runway show. I’ll see you there, my dear. Sweet dreams!”
Bryan Goldin had wished me the same, as I recalled, but I doubted very much I’d have them. I hung up the phone and collapsed into the pile of bed pillows, smacking the cold cloth back over my eyes before Matt could grill me.
“Clare.”
“Don’t, Matt. Don’t.”
“Fine. Let’s go to bed then.”
Before I could ask what he meant by “let’s,” the light was clicking off and my ex-husband was climbing in beside me under the bedcovers.
Oh, god, no, I thought, but was too exhausted to protest. I simply turned on my side, away from the father of my child. A moment later, I felt Matt’s muscular arm curling around me and pulling me possessively against him.
I knew it was wrong, that I should resist. But the familiar feel of his strong body tucked around me again was like that cup of java he’d brought me, warm and reassuring, and reminiscent of those days during our marriage when we’d been happy together, young and undamaged, hopeful and optimistic.
With a sigh I relaxed into him and let dreams descend.
TWENTY-SIX
SUNDAY morning started far too early. I awoke at six with a parched mouth and the fringes of a hangover headache, courtesy of Fen’s atomic cocktail.
Matt was still sleeping in my bed and I silently thanked him for making sure the slight discomfort I was experiencing took the place of the blinding pain I would have surely endured without his help.
After showering and dressing like a George Romero zombie, I stumbled downstairs to find Gardner Evans chipper and wide awake despite the fact that he’d closed last night and had just opened this morning. He and two other evening employees would be serving the Blend’s regular customers here at the Village store while Esther, Moira, and I catered the Fen runway show in midtown, which was scheduled to go off in less than six hours.
Esther and Moira soon arrived and we all loaded up the van I’d rented days before and parked in the alley behind the Blend: two espresso machines and service for three hundred, including cream, milk, sugar, coffee, disposable cups, stirring sticks, and napkins and paper plates for the baked goods, which would be delivered on site at eight o’clock sharp. We even brought our own water—filtered fresh this morning (good-tasting water being an essential ingredient for a great cup of joe).
To get our hearts jump-started, I prepared a thermos of double-strength Breakfast Blend, a medium roasted mix of Arabicas with the highest caffeine content on our play list, which we all shared before heading out.
“You drive. I don’t think I’m up to it,” I told Esther, handing her the keys.
Under normal circumstances, I would have resisted turning over the keys—and my life—to a vehicular novice, but at seven on a Sunday morning, traffic in Manhattan was virtually nonexistent and my head pounded too much to care anyway.
I climbed into the van’s cab, then called to Moira. “Take off your backpack and you can squeeze into the front seat with Esther and me.”
“That’s all right, Ms. Cosi, I’ll just ride in back.”
Moira climbed into the back of the truck and settled in. We could hardly see her among all the stuff packed inside the van.
“God,” whispered Esther, roiling her eyes. “Why can’t she be sociable? You’d think that pack was glued to her spine.”
I shushed Esther and off we went.
By the time we came in sight of the lions in front of the Forty-second Street Library, the morning clouds had cleared and the sun was shining brightly for a late September morning—even though a brisk ocean wind swept across Manhattan from the east, providing a chilly glimpse of the winter to come.
I hadn’t been back to Bryant Park since my first visit with Lottie on Fashion Week’s opening day. The scene was even more chaotic now—cabs, vans, fashionista trailers, and plenty of people. We pulled up to the barricade on Fortieth Street.
The road was closed to regular traffic during the festivities, but we presented our pass to a uniformed New York City police officer and he waved us in. Esther managed to park our van crookedly between a Metro New York satellite truck and a tour bus emblazoned with the Fen logo.
“Okay,” Esther began. “I know Sunday is right in the middle of Fashion Week and the optimum time for a runway premiere, but why did Fen and Lottie schedule the damn thing before noon?”
“Lottie told me they were selling a spring collection,