simple, Pavlovian reaction to the rich, russet shade of the woman’s short, bouncy curls and trim business suit, both of which displayed the exact color of a perfectly pulled shot of espresso crema. But I did know Matt, and his reaction had everything to do with woman’s curvy figure beneath that stylish suit.
“Val’s husband is a firefighter,” I told him with pointed emphasis. And he’ll break your head with his Halligan tool. “He’s also the very same fireman who pulled your mother out of that burning building last night.” So poach elsewhere, please.
Matt instantly dropped Val’s hand. With a weak little smile, he asked her to thank her husband for him then excused himself to “freshen up” in our restroom.
As he sauntered away, I noticed Val considering his well-built back. I shook my head. Matt’s Tabasco-colored tee may have appeared to be an easygoing choice, but I knew he’d purposely selected the tighter size to show off his molded pecs. And while his open denim work shirt looked loose and casual, those sleeves had been rolled with strategic precision, giving full exposure to his tanned, sinewy forearms while tempting the ladies with that first teasing curve of his bulging biceps.
Val lowered herself into Matt’s chair and leaned toward me. “You actually divorced that hunk?”
“Yes. With relish.”
“Do dish.”
“It’s a lengthy saga.”
“Let me guess. He’s a womanizer.”
“One of his many issues, yes . . .”
“Too bad you handled it by divorcing him. He looks like a real catch . . .” She gazed after Matt once more to connect with him, but he was gone—a succinct description of my young marriage.
“If James ever cheated on me,” Val said, “I wouldn’t be divorcing him. I’d be dealing with the female involved.”
That view surprised me. “Isn’t James the one who made you the promise of fidelity?”
“A married man is already taken. The woman is the one who’s doing the poaching. She’s the one who needs to be dealt with.”
“But don’t you think your husband owes you—”
“Hey, that’s just my view. To each her own.” She laughed, but it sounded a little force. “I’d love to hear your side of the story. You and me, after work, over a couple of microbrews, okay?”
“Beer?”
“Oh yeah. That’s my drink, don’t mess with it.”
“To each her own, then.” I smiled. “Now how about one of mine?”
She nodded, and we moved to the espresso bar where I fixed her up with our latest special, a Belgian Mochaccino (espresso, foamed whole milk, a pump of coffeehouse vanilla, and a half shot of my homemade special syrup, which consisted of imported bittersweet chocolate, cream, sugar, and a pinch of French gray salt).
I leaned on the bar. “So, Val, what is it that you need me to do for you today?”
Val laughed. “How did you know I needed something?”
“The way you came in here. Most of my customers come for a break. You strode in like a general looking for volunteers.”
“That’s what my husband calls me at home. The Little General.” She sighed. “Well, Clare, you’re not wrong. I need your help . . .”
She pulled a colorful ad card out of her tote bag. “Can you display this?”
I scanned the sign: Bake Sale! Union Square! Be There! Live music, hourly raffles, and the best goodies in the five boroughs. Benefits the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund.
“Riveting.” I smiled. “You wrote the ad?”
“I’m also the gullible chump who had it printed. Tina Wade was supposed to do both, but she crapped out on me—two kids with the flu and a husband pulling 24/7 mutuals. I took care of it. I’ve got a stack of these going to businesses all over town. I was hoping you could take a few and spread the love.”
“Glad to. I’ll post ours right now.”
I moved to the front window and set the placard beside our own plaque, the one that simply read: Fresh Roasted Coffee Served Daily. With the exception of our standing sidewalk chalkboard, the century-old tin was the only sign the Blend had ever displayed—or ever would as long as Madame had anything to say about it.
The bell jingled just then, and I glanced up to find the silver-haired woman herself breezing through the front door, black pants flowing like silk drapery, magenta and lime jacket displaying expressionistic swirls so vibrant they rivaled the feathers of a peacock.
“Clare, we need to talk.”
“You’re the second person who’s said that to me in the last ten minutes.”
I was smiling. She was not. Oh, no. The news was there