Once Upon a Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  When we were married, Matt’s standard uniform was paint-stained jeans and a flannel shirt. Now that he’d hitched himself to a fashion-forward spouse, Matt was slicker than a GQ cover model.

  Today’s ensemble featured a jacket of stag brown suede tailored to his broad shoulders. His dark hair looked rakish against his bronzed complexion, burnished from a recent sourcing trip to East Africa. His toothy smile dazzled and his dark eyes smoldered. The true trick to Matt’s appeal, however, was his appetite. When Matt liked a woman, he let her know it. And he pretty much liked them all.

  Of course, none of these things enchanted me. When you’ve lived behind a magician’s curtain long enough, tricks lose their thrill.

  What did surprise me was my ex-husband’s rejection of Red’s less than subtle invitation to watch her phone vibrate.

  “Ah, no, that’s okay . . .” He told her, rubbing the back of his neck. He actually looked a little embarrassed. “But I’ll keep an eye out for your friend.”

  Red didn’t appear bothered in the least by Matt’s response.

  “You are a prince!” she declared, and in a gesture that would prove astoundingly prophetic, she raised her fairy wand and tapped Matt’s forehead before gliding away.

  TWO

  “WHO was that young woman?”

  “The Red Princess,” Matt replied with a shrug. “She’s looking for her friend, the Pink Princess. How many princesses are in this Kingdom anyway?”

  “I don’t know, but do me a favor and keep your pants on. This is a fall fantasy, not a male fantasy.”

  “Give me a little credit, will you? That girl is our daughter’s age. Now where’s Dante?”

  Dante Silva was my artista barista—fine arts painter by day, java jockey by night.

  “Why do you need Dante?”

  “I want him to relieve you so you can visit the fortune-telling tent.”

  I resisted the urge to scream. “He’s busy inflating the balloon Giant out back.”

  “Balloon Giant?”

  “It’s part of our Jack and the Beanstalk theme.” I used my finger to draw a giant air circle. “Are you blind?”

  “Oh, is that what these dangling vinyl vines on the truck are for? And the fake cow by the picnic tables?”

  “Perceptive, aren’t we?”

  “Not entirely.” Matt smirked. “For instance, I have no idea why you’re dressed like a Tyrolean peasant. Unless your boyfriend has a secret Alpine fetish.”

  “Leave Mike Quinn out of this.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Matt made a show of looking over my ruffled white blouse, laced bodice, and Oktoberfest-worthy dirndl skirt. “It’s kind of sexy.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Not entirely. Who wouldn’t go for the shapely wench at the rustic tavern? Your flatfoot certainly would—if you grabbed a beer stein, showed a little more cleavage, and lost the babushka.”

  “I think it’s time you got lost.”

  “Touchy this morning, aren’t you?” Matt regarded my outfit again. “Who are you supposed to be playing anyway, Eva Braun?”

  “I’m Jack’s mother.”

  “Fine, Mrs. Beanstalk, then answer me this: Why does Esther have a musical instrument in her beehive?” He pointed to the large and lovely barista pulling shots at our espresso machine.

  “Hey, I heard that!” Esther Best pushed up her black, rectangular glasses and pointed right back at Matt. “No harping on my headgear, Signor Boss-o!”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Esther is playing the part of the Magic Harp,” I explained. “Given her fondness for reciting urban epics, we all thought it was apropos—and so did her rapper boyfriend.”

  “Thanks to Boris, my harp actually plays!” With a tilt of her high-haired head, she plucked out a tinny version of “On Top of Old Smokey.”

  Matt gawked. “I don’t recall a harp in Jack and the Beanstalk.”

  “You would if you’d read it to our daughter repeatedly for the better part of her fifth year,” I reminded him. “The year you practically lived in Hawaii.”

  “That was business!” The hurt look was back on the man’s face, but this time it was genuine. “Those were boom times for Kona, Clare, and I was setting up trade with Japan.”

  “Now who’s touchy?”

  Okay, I confess chastising the man about his failures as a father was low. Matt had worked hard in recent years to make things up to me and Joy—and, honestly, with my daughter’s ongoing culinary career in Paris, he now saw her more than I did. I was about to apologize when a high-pitched scream rang out.

  We all froze—until we saw Nancy Kelly, our youngest barista, barreling out of Madame Tesla’s colorful little tent. She ran right for me, wheat braids flying, arms flapping.

  “Boss, boss! You have to visit Madame Tesla. She’s so amazingly authentic!”

  Matt arched an eyebrow. “I told you.”

  “She gave me a great reading!” Nancy said. “And she told me to tell you she’s waiting for you!”

  Matt raised his arm and (not unlike the Grim Reaper) pointed at the tent.

  “I can’t! I’m too busy!” As I frantically resumed swabbing the counter, Nancy climbed back into the truck.

  “Ms. Boss, you look white as a ghost. What’s your problem?”

  “Only one,” Matt said. “She’s crazy.”

  “Tell me.” Nancy touched my shoulder. “Why are you so afraid of reading coffee grinds?”

  I met the girl’s gaze. “Because I can see bad things.”

  “What kind of bad things?”

  “Death. I can see it coming.”

  THREE

  MATT shook his head. “Stop being melodramatic.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “Have you forgotten? I saw your death.”

  “But I didn’t die!”

  “You almost did!”

  “But I didn’t.”

  For several seconds, we glared in silence at each other. Then he tilted his head at Esther and Nancy, who’d gone wide-eyed over our nonmarital spat.

  “Let’s not do this in front of the children.”

  He was right. I could see our employees wanted details. Esther began to ask, and Matt changed the subject—to Nancy’s head.

  “Speaking of death,” he said. “Why is Nancy wearing a dead bird?”

  Nancy touched her elaborate headpiece. “That’s not a dead bird! It’s the Goose That Laid the Golden Egg.”

  “And your face is painted gold because—”

  “I’m the Golden Egg, silly!”

  “You’re dressed as an egg with a goose as a hat, and I’m silly?”

  “She wanted to play the Golden Goose,” Esther noted, “but her costume couldn’t fit behind the counter.”

  “So I compromised,” Nancy explained.

  “Because Nancy is a good egg,” I said simply.

  Matt folded his arms. “Well, I hope you don’t expect me to play Jack because I have no intention of putting on some ridiculous—”

  “Dante is playing Jack,” I said, “even though you have more in common with the role.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She’s right,” Esther said. “You were sent into the world at a tender age by your widowed mother—”

  “And you forged your own destiny by obtaining ‘magic beans’ from faraway places,” Nancy added.

  There was a third parallel I could have made, but I kept it to myself.

  Like Fairy Tale Jack, Matteo Allegro had developed a dangerous addiction. For Jack, it was the giant’s wife. For Matt, the addiction was cocaine, which led to that near-fatal overdose, the one I’d predicted in a reading of his coffee grinds.

  It was a miracle Matt had survived, and after months of rehab, he was finally able to chop down his need to get high. H
e’d remained clean for over a decade—and I continually prayed, along with his mother and daughter, that his feet would stay firmly on the ground.

  “I don’t care how much I have in common with Bean Boy,” Matt groused. “I am not putting on a costume today—”

  “Well, you can rest easy,” I said. “Dante is happy to play Jack.”

  “And I’m happy to report our cow hasn’t run dry,” Esther declared, sliding a steaming cup across the counter. “Enjoy our ‘Milky White’ Latte.”

  “You named a drink after Jack’s cow?”

  “That’s nothing!” Nancy bragged. “We’ve also got a Snow White Chocolate Mocha, Cinderella Pumpkin Cake Squares, and—”

  “We Storybook-ified the menu,” I finished for her.

  Matt glanced around. “What menu?”

  “Isn’t it out there?” I sighed. “Give me a minute . . .”

  As I located the stand-up chalkboard in the back of the truck, I felt my cell phone vibrate. (No, not against my thigh à la Red Princess—but in my peasant skirt pocket.) Hands full, I ignored the call, and instead wrestled the large sign out our truck’s narrow door.

  That’s when I saw the vision . . . in pink.

  Twenty feet away, the flap to Madame Tesla’s colorful gypsy tent opened and a young woman stepped out.

  Tall and lithe, she moved with regal steps that made her sparkling layered skirts seem to float through the air. Her gossamer gown was nearly identical to the dress worn by the Red Princess, except for the more innocent shade, which was fitting because this Pink Princess was likewise more refined, her beauty surreal, as if God had created another species.

  Her blond hair fell in a curtain of gold down to her waist and her ocean turquoise eyes appeared exotic with their slightly almond shape—Tartar-esque, I realized, like many of the women I’d met who’d emigrated here from Eastern Europe.

  Remembering Red’s message for her friend, I was about to call out when I realized she had a cell phone pressed to her ear. She was talking fast and seemed to be upset. Was she crying?

  Great, I thought. Another reason I wanted nothing to do with telling fortunes. It was far too emotional . . .

  I’d seen similar reactions years ago with my nonna, who’d played fortune-teller therapist in the back of our family’s Italian grocery. Every few days some neighborhood woman would rush in teary-eyed, until Nonna steadied them with that special cup of coffee before drawing them out, helping them see . . .

  And that’s when I saw—

  A hulking knight, one of the two who’d stopped by our truck earlier, was sipping his brew slowly and staring directly at the Pink Princess.

  While a man checking out a woman was as old as time, this was different. He held my take-out cup steady, as if deliberately hiding his lower face from view. With the helmet covering much of his head, only his eyes were visible. And the way the man’s dark gaze tracked the Pink Princess looked downright predatory.

  It sent a chill through me.

  When my phone vibrated again, I actually started. Pulling the cell out of my skirt pocket, I checked the caller ID and tensed.

  Why is Mike Quinn trying to reach me at this hour?

  I hit the answer button and put the phone to my ear. When I looked up again, the predator knight was gone.

  And so was the Pink Princess.

  FOUR

  “MIKE? Is anything wrong?”

  “Everything’s fine, Clare, except . . . I’m sorry about today. I was looking forward to being with you and my kids.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry—I’m sorry for your loss. In fact . . .” Moving the phone to my other hand, I glanced at my watch. “Shouldn’t you be heading to Virginia by now?”

  “I’m on my way to the car . . .”

  I pictured Mike Quinn striding across the parking garage of his Washington high-rise. The man would have shaved close this morning, and his light brown hair would be in military trim. Given the somber event ahead of him, he would be wearing his charcoal suit, the worn leather shoulder holster creasing a crisp, white shirt beneath. His blue eyes would stay flinty cold all day, unreadable as a slab of city concrete. But during the funeral service, I knew they’d go glassy with held-back tears—and none of his coworkers would ever know it.

  His current coworkers, that is.

  As a decorated narcotics cop, Quinn was still the head of his own NYPD task force. In fact, he’d been based in New York for his entire career, until a U.S. Attorney drafted him for the temporary assignment in Washington, DC.

  Sadly, that same attorney stepped down a short time later, when he was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. He lost the battle a few days ago, which changed our weekend plans.

  “You didn’t work with the man long,” I said, “but I know you respected him, unlike your new boss—”

  “Let’s not go there. Not now, anyway . . .”

  (That was fine with me. Katrina the blond battle-ax had ruined more dinners and weekends than I could count. Why let her ruin this phone call?)

  Mike paused. “I need a favor.”

  “Shoot—not literally.”

  I could hear Mike’s little laugh. Then he took a long breath and let it out. “Leila rang me a few minutes ago—”

  “Your ex-wife?” I bristled (couldn’t help it). Leila was far from my favorite person, and I knew she felt the same.

  “Leila is at your Storybook Kingdom right now. She’s waiting at the entrance ropes. Is it possible to wave her in early?”

  “Why in the world would she need to get into this festival before it opens to the public?”

  “If you’d rather not do this, I completely understand—”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks,” Mike said. “I mean it. I’ll owe you—”

  “Oh, I like the sound of that.”

  “I thought you might.” I could almost hear him smiling over the cellular signal, and that made me smile, until he added: “Can you do me one more favor?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Leila should be bringing her mother’s helper along. If not, can you keep an eye on how things go with the kids today?”

  “Mike, I love your kids, and I’ll do what I can, but won’t Leila want to look after her own kids?”

  “She’s been flaking out lately,” he confessed. “She’s late for things, forgets to pick up the kids when they’re visiting friends, going to the movies. I’m a little worried she’s . . .”

  “She’s what?”

  “I’ll tell you more when I see you. You’re still coming down tomorrow, aren’t you?”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t wait to get on that train.”

  “Then help me out today, okay?”

  “I’ll go right now to speak with Leila.”

  “Clare.”

  “Yes?”

  He lowered his voice. “I know you, sweetheart. And what you do in the absence of answers. Do not investigate Leila. Whatever she’s up to, let it go.”

  “Let what go?”

  A familiar beep-beep sounded. Mike had auto-released the lock on his SUV door. “For the moment, you’ll have to let me go.” He paused again. “Remember, no matter how obnoxious Leila is . . . I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Hold that thought.”

  FIVE

  I found Leila Carver Quinn Reynolds waiting on the lawn at the rear of the majestic Metropolitan Museum of Art, where velvet ropes marked the entrance to our little park Kingdom.

  A crowd had gathered already, but Mike’s ex-wife was easy to spot. A svelte redhead with the complexion of latte milk and exquisite makeup skills, Leila looked uber chic with her chunky platinum jewelry, designer skinny jeans, and forest green cashmere sweater coat to ward off the morning chill.

  Molly and
Jeremy were at her side, along with their adorable collie, Penny, straining at her leash.

  A few weeks back, Molly had mentioned a girl named Annie had become her mother’s new part-time helper, but I had never met Annie and I didn’t see a young woman.

  Leila spied me in my peasant dress and snapped her fingers, beckoning me over like a duchess commanding her scullery maid.

  I gritted my teeth, indulging in a moment’s fantasy of strangling the woman with her own chunky necklace.

  Patience, Clare. Be an adult.

  I’d already talked to Samantha Peel, the busy festival director, who approved three guest passes. Now I was trying to keep my focus on Mike’s kids—although it was Penny who ran to greet me first, breaking Jeremy’s hold on her leash.

  With a bark and tail wag, the little collie clearly remembered me from our past Sunday together. Mike and I had taken his kids on an apple-picking outing north of the city, and I’m sure Penny also remembered those warm, fresh apple cider doughnuts I’d shared with her.

  “Sorry, no doughnuts today, girl.” Petting her copper-patched white fur, I gathered her leash and returned her to the kids.

  Eleven-year-old Molly threw her arms around me in a tight hug. She had her mother’s pretty features and flawless complexion, but (thankfully) not the haughty poise of the fashion model her mother used to be.

  That unguarded innocence of childhood was still evident through her joyful smile (despite the newly acquired braces). Her shoulder-length hair was like mine, on the chestnut side of auburn. And like me, she’d brushed it back into a neat ponytail, sunny yellow ribbons matching her sweater.

  At Molly’s age, my own daughter had leaned toward being a tomboy. Molly preferred girly things—ballet, figure skating, fashion. Even her outfit was feminine with a lemon-and-cream-plaid skirt and matching tights.

  Her older brother, Jeremy, in blue jeans and windbreaker, had his father’s strong chin, light brown hair, and striking blue gaze. Since he’d turned thirteen, he’d even started taking on Mike’s reserve.