Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  I recognized her, not from memory, but because I’d just seen her caricature upstairs in the hotel’s Gotham Suite. She was Nora Arany, former fashion adviser to rock and hip-hop stars, now a clothing and apparel designer—with an obvious fetish for all things gold.

  In the process of greeting my former mother-in-law, Nora had completely abandoned her G-Wagen at the entrance to the garage ramp. With its door open and the keys in the ignition, the incessant beep-beep-beeping alert went completely ignored by the owner.

  “Nora, what a delight to see you,” Madame said, breathless from the clinch. “How have you been faring since our last Gotham brunch?”

  Nora was positively giddy.

  “I’m doing fabulously, Blanche. You won’t believe this, but The Crazy-Rich Cougars of Parma are going to wear my apparel next season! I just sealed the deal this morning. The show’s debut will coincide with the grand opening of my Cleveland store.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Madame replied, forcing a smile.

  “You said it,” Nora gushed. “With The MILFs of Minneapolis and The Bickering Trophy Brides of Bridgeport, I’ve got product placement blanketing half the country.”

  Madame struggled to suppress a visible shudder as Nora paused to take a breath. Meanwhile, a more conventional Mercedes pulled up behind Nora’s. After waiting a millisecond (the median length of time a New York driver remained patient), he honked loudly.

  Nora didn’t appear to notice—or care. Instead, she pointed to the matching jackets that Esther and I wore. “I see you brought some of the Poetry in Motion people with you.” As she said this, Nora focused her attention on me, her stare lingering long enough to make me sweat.

  Can she tell I’m wearing a disguise?

  “I’m sorry I missed your citywide poetry slam at Cooper Union last month,” Nora said. “Being an angel donor, I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  “Oh, no,” Esther quickly replied. “We have one every quarter. You’re welcome to see it next time—and thanks for your generous support, Ms. Arany!”

  “It’s nothing. Happy to.” She fluttered her fingers. “What good is money, if not to support the arts!”

  Finally, the impatient driver had endured enough. “Lady!” he shouted over the unceasing beeping from the G-Wagen’s flung-open door. “Move your car!”

  Nora narrowed her eyes at the outraged driver and turned to address Mr. Dante. “You there!”

  The barista pointed at himself. “Me?”

  “Yes, you, handsome boy! Be a darling and drive my car down to my designated spot. It’s on the right after you go through the gate—” Gold booties clicking across the sidewalk, she reached out to shove a tip into his hand. “You can’t miss it. Look for the sign with my name: Nora Arany . . .”

  As Nora continued giving him instructions, Madame leaned close to me and Esther. “That’s odd,” she whispered. “Why would Nora suddenly have her own designated spot? Annette and Nora always act like friends, but we all know they can’t stand each other.”

  “You mean they’re frenemies?” Esther said.

  “Frenemies . . .” Madame’s gaze returned to Nora. “Is that what they call it now?”

  “Historically, the term’s been around since the 1950s,” Esther noted. “Lately, it’s made a comeback.”

  “It’s a new word for me, too,” I admitted.

  “But a very old idea,” Madame murmured.

  As Nora returned to us, Esther smirked at Mr. Dante. “Here’s your big chance to drive your dream car. Don’t blow it.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ESTHER’S taunt proved prophetic. Or maybe it was simply the power of suggestion.

  Grinning with excitement, Mr. Dante climbed behind the wheel. But his eagerness got the better of him. Leaning too heavily on the gas, he nearly slammed the luxury SUV into the garage’s ticket meter.

  Esther snorted, and Mr. Dante cringed with sheepish embarrassment. Then he quickly straightened out the vehicle, and drove down the ramp.

  Fortunately, Nora was too busy chatting up Madame to notice any of it.

  “So what are you doing at the Parkview, Blanche?”

  “I needed the files for our annual Gotham Ladies’ Charity Ball. Despite recent events, the rite of spring must go on.”

  “By recent events, you mean Annette’s vanishing act?”

  Madame’s gaze narrowed. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Me? Nothing! It’s a terrible business . . .” Suddenly, Nora’s lips began to quiver, and she broke into a sob. “Poor Annette,” she blubbered. “What could have happened to her? Will we ever see her again?”

  I didn’t think much of Nora’s act. Madame wasn’t impressed, either.

  “Drop the show. You forget who you’re talking to.”

  Pretending to dry her eyes, Nora waved a hand. “Oh, please. If I were Annette, I would have disappeared long ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that rat bastard husband of hers made her life miserable for years. You know that—”

  Suddenly we all heard a tinny voice singing. It was Shirley Bassey belting out the Goldfinger theme.

  “My phone!” Nora exclaimed, snatching the device out of her gold-plated chain mail bag.

  “Oh, shoot, I’ve got to dash!” she cried after checking the screen. “My Japanese buyer is inside the lobby, waiting—”

  “Before you go,” Madame said, “what can you tell me about the Gotham Suite’s private office being ransacked?”

  “Ransacked?” Nora shrugged. “Must have been a police search. Sorry, Blanche. We’ll chat more another time. Mr. Ogata is very old-school, and he really wants to revisit the classic, classy Manhattan. That’s why I’m treating him to drinks at the Parkview Palace—I mean, how old-school can you get, right? Then it’s on to the Pierre. Of course, the Plaza and the Waldorf are half condo now, but they still have some of the trappings of the old days.”

  Nora leaned close to Madame. “I’m not looking forward to breaking the news about the Plaza’s tiki room closing.” She sighed. “He has such fond memories of Trader Vic’s.”

  Before Madame could get another word in, Nora was dashing down the block. “Ta-ta!” she called, her booming voice barely fading into the traffic noise.

  “And she’s off!” Esther remarked. “What a character!”

  About then, Mr. Dante emerged from the garage. “That Arany woman gave me a fifty, just to park her car!”

  Madame grimly faced her barista. “Does she really have a designated parking spot?”

  He nodded. “In the VIP section. Right beside a reserved slot for Tessa Simmons.”

  “Tessa Simmons,” I repeated. “I remember that name.”

  “You do?” Madame looked hopeful. “From a past memory?”

  “No, from upstairs in the Gotham Suite.” I pulled Madame aside and lowered my voice. “Annette’s sister, Victoria, mentioned her—and not in a good way.”

  “How do you know that, Clare?”

  It was my turn to look sheepish. “I eavesdropped on your conversation. Victoria said she believes Annette’s last will and testament names their niece, Tessa, as the heiress to the Parkview Palace.”

  “That’s what Victoria believes, but I don’t know that it’s still true.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It’s why I wanted to see a copy of her will for myself. Before she disappeared, Annette told me she was updating it.”

  “And she didn’t tell you why? Or how she was updating it?”

  “No. At our last Gotham Ladies’ brunch, I took her aside and reminded her that we ladies weren’t sharing eggs Benedict and mimosas once a month for the calories and bubbles. We were there to help each other, when needed. She thanked me, but said she was fine. That her husband’s recent death had opened her eyes—and ch
anged everything. That’s why she was going to update her will. She also confided quietly that she had ‘put plans in motion’ that I’d learn about soon enough.”

  “And then she was abducted?”

  Madame nodded. “If you can remember anything, Clare, any details about that evening you spent with Annette, or about her abductor—and presumably yours—you could help us find Annette and clear this whole thing up.”

  “I wish I could remember, and not just that evening. I want all of my memories back—and my life.”

  “I know you do, dear.”

  “Hey, you two,” Esther called. “I hate to interrupt, but do you really want to stand out here on the street, waiting for the next G-Wagen diva to throw her keys at Dante?”

  “You’re right.” Madame glanced up and down the block. “Let’s go.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “SO?” Matt asked, studying me as we piled back into the van. “Is she cured? How does she feel about me?”

  “I still can’t stand you. And I cannot believe I ever changed my mind about that.”

  “But there is a glimmer of hope,” Madame noted.

  “What does that mean?” Matt asked. “What exactly happened up there?”

  Madame proceeded to tell him with Esther and Mr. Dante jumping in for color commentary. When they finished, Matt turned to me.

  “So the coffee tasting helped unlock something inside your head? And the sensory keys might work, after all?”

  “I guess so,” I conceded. “But I need more answers. That’s why I left the hospital, for answers—and coffee. What now?”

  Matt shifted his gaze to his mother. “Decision time.”

  Madame frowned and looked away. She was clearly still struggling with the options from their previous discussion. “It’s a shame we can’t take Clare home, back to the duplex above the coffeehouse.”

  “That’s a nice thought,” Matt said, “but it can’t happen.”

  “Why not?” I asked, the fight in me rising.

  This ongoing debate about me—this What shall we do with Clare?—was really starting to chafe. I wasn’t some mental invalid, unable to function.

  “So what if Dr. Lorca sends authorities looking for me! I’ll simply tell them I changed my mind about the treatment. I’ll tell them to leave me alone and send them on their way. What’s wrong with that?”

  Matt let the dust settle on my volcanic outburst. Then he calmly asked, “Do you know who the president is?”

  “The president?” I blinked. “You mean . . . of the United States?”

  “It’s a basic question for reality orientation.”

  “I see.”

  “And what’s your answer?”

  “Is it a Clinton?”

  “No.”

  “Another Bush?”

  “You’re guessing, aren’t you?”

  “Uhm . . .”

  “Name the most recent movie you remember.”

  I bit my lip. “Was it a Robin Williams film?”

  Matt turned to his mother. “You don’t want to risk commitment, do you?”

  With a shake of her head, Madame addressed her baristas. “Esther and Dante, listen carefully. When we’re finished here, I want you to take separate taxis downtown.” She handed them cash. “Give your drivers addresses that are near your apartments but not within sight of them. Then walk the rest of the way to your homes, change clothes, and go directly to the Village Blend to relieve the baristas on duty.”

  “What about me?” I asked.

  “You’re going to be driven to a safe place where you can take a little vacation.”

  My stomach clenched. “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”

  She reached out and took my hands in hers. “I’d like to, my dear child. I wish I could, but it’s not a good idea. The authorities are going to come for you, and the first place they’re going to look will be the Village Blend. I need to be there to answer questions. With luck, I’ll be able to throw the bloodhounds off your trail. I’ve also got to find us an attorney, one willing to take our case and get us out of any legal jeopardy. We’ll need to find a local psychiatrist willing to work with us, as well.”

  “You mean, work with me.”

  She gently squeezed my hands. “Be patient. If all goes well, you should be able to come back to the city in a few days, a week at most.”

  “And if all doesn’t go well?”

  “Let’s focus on the positive, shall we?”

  “I’ll try . . .” I shifted my gaze to Esther and Mr. Dante. “Which one of you will be driving me to this hideaway house?”

  Matt cleared his throat. “That would be me.”

  “You?” The man’s dark beard parted with a smile so smug, I wanted to scream (and almost did). Given everyone’s anxiety about my mental state, however, I forced myself to hold it together and just say—

  “NO.”

  “That’s the plan, Clare.”

  “I don’t care. I am not driving to some strange house alone with you. There has to be another option. Esther?”

  “Sorry, boss. I’m an Uber-subway kinda girl. Driving’s not in my wheelhouse.”

  With pleading eyes, I looked at Mr. Dante.

  “I’m sorry, too, but I don’t know Long Island, let alone this Hamptons place Matt has in mind. I’m likely to get us lost. And it’s a two-hour haul to get out there. I’m scheduled for an evening shift. I think I should keep the routine looking normal.”

  “Of course you should,” Madame agreed. “And you’ll be fine, Clare. I know my son would do anything to protect you. He only wants to help.”

  “You can trust me,” Matt promised.

  “Trust you?” I almost laughed.

  “Come on, Clare,” he wheedled. “This is a road trip. For all the terrible things you remember about me, there has to be one good thing you haven’t forgotten.”

  “What?”

  “I’m loads of fun on a road trip.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TEN minutes later, I was riding shotgun next to the last man I wanted to be with on this (or any other) planet.

  While Matt guided our battered van through the heavy crosstown traffic, we sat in tense silence. Then we hit the Queensboro Bridge, and cars and trucks began moving around us like they’d entered the first lap of the Indy 500.

  I checked the clock on the dashboard. “I’m surprised the congestion is letting up. It’s not even six o’clock.”

  “It’s Friday,” Matt informed me. “In New York, rush hour starts earlier—”

  “And ends earlier. Right, I remember that.”

  “But you didn’t remember it was Friday, did you?”

  “No . . .” I didn’t like talking to Matt, either, so I reached forward to turn on the radio. He immediately turned it off.

  “Not a good idea,” he said. “Sorry, but you still aren’t oriented to this time period. News on the radio may shake you up. Let’s take things slow.”

  I sat back and folded my arms. “How about an oldies station? Do you still have those?”

  Matt snorted.

  “What’s funny?”

  “It’s just . . . an age thing. I’ll forever think of oldies as songs from the sixties. But ‘oldies’ these days means eighties music.”

  “That seems wrong to me, too—for an entirely different reason—but at least I’ll recognize the tunes.”

  “Okay . . .” Matt turned to an FM station, currently playing Huey Lewis. “But I warn you, the second they go to a station break, it’s off again.”

  “Fine.”

  I turned my attention to the scenery. By now night had fallen, and the East River was stretching out darkly below us. I’d crossed this river many times during our marriage to meet Matt’s late-arriving planes at LaGuardia Airport.

  I
was so pathetic, so gullible, always so eager to throw my arms around my “darling” husband’s neck and welcome him home.

  What a fool I was.

  I risked a glance in his direction, at that familiar masculine profile, the one I’d fallen so pathetically in love with, and felt the searing disgust over his betrayals rise inside me again.

  Matt remained focused on the traffic, oblivious to my glare, which was probably for the better, since, as everyone kept telling me, my state of mind was out-of-date. Somewhere, in all the years that passed between us, I forgave my ex-husband. Now (apparently) we were not only business partners but close friends.

  Yeah, right.

  I returned my stare to the dark river, a fitting description of my present mood. I always thought of the undulating water as a black moat, separating the cloud-scraping castles of glamorous Manhattan from the rusty warehouses and worn-down row houses of working-class Queens.

  Not anymore.

  To my blinking astonishment, the Queens’ side of the river had risen with sleek glass-and-steel skyscrapers that rivaled New York’s poshest pillars. It looked so wrong to me, so out of place, but I couldn’t deny the physical fact. Like a towering argument in Matt’s favor, I saw the concrete evidence—

  Things really have changed.

  And Matt was right. It was all too much.

  Feeling overwhelmed again and slightly unsteady, I turned my focus back to the “oldies” FM station, now playing (aptly enough) “Sister Christian” by Night Ranger.

  Closing my eyes, I tried to calm myself further by remembering something pleasant from my past. This time I reached for a very old but beloved memory: baking crusty Italian rolls with my nonna, pans and pans of them, for her little grocery store.

  I smiled as I turned the picture pages of childhood, seeing my grandmother alive again, happily teaching me how to proof the yeast, mix the sticky dough, and form those delicious rolls. I felt so grown-up and accomplished. How I loved working in her big, sunny kitchen through the years. I could still hear the radio playing upbeat music; smell the espresso brewing in the stove-top pot; and see my nonna, speaking in rapid Italian, praising my work and sharing some piece of amusing gossip that a customer or neighbor had told her.