TWO

AS I started my stroll, a strange feeling came over me. The city’s sights and sounds always energized and grounded me, but today I couldn’t shake a creeping sense of displacement.

I’d moved out of Manhattan mere months ago, yet the city appeared to have changed impossibly since I’d packed up my young daughter and left. For years, Washington Square had suffered from neglect, its monuments scrawled with graffiti, its central fountain inactive. Now the white marble arch gleamed, the greenery was tidy, the paths newly paved, the fountain spraying rainbows in the morning light.

The sight should have cheered me. Instead the surreal sense of uneasiness only worsened as I walked. At the corner of West Fourth and Sixth Avenue, I saw the basketball court was still there, but the skeevy head shops, bodegas, and pizzerias around it had been replaced by slick storefronts and upscale eateries.

I tried to shrug it off. After all, New York never did stand still. The only constant in this town was change.

Crossing Sixth, I passed people with devices similar to the one that NYU student had shown me. They were staring, almost hypnotically, at their screens as they walked. Some were even talking into them!

Who were these people talking to at seven AM? And what could they be talking about? Was there an advanced-technology convention at the university? Or was this some kind of rehearsal for performance art—it certainly looked bizarre enough to be an avant-garde spectacle.

I passed a convenience store with no magazine rack, just a colorful display for something called vaping. The only two newspapers on sale carried similar headlines:

HOTEL HEIRESS MISSING

MYSTERY AT PARKVIEW PALACE: ABDUCTION OR MURDER?

The stories appeared to be about some wealthy woman named Annette Brewster, who owned the famous Parkview Palace hotel. She had disappeared days ago. Evidence pointed to foul play.

Staring at the headlines, I felt dizzy again, as if something was clawing at the edges of my mind, trying to get in. Then, whatever it was slipped away, like a dream disappearing as you wake.

Left only with a lingering frustration, I tried to shake my thoughts clear and suddenly remembered my young daughter, home alone. What was I doing wasting time on headlines that had nothing to do with me?!

Stepping up my pace, I made it to Hudson Street and felt an instant sense of calm at the sight of the Village Blend. Thank goodness nothing had changed there. The French windows were closed, but the blinds were open and front entrance unlocked.

I followed a pair of customers inside. Hearing the familiar bell above the door was reassuring; and the roasted coffee, freshly brewing, smelled like ambrosia. That surprised me—and, I admit, made me a little jealous.

I’d taken pride in my former work here as a master roaster. My mother-in-law said she’d never met anyone who had my touch with the Probat or talent for creating exceptional blends. Except her, of course, but right now Madame was in Europe with her second husband, Pierre.

I’d have to sample a few sips to be sure, but from the aroma (and the raves from the customers in line), I knew I’d been replaced. Madame had obviously found someone else who knew how to handle her son’s specially sourced beans.

A line was forming at the coffee bar, but I didn’t want to wait. I was anxious to call my daughter, so I approached a zaftig young woman wearing a blue Village Blend apron and black-framed glasses, which dominated her pleasant round face. She looked distracted, hurriedly setting up café tables for the day. (Tables that should have been set up by now—not a good reflection on the new management.)

“Excuse me,” I said, tapping her shoulder. “I used to work here and I’m in a fix. May I use your phone?”

The young woman froze a moment, staring into space as if she’d heard a voice from the great beyond. Then she dropped the wrought iron chair, whirled around, and screamed.

Every person in the coffeehouse stared. Embarrassed, I stepped back, assuming I’d startled her.

What she did next more than startled me.

“Clare Cosi!” she shouted, giving me a smothering hug. “YOU’RE BACK AND YOU’RE ALIVE!”

I rolled my eyes. Would city people never change? Move out of Manhattan and you no longer exist? Sheesh!

“Omigod, omigod!” the girl kept chanting. When she finally broke her mother-bear clutch, I actually saw tears in her eyes.

What is wrong with this person?

I noticed her necklace displayed the name Esther in silver letters. “I’m sorry—Esther, is it? I assume Madame told you about me, maybe showed you my photo, but the joke’s over, okay.”

“Joke?” The baffled barista took a step back. “Boss, what are you talking about? This is no joke. You’ve been missing for days!”