have no idea.”
I’d once explained it all to Mike, or tried to. When things went wrong in making espresso, any number of variables could be the offending agent—a good barista had to go through each variable, eliminating suspects one by one, until the true offender was found.
Mike replied with one sentence: “Sounds like my job.”
I smiled at Barry. “Would you like another latte?”
“Yes, please! You have the best in the city.”
“In that case,” I told him, “this one’s on the house.”
Twenty minutes later, Barry was gone, and Tucker and Esther had returned to the espresso bar to help with a brief flurry of prelunch rush customers. I was just finishing the pour on my last order in line—a Hazelnut-Caramel Latte, which I topped with the flourish of a heart-crowned rosetta—when I heard a familiar door slam. Don’t ask how I can recognize one particular man by his door slam. I just can.
A minute later, our shop’s front bell was ringing and so were my eardrums.
“Clare!”
The customers in my half-filled shop came alert at their tables.
“What the hell is going on with my mother!”
My ex-husband had arrived.
FIFTEEN
MATT dropped his suitcase (loudly) next to a barstool while simultaneously sliding a heavy backpack off his Nautilus-sculpted shoulders. It hit the ground with an equally subtle thud.
“I touched down at JFK an hour ago, after a truly horrendous red-eye out of Charles de Gaulle, and what do I see when I pass the first newsstand?” Matt threw a folded-up Post down on the bar. “A front-page photo of my mother being hoisted into an ambulance by a passel of firemen with my ex-wife looking on!” He glared. “What happened, Clare?”
I sighed. So much for my public-place-will-keep-him-calm theory. “Your mother’s fine, Matt. She’s perfectly okay.”
“She’s okay?”
I nodded.
His hard body sagged a moment—until his righteous anger got a second wind. “Why didn’t you call me? I mean, last night she wasn’t okay, was she?”
Before I could answer, Esther snatched up the paper. “Boss! Front-page news and you didn’t mention it! I knew I should have watched In the Papers this morning. I hardly ever miss that segment, but Boris slept over.”
“Excuse me,” Tucker said, “but why should Boris have anything to do with it?”
“Because he didn’t want me to watch New York One first thing in the morning. He wanted to, um . . . I mean, well, he distracted me . . .”
“Distracted you?” Tucker folded his arms. “Esther, I’m shocked. A euphemism?”
“A girl has a right to her boudoir privacy.”
By now Matt was fairly vibrating with impatience, but he failed to interrupt our baristas, primarily because he was still doing a double-take at Esther. He hadn’t seen our most popular employee since she began piling her wild dark hair on top of her head in an ebony half beehive à la torch singer Amy Winehouse.
Tuck, who was familiar with the pop star’s unfortunate bouts with alcohol and drugs, had already dubbed it the “Detox Rock look.” According to Esther, it was driving her boyfriend mad with desire.
“What’s the point of having a news anchor read from the papers, anyway?” Tucker was saying. “Why don’t you just read the papers yourself?”
“Because if I watch In the Papers, I don’t have to read the papers!”
“Okay, Esther. If you don’t read the papers, then hand that one over. I’d like to read all about it.”
“No!” She clutched the dog-eared tabloid to her Renaissance chest.
“Listen,” Tucker said, “I can do New York One’s morning anchor in my sleep. I’ll read it to you.”
“You can do Pat Kiernan?”
“The Clark Kent of local news?” Tucker waved his hand. “He’s your basic cross between Mr. Spock and Mr. Rogers.”
“Okay.” Esther offered up the now substantially wrinkled Post. “Do him for me, Tucker!”
“Clare . . .”
I glanced over at Matt who was standing stiffer than Oz’s Tin Man. His jaw was grinding so visibly, I thought he might actually need the oil can.
“Esther, Tucker,” I quickly said before the man blew, “I need to speak with Matt in private. So you two ‘read all about it’ while you’re covering the counter, okay?” I met Tucker’s gaze. “Two doppios?”
“No problem.”
I gestured for my ex to follow me to a corner table. “Like I said, your mother’s fine.” I kept my voice low as we walked, hoping he’d take the hint.
(He didn’t.) “Then why didn’t she answer my calls this morning!”
“Please lower you voice. Your mother went to sit with a friend in the Elmhurst ICU. They don’t allow cell phones in there. Last