not talking about some crazy coffee drink! One of my actors called in sick. I sent out an emergency text, and your employer answered. She said her son—” Sam glanced at the clipboard propped on her leopard print hip. “Matteo? Is that right? She said he would be willing to step in and play the part.”

“Let me get this straight. You want
Matt Allegro
to be your Prince Charming?”

“Exactly!”

I shook my head. “Take it from a woman who knows, you're better off with a crazy coffee drink.”

*   *   *

M
ATT
protested, of course, but his mother
insisted
that he pitch in to help, and with one wave of her bejeweled hand, his fate was sealed.

Off came the tailored jacket and on went the belted silk tunic with the royal crest.

Gold crown (check). Fake sword (check)—he actually
liked
both of those (no surprise). But he categorically refused to wear the green tights, so the folks from the House of Fen provided black leather pants and knee-high male fashion boots with oddly pointed toes.

After one of his sourcing trips to the godforsaken wilderness, Matt looked less like a son of royalty than a member of Captain Hook's crew. But I had to admit today he looked the part of a fairy-tale prince, all broad-shouldered and darkly handsome.

Samantha declared him
perfect
for the role of escort to one of the festival's twelve Princesses, hired to enchant every little girl in today's audience. Then she leaned toward me and lowered her voice—

“And I do believe Matt will do the same for the
mommies
.”

A few minutes later I noticed Matt futzing with his pointy boots. “What's wrong?” I asked. “You look like you're in pain.”

“Not any pain, Clare.
Royal
pain.”

*   *   *

M
ANY
hours later, the sun was sinking below Central Park's trees and my ex-husband was back, thrumming fingers on my truck's countertop again.

“Got any of those Black Forest Brownies?”

“Not today.”

“How about those Kahlúa thingies?” He adjusted his crown. “They're like vanilla brownies, and you swirl chocolate and coffee liqueur into them.”

“My Cappuccino Blondies?”

He waved his plastic sword. “That's right!”

“I don't have those, either.”

“Haven't you got
anything
with alcohol in it?”

“Matt, this place is packed with children. Why would I be serving anything spiked with alcohol?”

“Because after a
very
long day of touchy dragons, cranky trolls, and screaming kids, we
adults
could use it.”

“Sorry, Charming, you are cursed with sobriety—at least for another hour.”

“Oh, boss! The natives are getting restless.” Esther pointed at the flash mob forming in front of our truck. “If those are kids, we're fine. But if they're cannibal pygmies, we're dinner!”

I faced Matt. “Are you ready to hand out my gingerbread cookie sticks? They already announced the giveaway over the loudspeakers.”

“I have to wait for my
Pink Princess
.” He tapped his watch. “She's late.”

“Since when do medieval princes have Breitlings? Shouldn't you consult a sundial or hourglass, maybe a magic mirror?”

“You got a magic mirror with white powder, I'm game.”

“Don't even joke about that.”

“Cough up an Espressotini and I'll go away.”

“No deal. I
really
need you to hand out these goodies.”

“We Princes have protocols. I'm not allowed to hand out anything until a Princess does her spiel. It's some kind of marketing gimmick for their designer gowns. That's why the House of Fen is one of the sponsors bankrolling this shindig.” Matt rechecked his watch and scanned the crowds. “This isn't like Anya.”

“Anya?”

“The Pink Princess.”

“I know who the Pink Princess is.” I narrowed my eyes at the man. “I wasn't aware you and she were on a first-name basis.”

“I was paired with Anya for most of the day, Clare. She's sweet, and she loves all this fairy-tale stuff.”

“I hope you
behaved
,” I said, “because she's also a part-time mommy's helper for—”

“Look, Sam's coming.” Matt pointed. “Do you think she reassigned Anya?”

Samantha Peel looked frazzled after ten hours of conjuring up solutions to problems, but when Matt explained the situation, she went right to her magical Bluetooth.

“Bitsy, where the heck is Pink? . . . Well, if she's not answering her phone, try her friend, Red. Maybe they're together.”

“Aunt Clare!”

Turning, I found an excited Molly Quinn looking up at me.

“Is Annie here yet?”

“We're looking for her, honey.”

“I've been waiting all day for her to tell the story of the Secret Ball and the dancing princesses. It's my favorite, and she said she was going to tell it especially for me.”

I brushed Molly's bangs. “She must like you very much.”

“She likes Jeremy, too. She wants to be a teacher someday. But Annie needs lots and lots of money to pay for her education.”

Lots and lots of money
, I thought.
That doesn't sound right.
Between CUNY and SUNY plenty of young people with little money were able to earn college degrees. But I let that topic go in favor of another—Jeremy.

“Where is your brother? I don't see him.”

Molly jerked her thumb toward the crowded ball field. I caught sight of Mike's son near the edge, giving their little collie, Penny, a chance to tag trees.

“And where's your mother?”

Molly's shrug surprised me.

“You don't know where your mom is?”

“We're supposed to meet her up at the castle, after we watch the knights joust.”

“The Emerald Princess is on her way!” Samantha announced, looking relieved.

“Good,” Esther said, eyeing the gathering crowd. “A mob is an ugly thing.”

But Molly tugged my sleeve, and as I leaned down, she whispered in my ear.

“I don't like the Emerald Princess. She tells the same story about the frog prince—and she doesn't even tell it right.”

“Well, I still need you to stick around,” I insisted. “I don't want you running around this festival alone—”

“But Annie is
so much
better! She told
four
stories today. One about Baba Yaga, a witch with iron teeth who eats children. She lives in the forest, in a hut with chicken legs—that's probably why she told that one at the chicken nugget stand.” Molly laughed. “And Father Frost—she told that one at the frozen yogurt truck. Do you know that story, Aunt Clare?”

“I don't, sweetie—”

“A girl is nice to Father Frost and he gives her treasure and a fur coat. But when another girl is rude to him, he freezes her!” Molly concluded with great relish.

I noticed the Emerald Princess jogging toward us, green skirt hiked up in a seriously un-Princesslike fashion.

“Molly, honey, after the goodies are handed out, I'll take you and Jeremy to see the knights, and then we'll find your mother.”

And I'll find out what's more important to her than looking after you kids!

Molly shrugged in such a noncommittal way that I
should
have been suspicious—but too much was going on. Esther called for help and we swung into action, bringing out trays of cellophane-wrapped treats.

As Molly predicted, a rather lackadaisical story followed from Emerald Girl about a frog prince, then came the handing out of our frosted gingerbread “beanstalk” cookie sticks and bags of “magic beans” (chocolate-covered raisins) by Prince Matt, who was indeed quite the draw for the mommies.

Things went pretty well, after all. Then the excitement was over, the crowd dispersed—

And I couldn't find Molly or Jeremy.