Billionaire Blend

by Cleo Coyle

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “That his boss is a client of yours. Who’s his boss?”

  “His name is Eric Thorner. He’s a very successful young businessman who hired your father to source the most expensive coffee blend on the planet . . .” (I conveniently left out the stickier aspects of the story, including Quinn’s theory that Eric killed his actress-model girlfriend then doubled down by blowing up the ex-cop who’d been hired by the girl’s family to investigate.)

  “Wow, that’s so exciting, Mom, tell me more!”

  “Later. Right now all I want to hear about is you . . .”

  Forty-six

  JOY and I did exactly as Garth suggested. We walked and walked and talked—and talked . . .

  The crisp winter air felt refreshing in our lungs and on our cheeks as we traversed Montmartre’s hilltop maze of quiet cobblestone streets. Every so often, Joy would sing “Bonjour” to a neighborhood acquaintance while we strolled past town houses rich with the patina of age and galleries tucked into tiny storefronts.

  The legendary painters who once lived in this arrondissement had different names than those of my storied New York neighborhood—Monet, Picasso, van Gogh, Dalí—but the sensibilities were the same, and (like my own Village, an ocean away) Montmartre remained a magnet for the young, the artsy, and the offbeat, be they iconoclasts or romantics.

  I wasn’t surprised my daughter was having the time of her life here. Joy was a true Allegro. Though she had my green eyes, chestnut hair, and heart-shaped face, her height and gift for languages, not to mention her audaciousness, ambition, sense of adventure, and headstrong stubborn streak were totally Matt—and his intrepid, French-born mother.

  But the need to climb mountains wasn’t always a blessing, and I wasn’t surprised to hear that Joy’s daily life was far from perfect.

  “We’re grossly overworked,” she confessed.

  “In Montmartre? In winter?”

  “The news is getting out. We received a Michelin Rising Star award . . .”

  This was a rare honor for this district of the city, which was known for cheap eats, not fine dining. I was so proud when my daughter told me she’d made contributions to the new menu. Clearly, she’d played an important part in the brigade that was getting this coveted recognition.

  But even that shining news had a dark side . . .

  The Rising Star honor was really a public challenge. The Michelin guides gave such restaurants a two-year window of evaluations to bring their menu and service up to star level.

  Joy’s executive chef was determined to earn that star—but the pressure was driving everyone to drink.

  “And that’s really what led to his second-in-command losing it,” she told me. “The perfectionist pressure!”

  Apparently all of the Paris food world had heard of the Bresse chicken-throwing incident, thanks to a television news report—and that crazy story brought even more customers to Les Deux Perroquets.

  “We’re killing ourselves every night in that kitchen. Our hours are longer, we’re open seven days instead of six, but the owner refuses to bring in more help for the brigade . . .”

  An hour later, Joy thanked me for listening to her vent—in English and French. (Like her father, she sometimes switched out of her native tongue without even noticing.)

  Finally, she suggested we warm up at a café.

  With my fingers, toes, and cheeks thoroughly chilled, I quickly agreed.

  *

  JOY chose a little café on the Place du Tertre, an open square of cobblestones where artists (good and not so good) set up chairs and easels all year long. In the rainy spring, they placed large umbrellas over their little spaces. In the dead of winter, they bundled up and drank steaming cups of coffee.

  At a café table near the window, Joy ordered us our own coffees and a plate of her favorite French pastries: canelés, small cakes made with rich egg batter and laced with the fragrance of vanilla and rum.

  Like French madeleines, our petit canelés were baked in special molds. A mixture of beeswax and butter painted on the molds was the secret to the cakes caramelizing in the oven. The result was a Proustian-like treat that would forever remind me of this sweet morning with my daughter—crisp as winter on the outside with a texture that made getting to the inside even more warm and tender.

  Cozy in our battered, cane-backed chairs, I finally turned our conversation to a more tender topic (or at least a more delicate one): Joy’s love life.

  “So, what’s going on with Franco?” the Mother Hen in me prodded.

  Joy’s mood shifted with the subject. The buoyant color that had reappeared in her cheeks began to fade, her shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what to do, Mom. I think he must hate me.”

  “Hate you? Joy, Emmanuel Franco is devoted to you.”

  “Oh, come on . . . how would you even know that?”

  “Because two weeks ago, on Hudson Street, I watched two gorgeous, young women throw themselves at him. He couldn’t get rid of them fast enough. He wants you, Joy; he loves you.”

  Joy turned down her emerald gaze, as if searching for her lost steam in the coffee cup. At last, she confessed what I already knew—

  “Manny and I had a terrible fight when he was here over the holidays . . .”

  I poked her for details, and finally it all poured out. Her best friend, Yvette, had been pressuring Joy to date a well-heeled cousin of her wealthy fiancé . . .

  “We went out a few times—but as a group. The last time, Yvette and her fiancé found a reason to leave us alone, forcing me into a date with his rich cousin. He was a total jerk, Mom, so arrogant, completely in love with himself, but Yvette wouldn’t let it go. She kept saying I wasn’t giving him a fair chance because of my long-distance relationship with Manny. Then when Manny came to see me over the holidays, she showed him a cell-phone photo of me and this Frenchman. She said I was ‘going out with him,’ which made it sound like I was dating him, which I wasn’t! She told Manny that if he broke things off with me, it would ‘free me’ to hook up with this wealthy Frenchman who ‘has the means to make life much easier for me.’”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “I didn’t even know the conversation happened until after Manny left! I could have murdered Yvette when I found out! While he was here, he started acting tense, prodding me with questions. What did I want out of our relationship? Was I ever coming back to New York . . .”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I couldn’t give him a timetable! Not yet! Our Rising Star designation threw everything out of whack. We were getting flooded with new customers, and my boss revoked half my holiday vacation. It was a major mess—and from the semi-hostile way Manny was acting, I thought he wanted out. I told him he could break it off if he felt this long-distance thing was too hard. Then we parted bad . . . and I decided that maybe it was for the best. Maybe he changed his mind about me.”

  “Well, he hasn’t. Look . . . I know the kind of guy Manny Franco is. He’s sown his wild oats, and now he’s fed up with cotton candy. He wants something lasting and sustaining, and if you truly reject him now, he’ll move on, find a life with someone else. The question is—are you all right with letting him go? You’ve sown your own wild oats, as I recall, and had a lot of bad boyfriends.”

  “Manny is the best. I know that, Mom. He’s patient and loving and so brave. He makes me laugh and our physical chemistry is . . .” The color came back to her cheeks. “Well, it’s amazing. Anyway . . . I never met anyone like Manny Franco, and I just love being with him—and I do love him. But that’s not the issue.”

  “That’s the only issue.”

  “Look, he’s there, and I’m here—and I need to be here at least another year. We have a chance to earn that star designation, and if we do—oh, Mom, I could write my own ticket back in New York, and I’ve worked so hard for this!”

  “Then give Franco a chance to wait for you. I think he’s willing. He just ha
s to know you are.”

  “I am.”

  “Joy, you know that old saying ‘All that glitters isn’t gold’?”

  “Mom, I don’t need—”

  “Just listen. Real gold doesn’t start its journey in a display window at Tiffany. It’s dug out of the dirty earth. Sometimes true gold doesn’t glitter. It may need a little polishing, but don’t let that bit of needed patience or effort trick you into discarding what could be the greatest treasure of your life.”

  Joy said nothing to my little lecture. She simply sipped her coffee, nibbled her canelé, and gazed into the square, as if thinking things over.

  I gazed out, too, watching artists’ pencils sketch lines—some with subjects, some without. Only time would tell what the finished drawings would be . . .

  “Would you like to light candles at the Sacred Heart?” Joy finally asked.

  “Very much,” I said. Then we finished our cakes, drained our cups, and stretched our legs one last time.

  *

  WE RODE an electric tram they called a funicular up the steep hill to the basilica. This was the “mount” in Montmartre, which made the Sacré-Coeur the highest point in Île-de-France, and one of the prettiest views in all of Paris.

  “I’d like to see you walking down an aisle like this one day,” I whispered to my daughter inside the quiet, century-old church. We’d lit candles and said prayers together. Now we were walking out.

  “I want that, too, Mom,” Joy said. “For you.”

  “For me?”

  “How are you and Mike doing? I noticed you haven’t mentioned him.”

  “We’re . . . working things out.”

  “Long-distance relationships aren’t easy, are they?”

  “No. I guess that’s clear enough with what you and Franco are going through. But then, you know what my nonna used to say?”

  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder?”

  “It does for me. I miss Mike every night. But that’s not exactly how the Italian proverb goes. For two lovers, it’s more of a warning.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Absence is the enemy of love.”

  Forty-seven

  AS we moved outside the church into a cloud of chattering tourists, a strikingly tall figure approached us wearing an Eskimo parka and a placid smile.

  “Mr. Hendricks!” Joy sounded amazed. “How did you find us?”

  Garth Hendricks’s little smile grew wider. “Oh, I had a feeling you’d come up here . . .”

  And I had a feeling my THORN phone was broadcasting a GPS tracking signal. Uneasy with the continued weirdness of all things Thorn, I opened my mouth to ask for some answers when Joy beat me to the first question.

  “So what is this secret ‘assignment’ for me and my mom? The one your boss mentioned. I’m dying of curiosity here.”

  Garth looked to me. “Check your phone’s messages, Ms. Cosi.”

  “View-Mail?” I assumed.

  After a swift greeting, Eric Thorner’s prerecorded image began to tell us a story: “Every year, on the first of May, a group of very wealthy and very influential people in the world of food and drink get together for a . . . well a sort of potluck dinner—”

  “Ohmigawd, Mom!” Joy cried, tugging my coat sleeve. “He’s talking about the Billionaire Potluck!”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “It’s legend in the foodie world! I didn’t know it was real!”

  “The dinner is one of the most prestigious and exclusive meals on the planet,” prerecorded Eric continued. “No amount of personal wealth can buy you a ticket, yet I would very much like a ticket to this dinner. Garth will tell you the rest. I’ll see you tonight, ladies. Au revoir!”

  “Why does Eric want in to this Billionaire Potluck?” I asked Garth. “For culinary kicks?”

  Metis Man stepped closer. “Eric has a business proposition he is pursuing that involves many of the regular attendees of the Billionaire Potluck. He would like to propose this business in a casual way at this exclusive dinner. It will give him a much better chance of achieving his goal than approaching each particular attendee alone—in less cordial circumstances.”

  “So how does Eric get into this dinner?” I asked.

  “The same way everyone gets in. He must be invited.”

  “And how do you get invited?” Joy pressed.

  “It involves some tasteful politicking,” Garth admitted. “But one requirement for the invitation is unavoidable: the attendee must offer to bring an item to the potluck that these gentlemen and ladies would like to eat or drink.”

  “That’s a tall order for people who’ve likely eaten and drunk the world,” I said.

  “It is,” Garth agreed. “It’s a matter of exotic ingredients used in an intriguing way. And we’re more than halfway there. The Billionaire Blend is a coffee no one will have tasted but Eric, Mr. Allegro, and you, Ms. Cosi. Now Eric would like you two—mother and daughter—to put your heads together, master roaster and apprentice chef, and come up with a few dishes that would highlight the one-of-a-kind Billionaire Blend that Mr. Allegro is sourcing right now. Blue sky, ladies; money is no object.”

  “Wow . . .” Joy’s wide-eyed gaze appeared to drift away to the view of Paris stretched out below us, but I suspected her mind was already retreating into culinary dreamland, working on the problem.

  I looked to Garth. “You have no other guidance?”

  “A note of interest, perhaps, and one of advice.”

  Joy appeared to tune back in.

  “First, the note of interest,” he said. “The attendees of this dinner believe the best dishes have stories attached. Like the story behind Joy’s connection to the restaurant where she works: Les Deux Perroquets—the two parrots.”

  “You know about that?” I asked in surprise.

  He nodded. “Such memories make for memorable meals.”

  “And the advice?”

  “The same Eric gives to his employees, especially in the mobile gaming division. In his parlance: all things being equal, the simplest solution is the best.”

  “That’s pretty vague,” I said.

  “In these fast-moving times with complex problems, we must be nimble to succeed. We must be open to the unexpected, hone our problem-solving abilities to adapt and overcome.”

  “Sorry, but that seems pretty vague, too.”

  Garth smiled with strained patience. “That’s because the specifics are up to you. You have your assignment. You have your deadline. Eric will expect your answer at dinner this evening.”

  With a snap of his fingers, the armed chauffeur was back in my life. “René will drive you to a place where you can prepare for dinner.”

  “What do we wear?” Joy asked.

  “Eric has taken care of that. Just remember Occam’s Razor, ladies.”

  “Occam’s what?”

  “It’s a heuristic, Miss Allegro. There is an optimum solution to releasing the Gordian knot. We can waste valuable time attempting to untangle ourselves and possibly fail or we can cut through it with a single slice. And from what I understand, Miss Allegro,” he tossed over his shoulder before heading off, “you keep your knives quite sharp . . .”

  I froze at that—and it had nothing to do with the weather. Hendricks had just made a reference to a time in Joy’s past when one of her very sharp knives had gotten her into terrible trouble.

  Thankfully, the barb didn’t register with Joy. She appeared distracted again.

  But I wasn’t.

  While Joy began dreaming up gourmet delights, I began worrying about that big, fat folder the Bomb Squad discovered on Eric’s smartphone, the one labeled Clare Cosi. And I couldn’t help wondering what else from my past Eric Thorner planned to make use of in the future.

  Forty-eight

  “LADIES, you look luminous . . .”

  We felt mighty luminous, too, after spending hours at a day spa being exfoliated then primped, painted, and petted. Designer shoes and dresses
arrived (French, of course, and speedily fitted to perfection), then Eric picked us up in a rented Bugatti and we were off—mother-daughter Cinderellas for one night.

  The antique French car turned heads as René drove us through the Paris streets. For a good hour, we toured, sipping champagne as we circled the Eiffel Tower, rolled under the Arc de Triomphe, and passed over the city’s graceful bridges, so beautifully lit with glowing bateaux bobbing along the dark waters like diamonds drifting on a black velvet pool.

  Finally, we pulled up to the Place des Vosges, a palazzo-like structure across from a lovely tree-lined park. Our destination was a restored seventeenth-century town house that once belonged to the Duke of Chaulnes.

  Joy literally squealed when she saw it. Housed inside was one of the most respected fine dining establishments in all of Paris. The eatery had served royalty, heads of state, and at least one U.S. president. (And a dinner for two here would set mere mortals back a cool thousand bucks.)

  When I saw the name of the restaurant, however, alarm bells sounded. L’Ambroisie—the food of the gods—was the French translation of Ambrosia, the very term Matt and I had chosen for the rarified Brazilian coffee, which was now all but extinct.

  This can’t be a coincidence, I thought.

  Once again, it appeared Eric was planning a cunning chess move. I just prayed the result would not be an ugly scene—not involving my daughter, because I wouldn’t stand for it.

  *

  INSIDE the restaurant, the décor was as grand as the palace of Versailles with crystal chandeliers, antique mirrors, and Louis XIV gilded consoles, yet the space itself was cozy with no more than forty seats.

  Near the start of our meal, Eric waved over the sommelier and sent a bottle of wine to a nearby table of three formally dressed gentlemen—two trim and middle-aged; a third older and more heavily set. After dessert was served, the head waiter stopped by to whisper in Eric’s ear.