Billionaire Blend

by Cleo Coyle

  “Sure.”

  I closed the door, bolted it, and faced the apartment—four walls and two floors that contained a bounty of treasures from more than three-quarters of a century of Greenwich Village history.

  There were pen-and-inks, portraits, cityscapes, prints, sketches, poems, manifestos, even doodles on napkins from legends of the New York art world—and each and every piece carried a memory of a wonderful tale Madame told me (once, twice, a dozen times) about how she and the Village Blend were connected to it.

  Every piece in this building was an irreplaceable gem. Like a curator, I proudly cycled them in and out of the main shop downstairs and its second-floor lounge to delight (and educate) young and old about this neighborhood’s indelible place in art history.

  Selling off these pieces would be like parting with tangible parts of my dear friend and mentor, my daughter’s beloved grandmother, a woman who’d been like a mother to me for the past twenty years.

  How can I choose? How?

  “I can’t . . .” I whispered. “Not tonight.”

  I doused the fire and blew out the candles.

  The night felt black and cold as death as I trudged up to bed. Numb as a zombie, I changed into my nightshirt and slipped under the pile of covers. Only when my face kissed the pillow did I let the tears flow.

  Twenty-three

  MY heart nearly stopped the next morning when I heard it again.

  BA-BOOM!

  I was shivering in the shower, reliving pioneer days with a rustic sponge bath when the downstairs tremors began. In my haste to get to my cell phone, I knocked over my pail of stovetop-heated water. I didn’t care. If that heavyset “looter” in the light gray parka and red knit cap was back, I needed to find out fast.

  Without a stitch of cloth covering my curves, I raced across the freezing parquet floor of my bedroom and speed-dialed my ex-husband. Voice mail—

  “Matt, get over here! It’s an emergency!”

  BA-BOOM! BA-BOOM!

  The pounding was getting stronger, rattling the glass panes in my window frames—in broad daylight.

  That’s it, I’m calling 911.

  The dispatcher would need a description of the man assaulting our shop. With the sun up, I could probably get a decent look at him from up here.

  Throwing on my short, terry robe, I raced to the window. Using two hands, I ripped open the long drapes—and came face-to-face with a telephone lineman.

  What the . . . ?

  The big, burly guy with a battered Verizon hard hat stood staring at me from a cherry picker bucket on a crane that had him nearly bumping up against my fourth-floor window.

  Dumbfounded, I stumbled backward, and my loosely tied robe fell open. For a mortifying second, I just stood there, generous curves naked as a newborn to the man’s widening eyes.

  Flashed before breakfast, the big Verizon guy nearly fell out of his bucket.

  I screamed and shut the drapes.

  Blushing and cursing in tandem, I yanked a shapeless wool sweater over my head, tugged jeans over my hips, and dived into a pair of power flats. I’d just grabbed the shop keys when my cell went off.

  “Matt?!”

  “No, boss, it’s your favorite barista—and I am in the weeds here! Help!”

  “Esther? Where are you?”

  “Downstairs!” Clearly in a state, she was shouting into the phone over sounds of pounding and whirring. “Can you hear me? We’re suddenly surrounded! All Tucker and I did was unlock the dang shop and the cast of This Old House descended like locusts!”

  “Hang on! I’m coming!”

  *

  I RUSHED into my shop to a blast of cold air from the wide-open door and an army of workers in bulky jackets.

  “There she is.” Esther and Tucker pointed. “That’s her!”

  “Miss Ko-see?” A workman in a hard hat approached, clipboard in hand. “You the shop manager?”

  The man was speaking loudly, trying to be heard over a jackhammer in the street. Behind him, men were cutting a hole in Hudson, surrounded by a half-dozen trucks and a forest of emergency orange cones.

  Con Ed, Verizon, the Department of Environmental Protection (aka the water company) were all represented. A glazier’s truck pulled up with taped-up windowpanes strapped to its flanks.

  “Yes, I’m Ms. Cosi!” I yelled back.

  “I’m Stan, your project manager. I have all the permits ready to go. The electricians have already started working. The job’s urgent, we understand, and we’re on it . . .”

  Is this Matt’s doing? I wondered in astonishment. How can it be? We haven’t even raised the funds for this yet!

  I noticed a yellow cab dodge several construction vehicles as it pulled up to the curb. A well-built, black-bearded guy in jeans and a leather bomber emerged from the backseat.

  Speak of the devil . . .

  Matt threw bills at the driver, dodged a gauntlet of construction workers, and raced to my side. “Are you okay? What’s the emergency? And what the hell is all this?!”

  “You didn’t arrange this? Did your mother?”

  “No!”

  “Then who?” I waved over Stan, the project manager. “Sir, can you tell us please—who’s footing the bill for this work?”

  As my question hung in the air, Matt, Tucker, Esther, and I drew closer, waiting for his answer.

  “You don’t know?” Stan asked in surprise.

  “No!” sang our curious chorus.

  “THORN, Inc., arranged the construction. The certified check came through Sunday morning, signed by Eric Thorner, the CEO himself. We received your building owner’s approval to do the work about an hour ago—a Mrs. Dubois. She signed the papers.”

  Tucker, Esther, and I gaped in happy awe.

  But for some reason, Matt was grimacing.

  He confronted Stan: “Are you telling me that in some mystical fashion, you and Mr. Thorner acquired all the necessary construction approvals and licenses from the appropriate city agencies in record time?”

  Stan smirked. “I think the magic word you’re lookin’ for is money.”

  “How long are these repairs going to take?” Matt fired back.

  “We guaranteed Mr. Thorner the work would be completed in three days.”

  “Three days!” I nearly fainted.

  “Oh my goodness!” Tucker cried. “I thought it would take three to four weeks!”

  “And that’s not even the best part . . .” It finally sunk in that I no longer had to choose artwork to sell. All the artifacts of precious Village Blend history could stay with us now. “Isn’t Eric Thorner a wonderful man?!”

  Esther whooped and we all hugged—all except Matt.

  “Don’t be such Pollyannas,” he snapped. “The jerk was probably scared.”

  “Of what?” I asked.

  “Of us taking him to court, suing him for damages.”

  Okay, that annoyed me. “Why would a man like that be afraid of a lawsuit? He has a team of lawyers on retainer, and you said his insurance company was handling it.”

  “I did, but . . .” Matt looked away.

  I shook my head, tears of happiness blurring my vision. “I was about to put the staff on unemployment and sell off precious pieces of our Village Blend history. Now we’ll be open for business in just a few days! I’m sorry, but this is astonishingly decent of Thorner, and you should be grateful, too.”

  “Why? Thorner’s the one who caused all this damage.”

  “No,” I said. “Thorner was a crime victim, just like us . . .”

  After a few more minutes of verbal Ping-Pong, Stan interrupted us with a tap on my shoulder.

  “Good news, Ms. Cosi. You now have hot water and electricity.”

  “It’s Christmas!” I cried.

  “No, Clare, it’s January.”

  “And you’re still in Grinch mode. Why?”

  “Because you’re acting like this is some kind of generous gift, and it’s not. You should be angry at Thorner, Cl
are. He brought that bomb here. Fixing our shop is something he owes us!”

  “Ms. Cosi, excuse me,” Stan interrupted, “but we also have a special delivery for you. They’re rolling it in now . . .”

  Twenty-four

  “IT” turned out to be a wooden crate the size of a small refrigerator laid on its side. Strapped to a wheeled cart, the box was pushed by a smiling man in a ski parka.

  “It’s bigger than a bread box,” Esther declared. “But what is it?”

  John F. Kennedy Airport air cargo tags were stamped on the box, one marked SEATTLE to NYC: SAME DAY AIR. Then I read the sender’s name and address.

  “My God,” I sputtered. “Is this . . . ? Could this be . . . ?”

  The deliveryman extended his hand. “Ms. Cosi? My name is Terrence. I’m here to install your brand new Slayer.”

  Esther’s scream of unbridled joy halted construction for a moment. Tucker staggered backward, clutching his heart in a mock swoon. When Esther stopped jumping up and down, she grabbed Tucker and they did a barista tribal dance around the wooden box.

  “Slayer! Slayer! We’ve got a Slayer!”

  My eyes were too blurry with tears to join them so I pumped the deliveryman’s hand. I had to ask, though I already knew the answer.

  “This espresso machine was ordered for us by . . . ?”

  “THORN, Inc. Mr. Thorner insisted on immediate delivery.”

  I turned to Matt. “He didn’t owe us this.”

  Matt glowered. “Slayers are handmade to order. How could Thorner possibly buy one so fast? Isn’t there a waiting list?”

  “You’re right, sir, there is,” Terrence replied. “This Slayer was scheduled for a coffeehouse in Cambridge. Apparently Mr. Thorner bought out their contract.”

  “Apparently, huh?” Matt speared me. “I wonder what else he’s apparently planning to buy around here.”

  I reached up and shook my ex by his hard shoulders. “For goodness’ sake, man, don’t be so cynical! It’s Christmas in January, and Eric Thorner is our Santa Claus! So, ho-ho-ho!”

  “Sorry, but I think the guy wants to turn us into his ‘ho.’”

  “Enough. I’m going upstairs to take a hot shower—”

  “Before you go, Ms. Cosi,” Stan interrupted again, “there’s a Bubba from Verizon who has a question for you.”

  Bubba? Uh-oh. “He wouldn’t be that big, burly guy who was up on that cherry picker crane, would he?”

  “That’s the fellow. He, uh . . .” Stan’s expression turned sheepish. “Well, he wants to know if you’d like to go out with him on a bowling date Friday.”

  I groaned.

  Matt frowned at me in befuddlement. “You know the guy?”

  “Let’s just say he’s seen me around—” (A little too much of me.)

  I turned to Stan. “Please tell Bubba that I have a boyfriend, but I wouldn’t mind a break on my next Verizon bill. He’ll know why.”

  “I have a package for Clare Cosi!”

  More?! The announcement came from a man in a private courier uniform. He handed me a large, long box. I broke the tape seal and opened it, to stare at white paper.

  “Flowers?” Esther guessed. “Who’s your secret admirer?”

  Matt chuffed.

  “Let’s find out.” I ripped the paper away. Esther and I both gasped.

  Tucker came over to investigate and nearly swooned, for real this time! “Are those blue roses? Actual, real-life blue roses?”

  Apparently they were, though the word blue was too prosaic to describe the brilliant beauty of these blossoms. The only hybrid “blue” roses I’d ever seen were in a flower show, and they had been more lilac in color.

  These were a striking cobalt, a vibrant hue that, until now, I’d thought impossible to produce in a flower—unless you were Claude Monet with a brush in your hand.

  “I found instructions.” Esther untied a string which released a small plastic card. “How to Care for Blue Velvet Roses,” she read.

  “They’re so lovely,” Tucker said with a sigh. “He must have sent you three dozen. And the name is so romantic—Blue Velvet.”

  Esther rolled her eyes. “Don’t gush, Broadway Boy, they’re Franken-flowers—”

  “What?”

  “It says on the card that these roses are genetically engineered and not yet available commercially.”

  “Prototype flowers?” Tuck cried. “They must be priceless!”

  “What makes you so sure? Are you a horticulturalist in your spare time?”

  “No, Snark Queen, a dramatist, and when I played Laura’s gentleman caller in the off-Broadway revival of The Glass Menagerie, the director wanted every audience member to leave with a blue rose. He insisted that nothing else would do. The set designer priced those Suntory True Blue Roses from Japan, and informed the producer that if they used them, one-fourth of the daily box office take would go to the florist.”

  While Tuck shared his backstage anecdote, I discovered a gold-embossed envelope secreted among the blossoms. The missive was hand-addressed to me in an elegant script.

  “Open it! Open it!” Esther chanted.

  Matt loomed over me, but not to admire the flowers. “What’s in the envelope?”

  “I can’t believe this. It’s an invitation—Eric Thorner wants me to have dinner with him at the Source Club on Thursday night.”

  “The Source Club,” Tuck said in awe. “Whoa . . .”

  Mouth gaping, Esther was speechless (a rare occurrence).

  Matt didn’t share my baristas’ shock or enthusiasm. Instead, with a glower, he announced, “There is no way you are going to dinner with that tech brat!”

  His voice was so loud that the men installing our new windows stopped to stare. Oh, for heaven’s sake . . .

  I grabbed the box of roses with one hand, hooked Matt’s arm with the other. “Come help me put these in vases,” I said, and dragged my ex into the back pantry.

  “Stop making a scene,” I hissed.

  “Better than watching you make a fool of yourself.”

  I nearly hurled the flowers at him. “You want to see a fool? Look in the mirror!”

  “You’re too naïve to know what Thorner is really after.”

  “Don’t make me slap your face.”

  “Slap away; it wouldn’t be the first time. I just don’t want you involved with this guy—”

  “Listen to me. There’s a very good reason I’m going to dinner with Eric Thorner. When I was with the Bomb Squad, they accessed his private smartphone files—and he had a file on me.”

  “You?!” Matt’s eyes bugged.

  “Before that bomb went off, Thorner said he wanted to make me an offer—”

  “Offer? As in proposition? It really is ho-ho time!”

  “Will you please get your mind out of the gutter? A billionaire wants to do business with us.”

  “With you, you mean.”

  “Me is us—I mean this coffeehouse, the Village Blend. And you know we could really use that kind of business.”

  “Says who? We were getting along fine before the Quiz Master showed up—”

  “You have a short memory, Matt. Before any of this happened, we were having major money problems. That’s why I’m going to dinner with Thorner—”

  “Not while this guy has a big, fat target painted on his back. We don’t even know who wanted to blow him up or why!”

  I began to separate the roses. “Okay, then why don’t you let me find out?”

  “Don’t get cute.”

  “I’m not kidding. Going into business with this man could resolve all of our financial woes. The only problem is—”

  “Somebody is trying to bump him off!”

  “Yes, that’s right—and I can be of assistance.”

  “Assistance? We’re not talking about mopping up spilled coffee here. We’re talking about a killer who used a firebomb!”

  “You know I’m good at asking questions, finding answers, uncovering—Ouch!”


  I shook my finger as bright red droplets appeared. “You’d think the science that created these blue roses could have eliminated the thorns.”

  “Oh, no . . .” Matt blanched.

  “It’s not that bad,” I said, washing the wound. “Anyway, the guy’s company is called THORN, Inc., so I guess I should have known, right?”

  Matt didn’t reply. He was mumbling in Spanish while clutching the talisman hanging around his neck.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Warding off the bad luck.”

  “What?”

  “You pricked your finger on the man’s flowers. That’s an omen, Clare.”

  “Of what?”

  “In Ethiopia they’d inform you of an Arabic legend about a man who stole a prince’s bride by pricking her with a thorn from a zizouf—”

  “Ziz-who?”

  “A magical lotus. And then there are the Yanomami, who’d warn you about their tribal beliefs through the story of a woman held in thrall to a lustful man after being pricked by a thorn from a Brazilian spider flower—”

  “I think you’ve been in the bush too long. Don’t turn native on me.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t want you anywhere near the man who gave you those.”

  “It’s not your decision. The billionaire is sending his limo for me at eight o’clock Thursday night, and I’m going to be in it.”

  “A limo?!” Matt’s face turned so red I thought he was going to pop an artery. “And I’m the one with a short memory? It was his limo that exploded in front of our coffeehouse, remember?”

  “Yes, so what are the chances it could happen again? Astronomical, probably.”

  “No! The mother of my daughter is not getting into Eric Thorner’s limousine. Not Thursday night, and not any night! Do you hear me? I absolutely forbid it!”

  Twenty-five

  “AND that pretty much brings you up to speed, Mike . . .”

  I switched the cell phone to my other hand and gazed at the city lights rolling by the limo’s window. It was Thursday evening, and I was Cinderella, on my way to the most exclusive club on the Eastern Seaboard—and in vintage style. Even jaded New Yorkers were gawking at the antique Rolls that Eric sent for me.