Until I Saw Your Smile (15 page)

“But we'd have to get Wi-Fi so I can monitor my Web site and get notifications for any updated legal forms,” Matthew said. “Legal forms change pretty often, especially when the Republicans are in office. Oh, and I'd need Wi-Fi to listen to music while I work. I work best to music. We could pipe in an Internet station . . .”
She's frowning.
“You're frowning at me.”
And it's especially scary when her eyebrows bunch up like that.

“I don't need a partner,” Angela said.

“Call me an investor then,” Matthew said.

“I don't need an investor.” She pointed toward the front. “I need
that
eyesore across the street to go out of business so I can keep mine.”

“And it will, Angela,” Matthew said. “You'll see. And in the meantime, you won't have to worry about the rent. Angela, this is a win-win situation for you.”

“And now you
sound
like a lawyer.” She shook her head. “I'm not interested.”

“Okay, okay.”
How do I convince her? I'll have to be honest.
“Look. I need this arrangement more than you know, and I need you the most.”

“What do you need me for?” Angela asked.

“I need your advice, your calm in the eye of the storm, your sanity, your . . .”
Don't say “your eyes and your smile,” though her eyes are suddenly soft and her smile is creeping upward.
“I need your knowledge of the customers. You know them by name. They like you. They trust you. And if you vouch for me . . .” He shrugged. “See what I'm getting at?”

“Yes, I do,” Angela said. “But you didn't really answer my question. What do you need me for?”

I thought I just did answer her question. Hmm. I must not have.
“I need you for your coffee. It keeps me awake, and your food keeps my brain working. My brain needs sugar to function. And I can always count on you. I need you more than you need me.”

Angela turned away and polished an already gleaming coffee mug. “I doubt that. Thank you for the offer, but . . . no thank you.”

My argumentative skills have turned to dung. I'd hate to have Angela on a jury.
“Will you at least think about it?”

“I've made my decision.” She set down the mug and picked up an equally shiny one.

“Think it over for a few days first,” Matthew said. “At least do that, okay?”

“It won't change my decision,” Angela said.

“Yes, but it will give me a glimmer of hope.”

Angela kept polishing.

She's tough.
“And hey, if I'm your partner, I'll be here to help you clean up every night.”

Angela spun around. “You'll cover the extra rent
and
help me close?”

“Yes.”
I knew I could find the button. She's weakening, I can feel it.

“Will you put a big neon sign in my window?” Angela asked.

“No,” Matthew said. “I won't even need a sign.”

“No sign? What kind of advertising is that?”

“I won't need that kind of advertising,” Matthew said. “I think the soft sell will work best here.” He pointed at the middle booth. “And that booth can be my office.”

“Where you can better harass my customers while they stand in line,” Angela said.

Angela should be a lawyer, too.
He moved close to the counter. “I won't say a word to your customers. I'll be the quietest lawyer you
never
heard.”

“How is that going to attract clients?” Angela asked.

“Well, you know everyone who comes in here, and they share things with you,” Matthew said. “Let's say they say something like, ‘My landlord is ripping me off” or ‘They owe me back pay' or ‘Where can I get a cheap divorce?' Then
you
say, ‘I believe that handsome man in the third booth is a lawyer. Why don't you ask him?' ”

Angela smiled broadly. “Oh, I see. You want me to be your pimp.”

I didn't see that coming.
“No! You wouldn't be my pimp, Angela. You'd be like . . . like a talent scout pushing clients my way. I'd even give you a finder's fee, say, ten percent.”

“I get a higher percentage than that on tips, and I'd still feel like a pimp,” she said.

Matthew turned away and scratched his head. “You
really
don't want my help.”

“I didn't say that, Matthew,” Angela said. “I just don't think it's a good idea, okay? This is a coffee shop, not a law office. It's been a coffee shop for forty years, and I'd like to keep it that way.”

Matthew looked over his shoulder. “You wouldn't be my pimp.”

“I
couldn't
be your pimp, Matthew,” Angela said. “I couldn't possibly keep up with all your women.”

Matthew went to his booth, sipped the rest of his coffee, and turned. “I'll just get my passport and be off then.”

“Your passport?” Angela said.

“It's an old lawyer thing.”
That line did not work in this situation.
“When do you want me to come back, Miss Smith?”

Angela's smile faded. “Any time before eight.”

“I'll be here before eight then.” Matthew stood. “Good-bye, Miss Smith.”

Angela looked away. “Good-bye.”

On the way home, Matthew walked rapidly and felt a frustration he had never known.
I thought it was the perfect idea! What's her deal? Five hundred a month for a suggestion here or there to a customer. How hard could that be? Sure, it will disrupt her normal routine—at first. Once word of mouth gets around, she won't have to say a thing. I'll be “the guy.”

He slowed down.

He looked into the cloud-filled sky.
And what do I want? I want . . .

He smiled.

Chapter 12

M
atthew arrived at Angela's shop at six, acting as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't offered Angela the opportunity of a lifetime, as if nothing in the world was wrong. Her rejection of his idea still stung, but he wasn't going to let it show.

He put on his game face as he walked through the door.

“You're really early, Matthew,” Angela said.

Matthew stood at attention in front of the counter. “You said before eight o'clock, and it is before eight o'clock.”

“You listened to me.” She smiled.

Angela will not engage me in conversation,
Matthew thought
. I will not be affected by her smile. I am “the Help” with a capital H. The Help does not do any playful repartee with the boss at any time. The Help is only here to work.
“May I get started, Miss Smith?”

Angela seemed to hesitate for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “There are aprons hanging up in the kitchen, and all the cleaning supplies are on a metal shelving unit next to the back door. I doubt any of the aprons will fit you, though.”

She wants me to comment about my size. I will not fall for that trap. The Help is wary to her schemes.
“I will manage, Miss Smith. May I go behind your counter?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you,” Matthew said, and he swung smartly around the counter and into the kitchen.

This is a very nice kitchen,
Matthew thought
. Two stoves, a grill, a triple sink, a refrigerator that would swallow my entire kitchen, a walk-in freezer, and more cabinets than four houses have. And naturally, it is spotless. And not one but two steel doors, both with at least seven heavy-duty deadbolts. Angela is a smart woman.

He washed his hands in the middle sink, found an apron, and tied it on. It barely reached his beltline.

He smiled.

He found some long, yellow rubber gloves and put them on. He tucked every squirt bottle he could find into his belt. He held a bottle of Windex in one hand and a can of Comet in the other. He was ready.

He marched out of the kitchen and around the counter to face Angela. “Where do I begin?”

Angela laughed. “You look . . .”

Ridiculous, I know. It's my new look. I intend to look ridiculous when people shoot down my ideas from now on.
“Where do I begin, Miss Smith?”

Angela straightened and pointed. “Start with the bathrooms.”

“Fine.”

The two small bathrooms were immaculate.
Does anyone ever use these? I've never seen anyone go into either one. Strange. Coffee should have people running to them.
Nevertheless, Matthew shined what was already shiny, cleaned what was already clean, and sanitized what was already sanitary.

He left the bathroom and planted himself in front of Angela, who was staring to her right. “Miss Smith, you now have the cleanest. . .”
What is she looking at?
Matthew turned to look at the middle booth.

“Hello, Allison,” he said rapidly.

Allison rose immediately and caught her thighs under the booth's table. “Ow.” She dropped to the seat and scooted out, rising and trying to hug Matthew, but Matthew stepped back.

“There you are, Boo,” she said, hugging the air. “Is your phone broken?” Allison was already drunk, her Heineken breath preceding her in putrid waves.

“No,” Matthew said. “My phone works fine. I've had it turned off for most of the day.”

“Why, Boo?” Allison moaned. “It's supposed to be our first Valentine's Day together!”

“I had it turned off because I didn't want to talk to you,” Matthew said.

“You . . . didn't?” Allison's eyes filled with tears. “Why? I made meatloaf
just
for you. It looks like a heart. Kind of. The right side is bigger than the other. Couldn't be helped. I'm right-handed. You
said
it was your favorite, William.”

William? Who's William?
“I never said that, Allison.”

“But you
did,
” Allison said. “After that romantic night at Coney Island last summer, you said, ‘Your meatloaf is my
favorite.
' Remember? You won me a big stuffed bear. It was flink and puffy.” She swayed to the side. “Pink and fluffy.”

Matthew guided Allison to the booth where she sat and swayed some more. “We've never been to Coney Island, Allison, and you are very drunk.”

“I've only been drinking since I got home, but I'm okay.” Allison tried to flip her hair off her shoulders and missed several times. “Joey,
baby,
I went home sick after a certain
someone
didn't send me flowers or candy today. Oh, and I got sick last night. I woke up in a
big
puddle of vomit, and you weren't
there!
”

Angela appeared at Matthew's side. “I'll call her a cab,” she whispered.

Matthew handed his phone to her.

“But I have a limo waiting for us, Ricky,” Allison whined. “We're going to the Yankees–Red Sox game, remember?”

“It's February, Allison,” Matthew said. “You and I went to a Rangers hockey game last night.”

“The Yankees are playing the Red Sox, Ricky,” Allison said. “They're your favorite team!”

“Maybe later, Allison.” He looked outside and saw a waiting cab.
Geez, that was quick!
“After you get some sleep.” He gently took Allison's arm and helped her out of the booth. “Let's get you safely home, okay?”

Allison looked into Matthew's eyes. “You're taking me home?”

Matthew squeezed Allison between Angela and the front door. “The cab is taking you home.”

Allison tried to slump to the floor. “I don't want to go home.” Matthew swept his arm under her legs and picked her up.

“If she pukes,” Angela whispered from the doorway, “you're cleaning it up.”

Matthew nodded.
Oh boy. I hope Allison didn't eat anything red today.

“Where are we going?” Allison asked.

Matthew leaned Allison against the front door of the cab and opened the back door. “To your place.”

Allison smiled. “And we're going to have such a
good
time.”

Matthew wrestled Allison into the backseat, pressed the lock, and closed the door. He handed a twenty to the driver. “Take her to two-forty-one Wythe. And could you make sure she gets inside her apartment?”

“All right, all right,” the driver said.

That wasn't very convincing.
Matthew stared him down. “I am this woman's lawyer, and I had better not hear of anything bad happening to her.”

The driver looked at Matthew's apron and yellow gloves. “You're a lawyer?”

“Yes,” Matthew said. “One who has successfully sued cab drivers into oblivion.”

“All right, all right,” the driver said. “I'll make sure she gets into her apartment.”

“Number four, second floor,” Matthew said. “The keys are probably in her purse. It's the gold key with the pink streak on it.”

“All right, all right.”

Matthew looked past the driver into the back. “Allison?”

“Johnny, you really should use more lotion on your hands,” Allison said. “They felt all rubbery. And you could really use some sun.” She rolled down the window to wave at Angela. “Oh, I didn't mean
you,
sweetie. Bye.”

The cab rolled away.

Matthew reentered the shop and closed the door behind him. “Sorry about that.”

Angela stood a few feet back from the door. “What did she say to me?”

“It's not important.” He sighed. “What do you need me to clean next, Miss Smith?”
The Help is back.

Angela stepped in front of him. “What did she say?” Matthew shook his head. “She said I needed more sun . . . but not
you,
sweetie.”

“Bitch,” Angela said. “I'm not
that
dark.”

“She was blind drunk, Angela,” Matthew said. “You're a wonderful shade of brown.”
Oops. The Help is not supposed to compliment the boss.
He sighed.
I'm not very good at being the Help.
“I'm sorry I'm the cause of that little show, Angela. If I had listened to you, she wouldn't have been here tonight.”

“You handled it pretty well,” Angela said. “What's she weigh, fifty pounds?”

Matthew sighed. “She's heavier than she looks. What's next?”

Angela smiled. “I don't know, Mr. McConnell. Your life is filled with so much drama. I couldn't even dream of what's next.”

Matthew slumped into the nearest booth, removing his gloves and shooting them against the wall. “Five in a row. Five dates from hell in a
row,
and this last one keeps coming out of the alcoholic depths of hell to haunt me. How can I be so unlucky?”

Angela stood near the edge of the table. “Five? I must have lost count. There was Jade the ex-con with the great right cross from Queens, Victoria the debutante from Manhattan who has a rat-dog and an ugly friend, Mary the not-so-Christian Christian from the Bronx, and Allison the drunk from Long Island who doesn't even know your name and thinks I'm black when I'm obviously dark brown. Who'd I miss?”

Angela has an outstanding memory.
“The first one. Monique Freitas, the party girl from Bushwick.”

Angela slid into the booth. “And how did she give you hell?”

Why not?
“Monique has a sizable condom collection and likes to dry-hump everyone but her date while dancing at The Cove.”

Angela blinked and squinted. “How big of a collection does she have?”

“I think she buys in bulk,” Matthew said. “She must use coupons. Some even glow in the dark.”

Angela bit her lower lip. “You sure know how to pick 'em.”

“And it all began because Joy left me for a Dominican exchange teacher two weeks ago.” He loosened the string at the back of his apron.

“And Joy was . . .”

“My girlfriend from Staten Island by way of Honduras.”

Angela laughed again. “You get around, don't you?”

“I'm outwardly mobile.”

“Aren't you exhausted?” Angela asked.

Matthew nodded. “I am tired. I'm tired of choosing the wrong women.”

“At least you know what you don't want, right?” Angela said. “That's a blessing, isn't it? A lot of people go through life without knowing what they want. You now have some idea.”

“Process of elimination, huh?” Matthew said.

Angela shrugged. “I guess.”

“What if I eliminate myself from the equation?” Matthew asked.

Angela smiled. “You'll certainly get more sleep.”

“True.” He slid on the gloves and flexed his fingers. “I had better get back to work.” He slid out of the booth and headed to the back tables. “Do these tables need cleaning?”

“Yes.” Angela returned to the counter and began to count down the register. “What were you saying when you came out of the bathroom?”

Matthew paused from wiping yet another clean surface. “That your bathrooms are pristine.”

“Because I already cleaned them an hour before you arrived,” Angela said.

Matthew straightened up. “You did?”

“I did.”

“Why?” Matthew asked.

“Mainly so I can get off my feet quicker,” Angela said. “I don't want you holding me up.”

Matthew moved to another clean table. “How would I hold you up? Aren't I cutting your cleaning time in half?”

“You took twenty minutes to clean two already clean bathrooms,” Angela said.

Matthew squirted the table. “I was being thorough.”

“You were being slow,” Angela said. “I was testing you, and you should have noticed that they were already clean.”

Matthew smiled. “So now they're twice as clean.”

“I knocked both of them out in five minutes,” Angela said. “I've already cleaned most of the kitchen, too.”

“I noticed.” He looked at the rest of the tables. “They're already clean, too, huh?”

Angela nodded.

“What's left?” Matthew asked.

“The showcase and the counter, but I don't do them until eight,” Angela said. “After that, I sweep and mop the entire place.”

Matthew refolded his towel. “So I just sit here until eight?”

“You could sweep and mop the kitchen,” Angela said. “I'm done for the night back there.”

He walked slowly around the counter. “How long
should
it take me?”

“Five minutes.”

“Yes, Miss Smith.”

He stood in the kitchen and didn't see a single speck of dirt, dust, flour, or debris on the floor.

“And put a new mop head on before you mop,” Angela said. “The one on there is nasty.”

“Yes, Miss Smith.”
I would say, “Aye, aye, Captain Angela,” but that would make me a lowly sailor on the Good Ship Sweet Treats.

It took Matthew eight minutes to sweep and mop the tiny kitchen but only because he had trouble centering the new mop head and tightening it down.