for Madame. He was on the defensive. But his Air Jordans had yet to budge. That’s when I noticed a flash of headlights. The driver in that mammoth SUV had started his engine.
“There,” I said, “why don’t you keep that spot open for your customers!”
Our human road block instantly raced off to reserve the vacated space.
Madame tapped my shoulder. “Shall we, dear?”
“We shall.”
Then I looped my arm through hers, and together we started down the sidewalk toward our hard won destination: Caffè Lucia.
TWO
LIKE the accident on the bridge, I approached Enzo Testa’s caffè without knowing exactly what lay ahead, although I should have had a clue—not because of the smell of accelerants or the sound of cartoonishly loud ticking, but because of the woman who unlocked the door.
In her early forties, Enzo’s daughter Lucia seemed almost storklike in her fashionable gangliness. Her nose was long, her squinting eyes the flat color of sour pickles. Her sleek, short, slicked down hair, which should have echoed the same dark hue as her salon-shaped brows, was striated instead with the sort of shades you’d find in a jar of whole-grain Dijon (or the bottles of an uptown colorist).
Hugging her slim figure was a black designer frock with a high hemline and low neckline, the better to show off the heavy gold bling around her neck and chic gladiator sandals (also gilded) with four-inch heels that added dauntingly unnecessary height to her already lengthy legs. All of this seemed a bit much for shift work in a neighborhood coffeehouse, and I assumed she was dressed for a hot dinner date.
“We’re closed,” she said, her plum-glossed lips forming a bad-luck horseshoe.
“We have an appointment,” I began, all business.
“With Enzo, your father.” Madame stepped up, her tone of voice much more placating than mine.
“You’re late.”
“And we do apologize,” Madame told the woman. “I did call—”
“It’s my fault,” I cut in. “I’m very sorry, but I run a coffeehouse, too, and I had trouble getting away. Then we got stuck on the bridge. There was an accident . . .”
Lucia propped a narrow hip, more bling clattering on her narrow wrist. “When isn’t there?”
“You’re right,” I said, biting back a less civil response. “But won’t you at least tell your father we made it?”
Lucia’s reply was to make a show of looking me up and down. I hadn’t changed from my Blend shift so my Italian roast hair was still pulled back in a barista-ready (and now supremely messy) ponytail. My makeup had sweated off in traffic, and my simple cotton Henley was tragically wrinkled.
She squinted with open disgust at my scuffed black boots and economically priced jeans, and in case I missed the squint, she threw in a smirk to go with it.
I was about to say something I’d probably regret when a deep voice boomed from inside the caffè: “Lucia, che cosa? Is that Blanche?”
Lucia stepped back—with obvious annoyance—and opened the door all the way. A gentleman in shirtsleeves strode across the spotlessly clean mosaic tile floor. Tall, like his daughter, Enzo was not at all gangly. On the contrary, he appeared especially robust for a man in his seventies. The line of his chin and jaw were giving way, like the inevitable decline of a classic old foundation, but his head was still thick with hair, albeit receding in front, the black pepper copiously sprinkled with gray salt.
When the Italian flung out his arms, Madame stepped into them, and the man’s wide smile tightened the skin at his jaw, restoring for a flickering moment the hallmarks of those Victor Mature looks. Instantly I knew that I was glimpsing a vision of Enzo’s earlier self, a long-gone ghost of youth. Like a dying ember, the apparition faded, yet the man continued to give off a color of energy I more commonly saw in the budding green of youth (or diehard romantics)—a color Madame had always embraced.
“Bella! Blanche, you are ravishing still. Bella! Bella!”
The shop was small, half the size of my Village Blend, with a marble counter the shade of mature avocado, a restored tin ceiling, and a pair of hanging fans with wooden paddles lazily stirring the air. Large and small tables of sturdy, polished, marble-topped oak crowded the floor. Behind the bar sat a modern, low-slung espresso machine, typical of a New York café.
Not at all typical, however, was the sweeping mural on the opposite wall, which stretched the length of the building. The artwork itself contained multiple images, each rendered in a