by Cleo Coyle
Thank goodness, I thought. That strange vision of Gardner disappearing was obviously a stress reaction, nothing woo-woo about it.
“Remember my auntie? The one who makes the best Caribbean Black Cake on the planet?”
“How could I forget?” Gardner had created a Black Cake Latte one Christmas season (with homemade Burnt Sugar Syrup), which now had a permanent spot on our holiday menu.
“Ten years back, my auntie and her husband went their separate ways, but they never divorced, and when he passed away, she got everything, an estate in the Islands and a big pile of stocks and cash.”
“I’m sorry for her loss,” I said sincerely, “but I’m happy as long as she is. And you are.”
“And my cousin.”
“Your cousin?” I studied Gardner’s excited expression. “I’m not following you.”
“I’m leaving, boss. My dream is coming true.”
“What dream?”
“When my cuz and I were kids, we hatched this dream to open a club together. I want it to be a jazz club, and he’s down with that. Now that his mama’s got some money, we’re gonna try it.”
“Here in New York?”
“No, closer to home.”
“Home as in?”
“Baltimore—or somewhere close by. He’s got a handle on a few places up for sale that might be right. We’re still talking it through.”
“But you’re really going? Your mind’s made up?” I felt like a mother hearing about her child’s acceptance to college in some faraway land, where she’d never see him again.
“When a dream’s this close, you’ve got to give it a shot, don’t you?”
I forced a smile. Gardner was right, and I wanted him to thrive, but my heart was sinking. His departure would be a hard loss for the Village Blend family. And then it hit me—
What I saw outside was true. Well, part of it anyway. I felt loss after Gardner’s elation, and he was literally going to disappear from my coffeehouse. But he wasn’t profoundly sad about it. So why did I have that feeling, too?
“Hey, you two, something’s up!”
Dante Silva hurried toward us with a five-pound bag of freshly roasted beans in his hands and a look of distress on his face.
“I saw Esther in the roasting room and—”
“In the roasting room?” I said. “What’s she doing down there?”
“Crying like a baby!”
Gardner and I glanced at each other then looked to Dante.
“I’ve never seen her like that before,” he said.
No kidding, I thought. My resident slam poetess had mood swings that rivaled Sylvia Plath’s, but none of us had ever seen her that upset.
Gardner appeared skeptical. “Esther’s not the crying type.”
“Well, she is now,” Dante replied. “And it’s kind of scary.”
“Did you talk to her?” I asked.
“I tried, but she told me to hit the road, so I grabbed the beans and backed away.”
“I’m going down there . . .”
After swerving to grab a stack of Village Blend napkins, I headed for the back of the shop. Behind me, the two young bachelors sighed loudly with relief. It didn’t surprise me.
The heart was a mysterious organ, and the men I knew didn’t have the first clue how to investigate it. Most would rather face a fire-breathing dragon than try to comfort a Goth girl in tears.
THIRTY-THREE
ON the steps to our ancient basement, I recalled my own purgatory spent down here, sobbing over one or another of Matteo Allegro’s indiscretions.
Close to the bottom, I spied Esther, slumped on the raised concrete base that supported our big roasting machine, a few lost beans littered like cinders at her feet. She was crying so hard she hadn’t heard my approach.
I cleared my throat (loudly), and she froze.
“Esther?” I called, trying to sound casual. “Are you down here?”
“Yeah, boss,” she replied after an awkward pause.
My zaftig Cinderella had changed from her festival outfit into black jeans and a Poetry in Motion tee the deep purple shade of a day-old bruise. Her raven hair was still in its beehive, but it stood about as straight as the Tower of Pisa.
When she heard my approach, she turned away. I stepped forward and sat beside her, gently nudging her ample hips to make room.
“I’m fixing my makeup,” she said with a sniffle.
I held out that stack of Village Blend napkins. “Then I guess a few of these will come in handy.”
Esther took them all. The thick mascara had run down her cheeks. Lower lip quivering, she swiped at the black tears.
“Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
She stared at me, as if I’d spoken Greek, then threw her arms around my neck and broke down.
The smell of freshly roasted beans and the racking sobs of a young female brought it all back, those early married years when Matt had sent my heart through the grinder.
The young embarrass easily, and like Esther, I’d thought I wanted privacy. It was those times when Matt’s mother sought me out. Madame offered her counsel, a shoulder to cry on, and (yes) a stack of Village Blend napkins.
My mother-in-law was the one who kept me going, because it was her open arms that told me I was still valued, still loved . . .
“I’m worried about you,” I now told Esther, holding on tight. “Talk to me.”
Sitting back, she dabbed her raccoon eyes with a crumpled napkin.
“You know my roommate is moving out at the end of the month,” she began. “Not to bring up that raise again, but I still need help with the rent.”
“Stated before, and duly noted. Go on.”
“Well, last week, I got up the nerve to ask Boris if he wanted to move in with me. He’s working at Janelle’s Bakery so many hours now it made sense. He crashes at my place four nights a week already because it’s easier than trekking all the way back to Brighton Beach.”
“What did he say?”
“He claimed he was tired and we’d talk about it the next morning. But instead of a heart-to-heart, Boris snuck out while I was still snoring.”
“Didn’t you bring it up again?”
“Only every day! He kept putting me off, saying he needed to think things through—which made me feel like crap, by the way . . .”
I tried not to show it, but her words shook me up.
I couldn’t help flashing on Mike and the fallen expression on his face when I’d put him off yet again. It was a hard realization, but the rapping Russian baker and I were in the same position, with the same unintended result. We were hurting the people we loved by our inability to make a decision.
“Tonight, I texted him,” Esther went on. “I said I was tired of waiting and wanted an answer. I asked Boris to meet me here to talk it out. He texted back. Look—”
Sorry. Have given much thought.
Mind made up. Will explain tomorrow night at Poetry Slam.
See U then. –Boris
I kept my tone upbeat. “Sounds like he’s finally going to answer you. That’s good, right?”
“That’s bad, boss. Very bad . . .” Esther’s Tower of Pisa hair fell even more as she violently shook her head. “Don’t you see? I pushed him too far. Now he’s rethinking our whole relationship. He’s not only going to say no to living with me. He’s going to dump me!”
THIRTY-FOUR
FRESH tears sprang up, and I pulled Esther into my arms.
“Oh, Esther, do you really think so?”
“Boris has too much integrity to break it off in a crummy text. But face-to-face, in a public place, while I’m distracted with my MC duties at the Slam and can’t make a scene, that’s when he’s going to finish us.”
“Maybe you simply need to be patient and hear what he has to
say.”
“Why are you taking his side? That doesn’t help me!” Esther broke our clinch and grimaced. “Even Madame Tesla predicted it in my coffee reading. My love life is on the rocks!”
“First of all, you told me your grinds showed a ‘bumpy road ahead’—which this clearly is, but the ride’s not over yet. You need to hold on; have a little faith in Boris; and not let some silly fortune-telling session make you believe something is happening when it may not.”
“No. I’m doing what I have to, avoiding total humiliation at the Poetry Slam tomorrow by facing my feelings now . . .” She reached for the Village Blend cup beside her and groaned. “Look at this. With all my stupid bawling, I let my perfect latte go cold.”
I saw the sad remains of the latte art Esther had created—a heart with a ragged crack down the middle. She noticed my stare and shrugged.
“What can I say? Turning misery into art is what I do.” She blew her nose into a fresh napkin.
“You’re a poet, Esther, which means you have a great imagination. But I think you’re using it too much in this case.”
“Better to prepare yourself for the worst, I say. And I will be. I’m sorry I asked Boris to live with me—and I’m beginning to hate him, which is good. I’ll be totally ready for him when he dumps me. I’ll have plenty to say to that jerk!”
There it was. If hurt was anger turned inward, then it was only a matter of time before it turned outward again.
“And if you’re not careful, Clare, it’s going to happen to you and your blue knight . . .”
It was Madame’s voice that issued the haunting warning in my head.
I ignored it, refusing to believe a thing like that could happen between me and Mike. I still couldn’t believe it was happening to Esther and Boris.
When those two first met at a Brooklyn Poetry Slam, it was love at first phrase. In the years after, I saw the adoring passion in Boris’s eyes whenever he gazed at his Esther, rapping on the stage, doing her work with inner-city kids, or pouring her perfect latte art.
“I know that young man loves you,” I told Esther. “You two were made for each other. I’m sure Boris is on your side. You’ll see . . .”
With a hard shake of her head, Esther rose.
“Let’s give it a rest, okay? It’s late. I better fix myself up and go home.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” I gave her another hug. “Look, no matter what happens, I’m here for you, and I’ll even try to finagle that raise, too.”
Before I headed for the steps, I glanced at the roasting schedule near the Probat. It was the bright red color of the machine that reminded me—
“Esther, I’m sorry, but I need to ask you something. Were you speaking with someone earlier? A dark-haired young woman wearing a hoodie—”
“You mean Red?” she garbled, bobby pins in her teeth as she righted her leaning tower of hair.
“Her name is Red?”
“Her name is Roz something. I’m not sure. Red is what she wants to be known by—it’s her performance handle. She updated it recently to Red in the ’Hood now that Red Riding Hood: The Musical is bringing in major bucks on Broadway.”
“Is she in the show?”
“No, she’s using the show. It’s so popular that she’s making the most of it on the Slam circuit. Wears the red hoodie, raps what she calls ‘urban fairy tales’ in English and Russian. They like her in Manhattan; they love her in Brighton Beach.”
“So she’s Russian?”
“She came over when she was a little girl. I actually know her through Boris. She’s one of his sketchy friends.”
“Sketchy how?”
Esther shrugged. “Her income fluctuates more than a bipolar torch singer. She’s in a thrift shop coat one week and a designer outfit the next. She’s taking the subway one time and the next she’s got a hired driver chauffeuring her around. Same with her living sitch. From month to month she seems to move from posh digs to dives and back again.”
“And you have no idea why?”
“Hey, when it comes to Boris’s Russian friends, I learned not to ask questions. Red’s a first-class rapper. That’s all I know, and all I want to know.”
“So were you two talking about Boris and your situation?”
Esther shook her head. “She came in asking about Mr. Boss.”
“Matt?”
Esther nodded. “She saw him at our coffee truck this morning and asked me all about him. Then she asked if he was going to be at the Poetry Slam tomorrow night. I said I didn’t know.”
“Is she interested in Matt?”
“You mean like hot for him? No, I don’t think so. She wasn’t dreamy. She was upset.”
“Upset how?”
“Nervous, gnawing at her fingernails. And angry. She kept muttering in Russian.”
“What sort of mutters?”
“Run-of-the-mill Russian curses. The kind of things Boris spits out when he cuts himself shaving. Except for an odd phrase—Ya budu ryadom. Ya budu ryadom. She kept repeating it.”
“What does it mean?”
“No clue. A new curse maybe?”
“Do you at least know where she lives now?”
“She bounces around too much. But I can text her.”
“Good. Tell her that Matt is absolutely going to be at the Poetry Slam tomorrow. Do it right now.”
“It’s that important?”
“Trust me, it is.”
THIRTY-FIVE
WHILE Esther communed with her smartphone, my mind raced.
If this “sketchy” girl rapper had drug connections, then she could very well be the reason Anya was lying in a hospital bed tonight. She could be the key to Matt’s release.
“Okay, boss, I sent the text.”
“Good,” I said and headed for the stairs.
“Hey,” she called.
I turned. “Something else?”
“I was wondering about Mr. Boss. Is he okay? I heard the cops were questioning him tonight.”
“They let him go. For now anyway . . .”
Esther shifted. “You know, he’s the reason I’m still working here.”
“What do you mean? You’re not harboring a secret crush on him, like Nancy, are you?”
“Nothing like that. It happened before you came back to manage the place. This awful guy was in charge.”
“You mean Flaste?” I shuddered at the memory.
“That jerk actually fired me.”
“I never knew that. Why?”
“No real reason. He wanted to hire a crony, and I was some ‘chubby young nobody’—I overheard him leaving the snotty phone message for Mr. Boss. I was easy to dispose of and Flaste threw me out like a pile of trash.”
“But when I took over, you were still working here.”
“That’s because your ex-husband blew a gasket. He flew all the way back from God knows where, didn’t even change his clothes. He called me up from the airport, told me to meet him at the shop, and he chewed Flaste out right in front of me. He told the jerk we weren’t some corporate franchise. We were a family. And anyone the Village Blend hired stayed in the family unless there was a very good reason to kick us to the curb.”
Esther shook her head with pleasure at the memory. “Flaste was stuttering by the end, totally red in the face. But he was scared of Mr. Boss, who made him apologize and give me my job back. So like I said, if there’s anything I can do to help the man . . .”
“You just did, Esther.” (At least I hoped so.)
“You and Mr. Allegro are the only people who ever fought for me.” She studied her combat boots. “Not many employers would have come down to this coffee cave with me bawling away in it.”
“I was glad to. Now get some rest. Things will feel better in the morning. And if they don’t, please rememb
er—what Matt said was right. We’re family. We care about you, so don’t be afraid to reach out for help.”
“Easy for you to say. Not so easy for me to do.”
“I know. But there’s a life truth here, Esther, and you might as well accept it.”
“What?”
How did Quinn put it? “At one time or another, even the toughest of us needs backup.”
THIRTY-SIX
I found Mike in my apartment’s kitchen. He put down his cell so quickly I assumed he was checking messages. But the pinched look around his blue eyes told me he was irritated by what he’d seen there.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
His tone was clipped. Something was wrong. He simply didn’t want to talk about it.
“You tired?” he asked instead, slipping his suit jacket off my shoulders.
“You’d think I would be. My leg is aching, my jaw hurts, but my mind is racing, and I’m still wide awake.”
“It’s the adrenaline,” he said, peeling off his shoulder holster. “Getting shot at will do that to you. I feel it, too.”
He bent close, but (unfortunately) not for a kiss. Instead, he coolly took hold of my chin and examined my jaw, where a nasty-looking bruise was beginning to show.
Below us, Java and Frothy circled our legs and made their way to the royal buffet I’d left for them (before our weekend travel plans went kaput).
As my furry girls consumed their crunchy feast, I told Mike about the Goth Cinderella crying in our basement—and her tenuous connection to a friend of Anya’s. In the middle of my update, Mike tugged me over to a kitchen chair.
“Sit, will you? Get off that leg already.”
I did, and he agreed that “Red in the ’Hood” was a good lead.
“Well, she’ll be here for tomorrow night’s Poetry Slam, and she wants to see Matt. I’m sure he’ll get something useful out of her.”
“Tell him to be careful. He shouldn’t try to bait her. She could use what he says to burn him.”