Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,40
wearing aprons collected glasses from around the room. I went back outside and circled the deck, to the other side of the ship. My booted toe bumped against a rope stand, and I nearly pitched over. With a moan of frustration, I ripped the tinted glasses off my face and stuffed them into the Gucci purse.
The view was nice from this portion of the deck. Ships were approaching Manhattan, or moving out to sea. Far in the distance, the Statue of Liberty was lit in a brilliant glow. At the rail, I gazed at the vista for a moment, then heard a door open around a corner from me. A man and woman stepped out of the light, and up to the darkened area near the rail. I recognized the man—Tad Benedict. The woman’s back was turned so I couldn’t see her features. I stepped back, against the bulkhead, not daring to breathe. They were so preoccupied with each other, they failed to notice me in the shadows, listening to their conversation.
“We didn’t sell enough,” the woman said. Her tone seemed desperate, her voice familiar. I tried to lean my head just a little bit closer.
Tad snorted. “Sell enough? We didn’t sell a damn thing.”
After a moment of silence, the woman spoke. “I just want out, Tad.”
“We’ll get out,” he said with conviction. “We’ll buy our way out if we have to. I know I can raise the money. Enough money to make the payoff, and still have something left for the both of us to make a life for ourselves, free of…you know…”
His voice trailed off and he rubbed the woman’s shoulder. She turned to caress his hand, but her face remained in shadow.
“We’re running out of time,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” came Tad’s reply. “I can fix this.”
Finally she turned to face him. As their lips met, the woman moved into the light. I recognized her instantly: Rena Garcia, Lottie Harmon’s partner and marketing and publicity manager.
The kiss broke, and Tad, escorted her back inside. When they were gone, I hurried around to the other side of the boat. At the gangplank I joined the last of the passengers disembarking. Out on the street, I found Madame standing alone on the sidewalk, looking out at the river. Matt was waiting on the taxi line by the curb.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” I said. “I probably should have told you what Matt had in mind. I know it’s not what you’d do with the business.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Perhaps you should have told me. But it really doesn’t matter now. It’s water under the bridge—” She gazed at her sopping wet son in the taxi line. “—so to speak.”
Madame faced me. I was surprised to find her eyes bright, her expression buoyant. “In any case, my dear, how I’ve done things in the past is not the point any longer. The Blend’s future belongs to you…and Matteo. In a way, I’m happy.”
“Happy?”
“My son is finally showing genuine interest. In the business. In the future.”
She touched my arm. “Perhaps he really has changed, Clare.”
Then she turned and walked to the waiting cab. She and Matteo spoke briefly as he held the door for her, then he closed it and the cab sped off. Matt immediately hailed the next car in line and we climbed inside for the silent trip back to the Blend.
WHEN we arrived, I pitched in to help Gardner, the evening shift’s barista, while Matteo ran upstairs to shower the river stench away and change into dry clothes.
Gardner Evans was an easy-going African-American composer, arranger, and jazz musician (sax, piano, guitar, bass—the guy was amazing). He’d moved to New York from the D.C. area a few years before, after finishing college, and had immediately started playing the clubs and hotel lounges with a small ensemble.
His group, Four on the Floor, had an excellent sound—I’d seen them live a few times and they’d put out two CDs, which we often played in the evenings at the Blend, along with CDs he’d bring in from his own impressive collection. For my money, however, the best thing about Gardner being a musician was his affinity for night hours. He was always alert and alive in the evenings when he arrived for barista work, which was pretty much any night his ensemble didn’t have a gig.
I hadn’t yet changed out of my Jackie O disguise, and the customers obviously found it amusing. As I served up a doppio espresso and a skinny vanilla lat with wings