by Coyle, Cleo
“That’s Sherri Sellars,” Patrice replied. “She’s a media personality on the West Coast. She also does a weekly satellite radio show called the Luv Doctor.”
“So Sherri Sellars is a Sister, too?”
Patrice nodded. “She governs our Love and Relationship Temple. Right now, Sherri is explaining the psychological benefits of a healthy sex life. Then she’ll introduce Alicia, who will give the big pitch. I’m closing by going over the contents of their press packets and telling them how to order and who to contact.”
She studied both of us. “You two should stop worrying! Alicia’s got one of the most promising products, given the majority of our site’s user profiles.”
“Will Aphrodite speak tonight?” I asked. “I’d love to see her in action.”
(I didn’t think the woman would try to sabotage her own employee, but I did want a better handle on this bizarre shop with its Temples, Sisters, and cutthroat business philosophy.)
“I’m sorry, Clare. Aphrodite won’t be speaking at any of the events. She doesn’t even like to appear in public.” Patrice lowered her voice again. “But she will make a showing at all the parties, including the one tonight. I’ll try to introduce you when she arrives. But if things get crazy, you’ll have another chance to see her. You’re scheduled to cater the yacht party on Friday, right? And one other launch event. Sorry, I can’t remember the dates now. Too many details to keep them all straight! That’s why this baby’s my lifeline—”
As she waved her smartphone, we heard a new burst of applause.
Just then, the Garden doors opened, and a young brunette poked her head through. Her chili-pepper red cat glasses, large for her delicate features, made her auburn-streaked pixie seem all the more adorable. Smiling, she tapped her wristwatch.
“Sherri’s wrapping it up in five. Alicia’s up, then you. Are you ready?”
“No problem, Daphne,” Patrice replied. “I’ll be right there.”
When Daphne departed, Patrice took another deep breath and held it. “Almost time for my big moment. I still get butterflies when I speak in public. But when I’m about ready to faint, I remind myself that I’m not doing too badly for someone who was a pimply faced teenaged blogger ten years ago.”
She activated the digital pad, and Patrice’s nervousness seemed to evaporate with a glowing smile. “My fiancé sent me a message,” she explained. “He said I should break a leg.”
“Is he in the audience?”
“Actually, he’s in Afghanistan. He’ll be back in six months, three days, and nineteen hours.”
“You have that memorized?”
“I have a countdown clock on my digital pad.”
Eyes on the podium, Patrice rocked on her heels several times.
“Wish me luck,” she said softly.
“Break a leg,” I replied, then laid a firm hand on her arm. “One last question, if you don’t mind?”
Patrice tensed. “What’s that, Clare?”
I lowered my voice. “The Sister who had her launch canceled—she’s out, right? Essentially fired off the board?”
Patrice tilted her head. “Why are you asking?’
“I, uh . . . I’ll be making small talk with guests coming by the samples table, and I’d hate to put my foot in it with her. What’s her name?”
“Maya Lansing. She’s our Health and Fitness Sister. But you don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing.”
“She’s gone for good, then?’
“Well, not exactly. Aphrodite makes all the final decisions about who stays and who goes on her board. Sorry—but now I’ve really got to go!”
“Of course! Good luck!”
Patrice pushed at the heavy glass doors. As she stepped out, a moist gust flowed in, smelling of sea salt and rain. I frowned. Tonight’s weather forecast had been iffy at best, but the threats in the air were impossible to dismiss.
Some kind of storm was headed our way.
THIRTEEN
“SO, what do you think?” Madame whispered.
I folded my arms. “Aphrodite may be in love with this Greece motif, but I’d say her corporate culture looks more like ancient Rome.”
Madame sighed. “I, Claudius does come to mind.”
“The motivation just got clearer.”
“Do you think Patrice was involved with what happened to Alicia?”
“I doubt it. Patrice’s cheerful ‘out with the old’ view is pretty typical for someone who’s young, ambitious, and thinks she’s immune to failure.”
“Agreed. But what about the other Sisters?”
“We’ll need to take a look at them, especially the woman who was all but fired today—the Health and Fitness Queen.”
“Sister,” Madame corrected.
Corporate jargon? I wondered. Or a twisted convent?
“Well, I’m happy to help.” Madame tilted her head toward the Garden. “After Alicia’s presentation, I’ll find a moment to speak with her. I’d like to know whether she and Maya Lansing have any bad blood between them.”
“Good idea. While you’re at it, keep an eye out for the Candy Man, okay? Whatever he was attempting to pull on Alicia this morning, he failed, and he may just try something else tonight.”
“The game is afoot!”
Ugh, I thought, that word again . . .
As my former mother-in-law pushed through the Garden doors, I turned to find an unnerving sight—a mountain of male flesh barreling toward me.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Are you Clare Cosi?”
Dressed in khaki pants and a blue sport coat—with a neck so large his collar gave his throat a muffin top—the guy was big enough to sub for half the Jets’ defensive line. Whoever he was, I needed a moment to find my voice.
“I’m Clare.”
“We have a situation.”
“A situation?”
The mountain flashed an ID. He was some kind of director for building security.
“A gentleman is trying to gain admittance to this event. First he claimed he was a guest, but he didn’t have an invitation. Then he said he was a member of your catering staff, but he didn’t have a pass and his name wasn’t on the approved list. We’re detaining him downstairs—”
“What does this guy look like?”
The guard repeated my question into a headset and touched the Blue Tooth listening device in his ear.
“He’s well built,” the guard said, then paused to listen. “Muscular. Hair dark and longish . . . he has facial hair . . . a trimmed goatee . . .”
I tensed. It had to be our Candy Man. Dennis St. Julian was a bodybuilder, and a fake beard and wig would help disguise him.
“Let’s go!” I said.
When the doors closed on our elevator, I cleared my throat. “Listen. If this is the person I think it is, he could be real trouble.”
With newly alert eyes, the Blue-Toothed Matterhorn passed on my warning in a low rumble.
“I don’t know if he’ll be violent,” I said, “but better safe than sorry, right?”
Again the guard spoke into his headset. One of his meaty hands balled into a fist. By the time the elevator hit the ground floor, I was keyed up and ready for anything.
The guard walked me to a corner of the vast lobby. Five men in uniforms had formed a ring around their captive.
“Back off!” a deep voice boomed.
Oh crap.
I still couldn’t see the man, but his two-syllable yell told me all I needed to know. This party crasher wasn’t the Candy Man; it was my ex-husband.
“I’ve had just about enough pat downs in the last twenty-four hours!”
“What are you doing here?!” I cried.
“Clare! Will you please tell these tin-plated fascists who I am!”
“It’s okay!” I assured the guards. “I know this guy. I’ll sign him in . . .”
“This guy,” of course, was Matteo Allegro, the very same man who’d enticed me, with honey-drenched figs and a dazzling smile, into t
he room of his penzione more than two decades ago. At the time, Matt was barely older than my nineteen years and no better educated. In the language of love, however, the boy was a polysyllabic genius (the figs had been just as hard to resist).
With my unexpected pregnancy, Matt proposed marriage. It didn’t last. The primary reason: his nonstop use of linguistic talents—too many languages with too many women, about whom he didn’t give a fig. I might have forgiven him if it weren’t for the coffee-buying trips to Columbia, where recreational cocaine use slowly transformed my dream boy into a newlywed nightmare.
By now, our relationship had improved a great deal. Matt had kicked his bad habit (the drugs, not the women), and with my return to his mother’s coffeehouse, he and I became partners again—in the coffee business, that is, and in the business of parenting our daughter.
When Rock Center security finally backed off, I exhaled with relief. So did Matt. (One guard had a Taser all ready to go.)
“What are you doing here?” I asked again.
“I had a connection out of Paris,” Matt said. “Went straight from JFK to the Blend, where I heard about this little shindig from Dante and Gardner.”
“They’re holding down the fort for me at the coffeehouse. Tucker, Esther, and Nancy are upstairs.”
“Who’s Nancy?”
“My newest barista. She just stared a few weeks ago.”
“Well, Dante told me this thing you’re doing tonight is something major.”
“It is.”
Matt swept back his dark hair, much longer now, and a marked contrast from his usual closely trimmed Caesar. He’d grown a goatee, too.
My ex-husband had always struck me as a pirate, but now he more resembled one of the Musketeers. Aramis came to mind, dashing as all get-out but way too popular with the ladies.
Even now, with fatigue circles under his eyes, Matt was turning the heads of random females passing by. (No surprise.) His black sport coat was cut to hug his buff torso; his latte-cream button-down contrasted attractively with his tan—not the spray-on kind but a deep, natural glow from the kiss of an African sun. Even his jeans were fashionably scuffed, though in Matt’s case the wear and tear didn’t come from some urban house of design; it was earned via treks around the world’s coffee belt as he hunted the highest-quality arabica for the Blend and his other global clients.
“This is supposed to be a private party,” I informed him. “Invitation only. What did you think you were going to do? Charm your way past teenage usherettes?”
Matt folded his arms, suddenly looking pleased with himself. “I told them I had to make a delivery. A last-minute addition to your catering staff.”
“You mean you?”
“No. Not me, Clare. You know I don’t cater—”
“No, generally you’re the one catered to.”
“Very funny.” Matt jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Your new assistant is in the ladies’ room, freshening up.”
“Oh God.” My throat was closing up already. “You don’t mean Breanne?” (The second Mrs. Matteo Allegro and I didn’t much get along.)
“Relax. Breanne’s uptown. Like I said, I had a connection in Paris so—”
“Oh God! You saw Joy?”
“Better than that.”
“You mean—”
“Yup,” Matt said with a nod.
“Hey, Mom, I’m home,” a voice called from across the lobby.
“Joy!”
A moment later, my daughter and I were wrapping our arms around each other in a hug I wanted never to end.
FOURTEEN
AFTER signing in my daughter with building security, our little reunited family moved to the elevator bank. The spring in Joy’s step fortified me, and I noticed her dark brown hair was much longer than I remembered.
Like father, like daughter, I thought, and not for the first time.
Over the years, Joy had picked up a few habits from Matt. The very worst of which (some drug use in nightclubs) I continually prayed would remain far behind us. Joy’s height was her dad’s, too, but her heart-shaped face and big emerald eyes were totally Cosi. What cheered me most of all was seeing the meat back on her bones.
Before she’d gone to France, a horrific ordeal had sunk Joy’s spirits along with her appetite. She’d lost enough weight to worry me. But now her figure was back to displaying its natural curves, the kind that seldom wanted for male attention.
“So tell me?” I fished, “what’s the boyfriend news? Another adorable French cook in your brigade?”
“Not even close!” Joy replied so quickly and lightly I flashed back on my own attempt to snowball Mike earlier in the day.
I folded my arms, shot her the maternal X-ray.
“It’s true, Mom! I’ve been way too busy at work.”
“Then how did you get away?”
She waved her hand—a gesture identical to Matt’s mother. It was so adult, so self-assured, I blanked for a moment, wondering how that could be. She was just five years old, wasn’t she? Helping me frost her grandma’s birthday cake. Or eleven, crying over some jerk of a neighbor boy who’d made fun of her. Fourteen, laughing as we tested a new recipe in our Jersey kitchen. Sixteen, alone at the stove, excitedly cooking a Julia Child feast for one of Matt’s visits. How could she possibly be in her twenties now? All grown up and living in Paris?
“. . . and next week Monsieur Boucher’s youngest sister is getting married. It’s a huge deal for their family. They rented a neo-Gothic castle in the Loire Valley, and since half his restaurant staff is related, he just threw up his hands and closed us down for a week.”
In the pause that followed, I stared at my daughter, willing my mind to catch up to the incomprehensible passage of time. “Boucher’s sister is getting married,” I repeated. “Well . . . I’m surprised you weren’t invited.”
“Oh, I was. But then Dad showed up and offered to buy me a ticket home.” She grinned. “How could I say no?”
My mind sharpened fast. Something about Joy’s tone sounded off. “I hope Monsieur Boucher wasn’t offended about your missing his sister’s wedding. What did you tell him?”
“Mon père et ma mère me manquent!”
My father and mother miss me. “Oh, honey, we do . . .”
As I hugged her again, I noticed Matt staring.
“No boyfriend?” he said. “Really?
“Oh, Dad, the French guys I’ve met are okay, but none of them are worth hooking up with, you know?”
I stiffened. So did Matt. He was thinking the same thing I was, but neither of us had the stomach to ask. I certainly wasn’t going to bring up the dreaded Franco question, certainly not in front of Matt. Then my daughter turned the tables on me.
“So, Mom, when are we going to hear wedding bells for you and Mike?”
I blinked and stared. Joy’s question surprised me so much I wasn’t sure what to say. Thank goodness the elevator car binged its arrival. As we boarded, I was sure Matt would change the subject.
He didn’t.
“Come on, Mom—” Joy was grinning now. “Don’t go all quiet on me. I know you and Mike love each other.”
“We do,” I finally said. “And we may consider matrimony in the future. But right now things just aren’t settled enough in our lives.”
“That’s no excuse! Look at Dad. His life is crazy, but he married Breanne.”
Matt coughed—I’m pretty sure to hide a laugh. As I shifted from foot to foot, I could see he was smirking.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
“The day has finally come when our daughter thinks I’m a good role model for you.”
“Oh, please.”
“Come on, you guys,” Joy said, “don’t fight.”
“We’re not fighting,” I said. “But you should understand that Mike and I don’t view marriage the same way your father and his new wife do. They don’t have . . .” I was about to say a sacred union, but I knew it would come off badly.
“W
hat?” Joy said. “They don’t have a traditional marriage? I’m not a kid anymore, Mom. We can certainly talk about these things.”
I didn’t reply. For one thing, this wasn’t the time or place. So I just gritted my teeth and checked our progress. Man, this was one slow elevator!
Bing, went the bell. Finally!
“Here we are!”
Leading the way down the corridor, I checked over my shoulder. The Garden was still full of guests, but it wouldn’t be for long. We had fifteen minutes before service, even less if the weather turned. Recalling that smell of dampness in the outside air, I pushed quickly through the Loft’s doors and waved Joy and Matt inside.
TUCKER and Esther yipped when they saw Joy. Hugs followed, and I introduced Nancy Kelly. Then Joy touched my arm.
“Dad wasn’t kidding. I’d like to help out tonight.”
Pleased as punch, I held myself back from hugging her yet again. Instead, I pulled out one of our pressed black aprons. As Joy stowed her red hooded jacket and tied on the Blend’s version of formalwear, Esther suggested we taste test the coffee before the guests poured in.
I eagerly gave her the thumbs-up, surprised at how different I felt about the whole thing now that Joy and Matt were with me.
Mike Quinn was right, I realized at last. You’re fully on board with this thing. If it goes bad, you’ll figure out the next step. You always do. . . .
“All right,” I said when the carafe was ready. “Let’s try it!”
Esther poured four-ounce samples all around.
I put the paper cup under my nose. The aroma was an earthy combination of roasted coffee and dark chocolate. Good so far. I sipped, thinking everything was going to be okay, until Matt cried out—
“You’re serving instant coffee! Clare, have you gone mad?!” Tucker, Esther, and Nancy froze.
I narrowed my gaze. “What?”
“You heard me!”
“You mean to tell me that you don’t know what this party is all about?”
Matt folded his arms.