FOURTEEN

ESTHER frantically waved her hand, but Matt already knew her question—

“If you need a bathroom break, the bushes are over there.”

“Excuse me? Do I look like Jane Goodall?”

“Rough it or hold it,” Matt said, “your choice.”

“Spoken like a guy who’s spent the better part of his life in the wilderness.”

“Hey, I brought towelettes.”

He held out a few packets. Esther groaned, snatched them, and ran toward the brush. Then Matt unlocked the van and handed Madame a gym bag. She passed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“I brought some of your things,” she said. “Change out of those glitter scrubs and put on these clothes.”

I found a cluster of bushes away from Esther. The area really was private. No people, no buildings, just the Manhattan skyline peeking through the swishing autumn leaves. I found it oddly comforting. Out of that suffocating hospital room, I could breathe again—and almost hear the sounds of the city over the whooshing Palisades wind.

When I rejoined the group, I was wearing jeans that seemed overly tight around my legs (the fashion now, apparently). Half boots with low heels were comfortable on my feet, but I was shivering slightly under the thin hooded sweatshirt.

“Goodness, Clare, you’re turning blue!”

Madame, who’d exchanged her crinkly rain poncho for a belted cashmere coat, now wrapped me in a baseball-style jacket displaying the same Poetry in Motion logo emblazoned on Esther’s T-shirt and matching jacket.

“What is Poetry in Motion?” I asked, pointing to the words. “A running club?”

“More like a running-your-mouth club,” Esther replied, folding up her rain poncho.

“Tell me,” I said. “I’d like to know.”

She shrugged. “It’s part of my urban outreach work. I’m not just a barista. I’m also a grad student at NYU.”

“And a poet,” Madame said.

“And a local rap artist,” Mr. Dante added.

“I don’t rap as much these days,” Esther admitted, “though my fiancé does. That’s how I met him. Anyway, I’ve been coaching inner-city kids who have an interest in the language arts. The Village Blend has been a big part of that.”

I stared in amazement. “Am I a rapper, too?”

Esther laughed. “No, boss. But you’ve been a big booster for my kids.”

“I have?”

“Sure! You’ve allowed us to host free poetry slams on the Village Blend’s second floor. And you’ve helped us raise the money for trips to regional and national slams.”

“That’s . . . really nice.”

“Yes, it is,” Madame cut in, handing me a brown paper bag. Inside I found a blond wig and thick-framed black eyeglasses like the ones perched on Esther’s face.

“Is it Halloween?”

“No. But you need a costume, and our Tucker came through with props. He’s a firm believer in disguise. Given our situation, I can’t say I disagree.”

Tucker—whoever he was—certainly had the right idea. With my chestnut ponytail pinned under the Goldie Hawn wig and with the glasses on my nose, I hardly recognized my own reflection in the van’s side-view mirror.

While Mr. Dante changed clothes in the bushes, Matt wiped down the interior of the SUV we had abandoned.

“Just to be sure,” he said. “No fingerprints.”

Then my ex checked the small black device in the cigarette lighter, though he didn’t pull it out.

“What is that?” I asked. “Did you take up smoking?”

“This is an Auto-Block. I’ve got one in the van, as well.”

“What does it do?”

“Disables GPS tracking.”

“I don’t understand.”

“GPS,” Matt repeated. “That’s Global Positioning System technology.”

“Uh-huh.”

He studied me. “How far back is your memory actually blocked?”

“Excuse me?”

“Here’s a test. Do you still remember Star Trek?”

I folded my arms. “Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock.”

“Okay then, the Auto-Block is like a cloaking device for modern satellite-tracking technology.” As he spoke, he circled the SUV and began replacing the fake license plates with the originals. “A friend in Brooklyn lent me both vehicles. He’ll pick up this SUV tonight. With these phony plates visible on all the traffic cameras that followed us through Manhattan, there’s no way this will be traced to him, or to us. And the Auto-Block will leave no record of our travels.”

“Still a schemer, I see. And you still have . . . interesting friends.”

Matt shot me one of his trademark grins. Through his dark beard, it flashed even brighter. “Doing business stateside is the same as anywhere else on the globe, Clare. With the right connections—and cold, hard currency—you can acquire whatever you need.”

A cynical view, but I didn’t disagree.

Mr. Dante, sans scrubs, rejoined us, and Madame bagged all the old attire, the phony license plates, and the wiping cloth. Then we all boarded the dingy white van.

Matt resumed his role as driver with Mr. Dante riding shotgun, while I followed Esther and Madame through the sliding side door. There were no windows in back—making me wonder just why I needed a disguise—but there were plenty of seats, and the heater was running full blast (a definite plus).

As we all strapped in, Matt started the engine and adjusted the rearview until he caught his mother’s eye.

“Where to?”

“Back to Manhattan,” she said. “We have an important stop to make.”

As we drove away, I thought over what Esther had told me—about her outreach with inner-city kids and the poetry slams on the Village Blend’s second floor. Closing my eyes, I tried to remember anything that could have been part of what she’d described. But there was nothing.

I shook my head, frustrated at the blank.

“Were you trying to remember something?” Esther asked.

“It’s like walking along a hotel hallway, but all the rooms are locked.” I faced her. “You’re really a poet?”

She nodded and, for a minute, glanced down in thought.

“Dark coffee’s deep, so is your memory,” she whispered. “Pour out the fear that leaves you blind. Try not to worry. No need to hurry.” She squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll find your New York state of mind.”