Once Upon a Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  “It’s dark outside!” I called, dashing for the door.

  On the grass, my legs began eating up ground until something caught my arm. “Whoa, Nellie!” Prince Matt stared down at me with suspicion. “Where are you galloping so fast?”

  “Where do you think? To find my boyfriend’s kids!”

  “Yes, but where?”

  I told him my destination and Matt frowned.

  “Clare, I’m not about to let you wander around Central Park’s woods alone.”

  “Then I guess you’re coming.”

  THIRTEEN

  USING my dream as a guide, I started at Belvedere Castle—where Molly and Jeremy should have met their mother.

  The Victorian folly was perched on top of Vista Rock, the second highest point in the entire park, and Matt complained about stiff boots and sore feet during the whole climb.

  “Molly! Jeremy!”

  A howl of wind was the only reply.

  It set me to shivering (and kicking myself for not covering my peasant costume with a nice, warm hoodie). Ignoring the chill, I adjusted my babushka, untying the strings from beneath my ponytail and retying them under my chin. Now I looked like Baba Yaga, but at least my ears were warm as I led Matt across the brightly lit observation deck to stone steps cut into the steep hillside.

  After the castle’s bright lights, our descent felt like a plunge into a black abyss. Cold, damp air hung like a fog around us, and the strong scent of earth and autumn leaves wafted up from the forest below.

  At the bottom of the rustic staircase, we followed the downward sloping dirt trail and entered the wooded maze known as the Ramble.

  I activated the Maglite. Its powerful beam seemed impressive back at the truck, but in these thick shadows, the light was easily dispersed.

  “Molly! Jeremy!” I called as we moved deeper into the darkness. A wind gust rustled the dry leaves, sending another chill through me. After more minutes of silent walking, I glanced at Matt.

  “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “These woods are creepy.”

  I sent the flashlight beam across his face. “You look tense. Are you scared?”

  “No. Just . . . uneasy.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “The fearless world traveler is rattled by a few trees?”

  “These trees, growing out of this earth.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “When I was a kid, I told my mother that I was spending the night at a friend’s apartment, but I really spent it in these woods. Three of my buddies and I did it on a dare.”

  “And?”

  “An old homeless guy saw us horsing around. He gathered us together and told us New York ghost stories for hours, including the true history of an early Dutch director general who ordered the massacre of two villages of Native American families. Men, women, children, grandparents—they were all killed right here on Manhattan Island, most while they slept.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “The Dutch official was ordered back to Amsterdam, but he never got there. His ship sank in a storm with everyone on board. The old man said he was cursed. The ghosts of the murdered families pulled him into the dark, icy depths.” Matt shivered. “I had nightmares for weeks.”

  “That massacre probably occurred in lower Manhattan, not way up here.”

  “It happened on this island, this land. You never wondered why the Manhattan population is happiest on concrete? Why the entire island is paved over? It’s a layer of stone between the residents and the cursed earth, which we do not have the advantage of at the moment.”

  “You actually believe there’s a curse on Manhattan earth? You never mentioned this to me before.”

  “We’ve never been alone, at night, in the Central Park woods before—”

  An animal chuffed from the bushes and we both nearly jumped out of our shoes (in Matt’s case, pointy boots). I aimed the flashlight at the sound and saw a pair of shiny eyes on a masked face. The creature blinked calmly and scurried away.

  “A raccoon,” Matt whispered.

  “At least it wasn’t a rat.”

  “Rats don’t bother me. I’m more concerned about wild dogs.”

  “What’s next?” I cried. “Gators from the sewers? A killer-eyed cockatrice? You can’t scare me with these silly fear tactics. I’m not leaving this park until I find Molly and Jeremy.”

  Matt stopped me. “They’re not here, Clare. There’s no sign of them. And the police are back on the festival grounds with a search plan that makes sense. This doesn’t.”

  “Can’t you trust me?”

  “Yes—if you tell me why you think they’re out here.”

  My dream, I thought, but what I said was—

  “Mother’s intuition.”

  “What does that mean?” Matt folded his arms. “Are you flashing back to some incident in Joy’s childhood you never mentioned?”

  Actually, there were plenty. When Joy was thirteen, she failed to come home from school. For hours, I knocked on doors in our Jersey neighborhood. I finally found my daughter in a tree house. She wasn’t alone, and while Joy and her classmate Stewart weren’t exactly playing doctor, they were definitely in the waiting room.

  “I often wonder how many of Joy’s secrets you’ve kept from me,” Matt mused.

  Only one, I thought. And his name isn’t Stewart. It’s Emmanuel Franco. But what I said was, “Not everything can be explained.” And I continued down the path, calling—

  “Molly! Jeremy!”

  Nothing.

  “Clare!” Matt shouted, standing his ground. “Let’s turn around—”

  “Wait, Matt! Look!”

  When he caught up to me, I passed the flashlight over two items lying on the dirt path: a cellophane wrapper and a piece of broken cookie. I picked them up and sniffed.

  “It’s one of our frosted gingerbread sticks. Mike’s kids were here. I’m sure of it!”

  “You gave hundreds of those away, Clare. Anyone could have dropped it here. You don’t expect me to believe—”

  “I expect you to back me up. That’s what good partners do. Now come on!”

  FOURTEEN

  AFTER some fast walking, we came to a fork in the road. Just like my dream, the trail split into two paths. Each curved out of sight.

  “So? Which way does your ‘mother’s intuition’ tell you to go now?”

  I closed my eyes and tried to conjure those dream images. I saw the giant oak tree, and the huge lighted sign hanging on its trunk.

  “The blinking traffic sign was on a downward grade,” I said, opening my eyes. “So let’s follow the descending path.”

  “Did you say something about a blinking traffic sign? In the woods?”

  Leading with the flashlight, I hurried down the trail.

  “Clare?”

  I faced him. “I had a dream, okay?”

  “Last night?”

  “No, I nodded off in your mother’s tent. I didn’t tell you because I know it’s not rational. But I can’t get it out of my mind, and—”

  “Before you had this dream, did you drink my coffee?”

  “Excuse me, but this is no time to discuss the quality of your—”

  “Answer me, Clare! Did you drink the coffee in the gypsy’s tent?”

  “Yes! I had two cups and the dream came after that. I must have dozed off because—”

  “You didn’t doze off. And you didn’t have a dream. What you experienced was a vision.”

  I studied Matt’s face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  He nodded, and I realized he looked more than serious. He looked excited. “Are you telling me those so-called ‘magic’ beans you brought back from Africa really are—”

  “The beans don’t work on everyone. In Ethiopia, the village
shaman told me the drinker must have a ‘special spirit’—essentially a natural gift of insight. Let’s just say she convinced me.”

  “How?”

  “Trust me, Clare. After what I witnessed, I became a believer.”

  “A believer in what exactly?”

  “In the coffee beans’ ability to . . .” He looked away. “I know it sounds crazy, but I sent a sample to a friend. He’s a chemist—and a coffee aficionado. I want to know what properties in these beans help certain people read . . .”

  “Read the future? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Now do you understand why I was trying to get you into that fortune-telling tent?”

  “No. I do not understand. Mike’s kids didn’t go missing until the end of the day. What kind of future were you hoping I’d see?”

  “Yours.” Matt shifted from one pointy boot to the other. “My mother and I were both hoping the fortune-telling session would help you make an important decision . . .”

  My stomach clenched. They couldn’t know about Mike’s question. I was keeping it from them. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  It was a weak lie, and Matt knew it. “Come on, Clare.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. “How did you find out?” I demanded. “Did Tucker tell you?”

  “That’s not important. What is important is your peace of mind.”

  “Listen, now is not the time to discuss my future!” I walked away.

  He gently grabbed my arm. “You asked me to be a good partner. I failed at that in marriage, but I won’t in business—or as a friend. After we know the kids are safe, you and I—and mother, if you like—will sit down and help you figure out what to do, okay?”

  I took a deep breath. “I just hope those kids are safe.”

  “What makes you think they aren’t? Talk to me. After you drank the coffee, what did you see?”

  I told him my vision, but not from the beginning. It was the end of the vision that disturbed me most.

  “I remembered being very cold. Not so much temperature as temperament. It was a black, empty cold, the kind that chills you from the inside out. And there was a presence . . .”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It was a feeling at first and then I saw this black specter . . .” I described how it first appeared human and then transformed, twisting into a beastly thing.

  “You saw Death in the woods?”

  “Not Death. Someone who has no problem using it. Now do you see why I’m so desperate to find Mike’s kids?”

  Matt grimaced and his tone changed. “Tell me more about your vision. You said something about a traffic sign?”

  “A giant oak tree was blocking my path. A sign hung on it with blinking bulbs. The lights spelled out Bridge Detour.”

  Matt pulled out his smartphone. “Let’s try something . . .”

  “What are you doing?”

  He tapped the phone’s screen a few times and showed it to me. “These are photos and descriptions of all the bridges in Central Park. Scroll through them and tell me if anything looks familiar.”

  “Balcony Bridge at West Side Drive—No.” I continued down the list. “Bow Bridge across the Lake; Bridge Number Twenty-four across the Bridle Path; Gapstow Bridge across the Pond at Fifty-ninth Street; Oak Bridge across Bank Rock Bay—”

  “Stop,” said Matt.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you tell me the Bridge Detour sign in your vision was attached to—”

  “An oak tree! Matt, I remember now: This morning Jeremy said something about showing Molly the ducks at Oak Bridge! Where is it? How far?”

  He grabbed back the smartphone, tapped up a map. “We’re very close. Look—”

  “It’s just ahead!” I bolted down the trail.

  “Slow down!” Matt yelled. “Don’t make me look for you, too!”

  I picked up my pace instead (which may have been a tad reckless). Hitting a patch of wet leaves, I slipped, skinning an elbow as I fell.

  Footsteps sounded behind me. Then a hand appeared in front of my face.

  “Really, Clare, hasn’t your boyfriend taught you the value of backup?”

  With a sigh, I took Matt’s hand and hauled myself up. “I’m just so worried about them.”

  “I know. Let’s go . . .”

  Together we continued along the trail until the Ramble’s famous Arch appeared. Flanked by massive boulders, this narrow stone bower reminded me of a giant keyhole, and I felt like a shrunken, shivering Alice as we passed through—until I saw another breadcrumb (so to speak).

  “A hair ribbon!”

  I moved the flashlight’s beam over the object. The ribbon looked like Molly’s, except the sunny yellow color was half-buried in blackness.

  The sight of that innocent little thing soiled and ground into the dirt sent a deathlike chill through me, and I took off again.

  “Clare!”

  “Come on!” I shouted, unable to stop myself.

  By now, I could see a glimmer in the distance—lamplight reflecting on undulating waves. I jogged toward the light until I reached a small section of Central Park’s Lake.

  The landmark Oak Bridge spanned the inlet. Flanked by beaux-arts lampposts, the beautifully restored bridge had been carrying people safely across the brackish water for well over a century.

  In the middle of its wooden deck, I spied a boy and a girl in a pool of golden light, leaning against its cast-iron railings.

  “Molly! Jeremy!”

  With a shriek of joy and relief, I ran to them.

  FIFTEEN

  MOLLY threw herself into my arms.

  She’s crying, I realized, and not tears of joy . . .

  “We tried to find Annie!” she said between heartrending sobs. “Someone told us they saw the Pink Princess in the Ramble, but when we got here—”

  “Penny ran away, Aunt Clare,” Jeremy said in an emotionless tone (not unlike his father’s).

  “She took off after a squirrel,” Molly added through tears. “The leash slipped out of my hand!”

  Molly wiped her nose with a tissue she pulled from her pocket.

  I noticed something shiny coming out with it—a chain of silver and gold links with a broken clasp. I tucked the broken necklace back into her pocket and continued to comfort the inconsolable girl.

  “It’s my fault, Aunt Clare,” Molly wailed. “Now Penny is lost!”

  Jeremy squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t cry, Mol. I told you I’d find Penny, and I will.”

  By now, Matt had caught up with us and was on the phone with Samantha Peel. In record time, an electric buggy appeared on the far side of the Oak Bridge.

  Samantha rode in back with a fuming Leila Quinn. Up front, a police officer sat behind the wheel next to the festival’s legal advisor.

  I sighed. Has our society turned so litigious we need lawyers to oversee the reunion of lost kids with their mothers?

  The buggy rolled to a halt and Leila jumped out. No greeting, no thanks. The woman simply pushed me aside and grabbed Jeremy’s arm.

  “What were you thinking?!” she yelled, shaking the boy. “I was worried sick—”

  “Leila, stop!” I dived in, pulling the woman off her son. “Penny got lost. They’ve been searching for the dog ever since.”

  Leila’s eyes flashed. For a second, I thought she was going to shake me, too—she even balled her fist.

  Oh, go ahead, I thought, balling my own. Give me a reason.

  It was eleven-year-old Molly who acted like the grown-up. “Stop fighting!” she shouted. “We have to find Penny!”

  The little girl’s eyes filled with tears, and Leila’s maternal instincts finally kicked in. “This policeman will find your dog,” she cooed.

  The officer’s expression was doubtful,
and Molly—a detective’s daughter—immediately picked up his negative vibe.

  “We have to find Penny ourselves!” she told her mother in a firm voice.

  “We can’t. It’s late and you’re both going home.”

  While Molly and her mother argued, the festival’s attorney climbed out of the electric buggy, resplendent in casual-Saturday lawyer wear—navy blue sports coat, open-necked shirt, nicely pressed jeans, and highly polished loafers. To my surprise, he didn’t approach Leila. Instead, he pulled Matt and me aside.

  In his late forties, Harrison Van Loon (pronounced “Van Loan,” or so he said at last week’s vendors’ planning meeting) lived on the leaner side of trim with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, a fashionably close-cropped beard, and horn-rimmed glasses through which his intense hazel green eyes were (unfortunately) studying Matt and me with open suspicion.

  “From your costumes I’m guessing you’re festival staff?” The toothy smile looked friendly, but the tone of voice was disturbingly serious.

  I gave him our names, and he pointed at Matt.

  “Allegro? You’re the one Samantha signed up this morning, aren’t you? I told Sam you should have been vetted first. Everyone who works around children has to be vetted. We don’t want the festival to be exposed to legal action . . .”

  This I knew from the aforementioned vendors’ meeting, where Van Loon had handed out a long list of do’s and don’ts in dealing with the public (emphasis on the don’ts) . . .

  Do be courteous; don’t be argumentative;

  Do smile at the children; don’t touch the children;

  Do offer children food; don’t hand the children food;

  Do hand it first to a parent or caregiver in loco parentis . . . et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam.

  “Look, I signed a bunch of papers,” Matt told the lawyer. “I followed your rules. I didn’t know you wanted DNA samples on top of it all—”

  “There wasn’t time for formalities,” I hastily added. “Samantha was in a bind and Matt volunteered to help out. You should be thanking him.”

  “You say you found these kids?”