Once Upon a Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  “Cool outfit, Aunt Clare,” he said, hands in pockets.

  “Wait till you see our coffee truck!”

  Both kids lit up at my description of the balloon Dante had designed of a giant coming down a beanstalk. I handed the kids a program for the day and pointed out the knights, jousting in all-day tournaments, including NFL stars.

  “Awesome!” Jeremy said. “I’m totally up for that!”

  “And I want to see the Princesses!” Molly insisted. “Annie told me she’s going to be the Pink Princess!”

  “Well, there is a Pink Princess,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure her name is Anya, not Annie.”

  Leila sighed with profound impatience. “Molly calls Anya ‘Annie’ as a nickname.”

  “You’re telling me that Anya, the Pink Princess, works part-time as your mother’s helper?”

  “Wow, Clare, you’re right on top of things, aren’t you?” Leila rolled her eyes. (And yes, I controlled my urge to take a poke at one.)

  “Annie said there would be twelve princesses,” Molly continued, “just like her favorite Russian fairy tale, where the beautiful girls secretly dance all night around trees with leaves of silver, gold, and diamonds. Have you heard the story of the Secret Ball?”

  “No, honey,” I replied and focused back on Leila. “So let me get this straight. You have no mother’s helper with you today?”

  “Obviously,” Leila said to her French manicure. “I knew you’d be here.”

  Before I could respond, Molly tugged on my peasant sleeve.

  “Aunt Clare! Aunt Clare! What is this twisty part on the map?”

  “That’s the Ramble,” Jeremy answered. “I’ll take you to see the ducks at Oak Bridge—”

  “No,” Leila snapped. “You two stay away from the Ramble. Those woods are confusing, and they’re not part of the festival.”

  “Molly can see the ducks at Turtle Pond,” I suggested. “We’re parked right next to it.”

  “See?” said Leila. “Now go with Aunt Clare to see the ducks and funny beanstalk coffee truck. I have something to do.”

  Molly grasped my hand, swinging it happily, as Jeremy studied the festival program, Penny wagging her tail at his side.

  “Leila,” I called as the woman’s stiletto boot heels clicked swiftly away from us, “you do know I have a business to run?”

  “Have fun,” Leila sang as she hurried down the tree-lined path and toward the Delacorte Theater.

  Now why in the world is she going there? I wondered. The first Mother Goose Storytime show wasn’t due to start for another ninety minutes . . .

  Mike’s warning came back to me: “Do not investigate Leila. Whatever she’s up to, let it go . . .”

  “Okay,” I whispered to the absent Mike. “I won’t spy on Leila.”

  Instead, I led Molly and Jeremy back to my truck, and set them down at a picnic table with mugs of hot cocoa.

  Then I sent a casual little text to my assistant manager, Tucker Burton, who was on vacation this week. Tuck also moonlighted as a professional actor and director, and he just happened to be at the Delacorte right now with the rest of his Storytime cast, preparing for a long day of kiddie shows . . .

  Mike’s X heading 2 Delacorte.

  Keep I on her.

  X-tra paid vacation day in it 4U . . .

  There you go, Leila. How’s that for being on top of things?

  With a satisfied smile, I slipped my smartphone back into my peasant pocket, ready to handle the day. That’s when I saw the next crisis coming at me.

  “Clare! Clare Cosi! I need your help!”

  SIX

  ROCKETING toward our coffee truck was festival director Samantha Peel.

  An intense, middle-aged brunette, Sam was the commanding general brand of socialite. Instead of a riding crop, she carried a clipboard and her “war room” was a Bluetooth dangling from one ear, connecting her with a small army of festival workers.

  With her designer safari jacket belted tightly around her waist, her long dark hair scraped back into a battle-ready ponytail, and her knee-high riding boots swishing swiftly through the park grass, she was dressed for the day’s challenges. She also wore a strained expression, one I knew well. This poor woman was in desperate need of caffeine!

  “What can I get you?” I asked.

  “Prince Charming—and fast.”

  Over the years, I’d heard nearly every slang term there was in this coffee business from the “Ben Franklin” (black iced coffee) to the “Little Lydia” (small latte). I even knew about the “Osama Bin Latte” (quad cappuccino with raw cane sugar). But a Prince Charming?

  “I’m sorry, Sam, but what exactly goes into a Prince Charming?”

  “What goes into a—” She burst out laughing. “Oh, no, Clare! I’m not talking about some crazy coffee drink! One of my actors called in sick. I sent out an emergency text, and your employer answered. She said her son—” Sam glanced at the clipboard propped on her leopard print hip. “Matteo? Is that right? She said he would be willing to step in and play the part.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want Matt Allegro to be your Prince Charming?”

  “Exactly!”

  I shook my head. “Take it from a woman who knows, you’re better off with a crazy coffee drink.”

  * * *

  MATT protested, of course, but his mother insisted that he pitch in to help, and with one wave of her bejeweled hand, his fate was sealed.

  Off came the tailored jacket and on went the belted silk tunic with the royal crest.

  Gold crown (check). Fake sword (check)—he actually liked both of those (no surprise). But he categorically refused to wear the green tights, so the folks from the House of Fen provided black leather pants and knee-high male fashion boots with oddly pointed toes.

  After one of his sourcing trips to the godforsaken wilderness, Matt looked less like a son of royalty than a member of Captain Hook’s crew. But I had to admit today he looked the part of a fairy-tale prince, all broad-shouldered and darkly handsome.

  Samantha declared him perfect for the role of escort to one of the festival’s twelve Princesses, hired to enchant every little girl in today’s audience. Then she leaned toward me and lowered her voice—

  “And I do believe Matt will do the same for the mommies.”

  A few minutes later I noticed Matt futzing with his pointy boots. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “You look like you’re in pain.”

  “Not any pain, Clare. Royal pain.”

  * * *

  MANY hours later, the sun was sinking below Central Park’s trees and my ex-husband was back, thrumming fingers on my truck’s countertop again.

  “Got any of those Black Forest Brownies?”

  “Not today.”

  “How about those Kahlúa thingies?” He adjusted his crown. “They’re like vanilla brownies, and you swirl chocolate and coffee liqueur into them.”

  “My Cappuccino Blondies?”

  He waved his plastic sword. “That’s right!”

  “I don’t have those, either.”

  “Haven’t you got anything with alcohol in it?”

  “Matt, this place is packed with children. Why would I be serving anything spiked with alcohol?”

  “Because after a very long day of touchy dragons, cranky trolls, and screaming kids, we adults could use it.”

  “Sorry, Charming, you are cursed with sobriety—at least for another hour.”

  “Oh, boss! The natives are getting restless.” Esther pointed at the flash mob forming in front of our truck. “If those are kids, we’re fine. But if they’re cannibal pygmies, we’re dinner!”

  I faced Matt. “Are you ready to hand out my gingerbread cookie sticks? They already announced the giveaway over the loudspeakers.”

  “I have to wait for my Pink Prin
cess.” He tapped his watch. “She’s late.”

  “Since when do medieval princes have Breitlings? Shouldn’t you consult a sundial or hourglass, maybe a magic mirror?”

  “You got a magic mirror with white powder, I’m game.”

  “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “Cough up an Espressotini and I’ll go away.”

  “No deal. I really need you to hand out these goodies.”

  “We Princes have protocols. I’m not allowed to hand out anything until a Princess does her spiel. It’s some kind of marketing gimmick for their designer gowns. That’s why the House of Fen is one of the sponsors bankrolling this shindig.” Matt rechecked his watch and scanned the crowds. “This isn’t like Anya.”

  “Anya?”

  “The Pink Princess.”

  “I know who the Pink Princess is.” I narrowed my eyes at the man. “I wasn’t aware you and she were on a first-name basis.”

  “I was paired with Anya for most of the day, Clare. She’s sweet, and she loves all this fairy-tale stuff.”

  “I hope you behaved,” I said, “because she’s also a part-time mommy’s helper for—”

  “Look, Sam’s coming.” Matt pointed. “Do you think she reassigned Anya?”

  Samantha Peel looked frazzled after ten hours of conjuring up solutions to problems, but when Matt explained the situation, she went right to her magical Bluetooth.

  “Bitsy, where the heck is Pink? . . . Well, if she’s not answering her phone, try her friend, Red. Maybe they’re together.”

  “Aunt Clare!”

  Turning, I found an excited Molly Quinn looking up at me.

  “Is Annie here yet?”

  “We’re looking for her, honey.”

  “I’ve been waiting all day for her to tell the story of the Secret Ball and the dancing princesses. It’s my favorite, and she said she was going to tell it especially for me.”

  I brushed Molly’s bangs. “She must like you very much.”

  “She likes Jeremy, too. She wants to be a teacher someday. But Annie needs lots and lots of money to pay for her education.”

  Lots and lots of money, I thought. That doesn’t sound right. Between CUNY and SUNY plenty of young people with little money were able to earn college degrees. But I let that topic go in favor of another—Jeremy.

  “Where is your brother? I don’t see him.”

  Molly jerked her thumb toward the crowded ball field. I caught sight of Mike’s son near the edge, giving their little collie, Penny, a chance to tag trees.

  “And where’s your mother?”

  Molly’s shrug surprised me.

  “You don’t know where your mom is?”

  “We’re supposed to meet her up at the castle, after we watch the knights joust.”

  “The Emerald Princess is on her way!” Samantha announced, looking relieved.

  “Good,” Esther said, eyeing the gathering crowd. “A mob is an ugly thing.”

  But Molly tugged my sleeve, and as I leaned down, she whispered in my ear.

  “I don’t like the Emerald Princess. She tells the same story about the frog prince—and she doesn’t even tell it right.”

  “Well, I still need you to stick around,” I insisted. “I don’t want you running around this festival alone—”

  “But Annie is so much better! She told four stories today. One about Baba Yaga, a witch with iron teeth who eats children. She lives in the forest, in a hut with chicken legs—that’s probably why she told that one at the chicken nugget stand.” Molly laughed. “And Father Frost—she told that one at the frozen yogurt truck. Do you know that story, Aunt Clare?”

  “I don’t, sweetie—”

  “A girl is nice to Father Frost and he gives her treasure and a fur coat. But when another girl is rude to him, he freezes her!” Molly concluded with great relish.

  I noticed the Emerald Princess jogging toward us, green skirt hiked up in a seriously un-Princesslike fashion.

  “Molly, honey, after the goodies are handed out, I’ll take you and Jeremy to see the knights, and then we’ll find your mother.”

  And I’ll find out what’s more important to her than looking after you kids!

  Molly shrugged in such a noncommittal way that I should have been suspicious—but too much was going on. Esther called for help and we swung into action, bringing out trays of cellophane-wrapped treats.

  As Molly predicted, a rather lackadaisical story followed from Emerald Girl about a frog prince, then came the handing out of our frosted gingerbread “beanstalk” cookie sticks and bags of “magic beans” (chocolate-covered raisins) by Prince Matt, who was indeed quite the draw for the mommies.

  Things went pretty well, after all. Then the excitement was over, the crowd dispersed—

  And I couldn’t find Molly or Jeremy.

  SEVEN

  “HAVE you seen Mike Quinn’s kids?” I asked Matt. “I told them I’d take them to see the knights.”

  “The jousting started fifteen minutes ago. They probably took off because they didn’t want to miss anything.”

  Before Matt even finished his sentence, I was pulling out my cell phone and tapping Jeremy’s number. He didn’t pick up, so I left a message to call me immediately.

  “Clare? What’s wrong?”

  “Mike asked me to keep tabs on his kids today. Can you help me find them?”

  “Of course. Come on . . .”

  * * *

  THE Fairy Tale Village was a collage of noise, color, and manic activity. While pastel Princesses strolled among their subjects with their Prince Charmings, jugglers entertained the crowd, and families swarmed in and out of rainbow tents with crafts, puppets, and carnival games.

  A loud crash startled me, and I turned to find an armored knight on the Great Lawn being swept off his black mare. Atop a white steed, the victor raised his lance to loud applause.

  “I didn’t know they’d be jousting with live horses!”

  “They’re pros, Clare, from that ‘Meat-dieval’ Tournament and Feast in New Jersey.” He gave me a brochure that grinning jesters were handing out. “Shows six nights a week and a matinee brunch on Saturdays.”

  Hundreds of kids crammed the perimeter of the jousting field, cheering for their favorite knight. A half-dozen celebrity pro-football players were here, too, dressed in shining armor and posing for photographs.

  We searched through the throng but saw no sign of Molly or Jeremy.

  “They probably found their mother and went home,” Matt said.

  “I hope so.”

  To make sure, I called Leila. She didn’t pick up so I left a voice mail message—nothing alarming, simply a request to call me back.

  By the time we returned to our coffee truck, the festival was winding down. The crowd was thinning, and the park lights were flickering on.

  I checked and rechecked my cell phone.

  Nothing. No messages from Leila or Jeremy.

  Hoping to get my worries under control, I climbed inside our truck to find my staff reduced to one—Nancy.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Dante took off for his overtime shift at the shop.”

  “What about Esther?” I spied her musical harp on the counter.

  “She was here a minute ago, until she saw Tucker Burton rushing toward Madame Tesla’s tent. She said she wanted to know the reason Tuck was hurrying to have his fortune told—career or romance.”

  As I darted for the truck’s back door, Nancy frowned. “Now where are you going?!”

  “To find out!”

  But it wasn’t Tuck’s “career or romance” business I was interested in. It was Leila’s.

  EIGHT

  TUCK had a chance to observe Leila this morning at the theater, where she’d rushed to go (sans kids). Now was my chance to
find out why.

  But when I got to the gypsy tent, I found Esther half crouched at the door flap, one ear cocked.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Eavesdropping, of course.”

  “You should not be listening to another person’s fortune-telling session. That’s private business.”

  “Just think of me as the NSA.”

  “Esther—”

  “Chill-ax, will you? I’m only trying to find out if Tucker got as lousy a fortune as I did.”

  “You had a dark prediction?” Concerned, I stepped closer. “What was it?”

  Esther smirked. “Didn’t you just say fortune telling is private business?”

  “Yes, but I do happen to care about you.”

  “It’s my romantic life.” She grimaced. “There’s a bumpy road ahead.”

  “Oh, is that all.”

  “Hey, I may not be the kind of female who dots her i’s with little hearts, but I do have one. Boris is my world.”

  “Of course he is. What I meant was: When it comes to romance, there’s always a bumpy road ahead. So don’t take your reading too seriously, okay? Now go back to the truck and help Nancy close up. I have business with Tucker.”

  (And yes, I conveniently left out the part about my business being even more like the NSA’s than Esther’s, although my surveillance scheme was a tad more serious. I was truly worried about Mike’s kids.)

  I drew back the flap, and stepped into the heady aromas of brewed coffee and potent incense.

  “Hello!”

  Laughing voices abruptly stopped. Then came whispering and silence.

  A batik-draped partition divided the tent into a main room and smaller anteroom, which was where I now stood. A greeter was supposed to be here to welcome customers. But at this late hour, she was gone. The only thing here was a doily-covered table and a framed sign that read:

  MAGIC COFFEE BEAN READING

  $20.00 TICKET DONATION