ONE

Sixty years later . . .

A pelting rain transformed the Village Blend’s French windows into tiny, wood-framed waterfalls. I pulled my sweater tight against the autumn chill and considered the predawn clouds.

Sure, the weather was lousy, and it was the first day of another long workweek, but (all due respect to the Carpenters) I utterly refused to let rainy days or Mondays get me down.

Why should they? I was back home in New York, once again managing my beloved Greenwich Village coffeehouse and living in the same city as the man I loved. Everything felt so right, what could possibly go wrong—other than my opening team calling in late?

Hey, an easy enough problem to handle.

Switching tunes, I swayed across the restored plank floor to the “Rhythm of the Rain.” Humming the old Cascades hit, I pulled upside-down chairs from the café tabletops, setting things right as I went.

Next I calibrated the espresso machine, restocked our dairy products, and accepted the pastry delivery. I was about to kindle a blaze in the brick hearth to dispel the dampness when my phone buzzed.

“Madame? I’m surprised you’re awake. It’s only—”

“Six fifteen AM. I’m well aware of the time, dear.”

“Is everything all right?”

“That’s the question I have for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Something’s not right with Matteo.”

I almost laughed. “And you just figured that out?”

“Don’t crack wise at this hour, Clare. Withstanding wit takes at least two pots of coffee, and I’m only on my first.”

“That’s not wit. It’s crankiness. I haven’t had any coffee yet.”

“Then you have my sympathy, but not my surrender.”

“What makes you think there’s a problem with our intrepid coffee hunter?”

“I’m his mother. I can sense these things. Didn’t you—with Joy?”

“Plenty. But mostly in her teen years . . .”

Which made me reconsider my employer’s concern, given my ex-husband’s penchant for acting like an overgrown adolescent (seeking thrills and shunning consequences).

“Okay, you got me. How can I help?”

“If you wouldn’t mind using that snooping sense of yours to fact find for me, I’d appreciate it.”

How could I say no? Matteo Allegro and I were no longer partners in marriage, but thanks to his mother, we were now coupled in business.

Not that it happened overnight.

After Matt and I split, I spent ten years in the quiet suburbs of New Jersey, raising my young daughter through grade school and high school, Girl Scouts and girlfriends, broken toys and broken hearts—until she headed back to the city on her own, a confident young woman, ready for Manhattan’s crowded streets and one of the country’s best culinary schools.

I’d hardly had time to mourn my empty nest before Matt’s mother called with a generous arrangement. She hired me back into the Allegro family firm, not only as a manager and master roaster, but also as a partner and heir.

Now my ex-husband and I had good reasons to put the past behind us. Not just for ourselves, but for Joy, because it was our deepest wish to leave this thriving coffee business as a legacy to our daughter.

Once again, the Village Blend was the center of my life, along with its diverse blend of customers—from young hipsters to senior hippies; aspiring actors to investment bankers; NYU students to nearly every badge working the Sixth Precinct of the NYPD.

We all depended on Matt to source the best coffees in the world. So if he had a problem, it had the potential to hurt our entire business.

“I’ll see what I can find out, Madame. I promise.”

“Good.”

I stifled a yawn.

“You sound tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“That community board meeting last night went on forever, and the official from Sanitation refused to move the Dumpsters from that vacant building down the block. He says the property is private and it’s the owner’s responsibility, but the owner halted renovations and left the country. Now partying kids are using the Dumpsters to boost themselves onto the fire escape and up to the roof. The police can’t waste officers babysitting a Dumpster 24/7. But the city should do something before someone gets hurt . . .”

Madame listened until I was tired of hearing myself vent. She then reminded me that bureaucracies were like bus routes: “Wait a little while and a better driver will come along . . .”

Shifting subjects, her voice suddenly dropped an octave—a tone I only heard when she felt grave concern.

“Clare . . . have you seen the newspapers this morning?”

“No. I just came down to open when you called.”

“Well, when you do, I’m here for you.”

“You’re there for me? Why? What’s in the papers?”

When she demurred on saying anything more (except a hasty good-bye), I gritted my teeth and gazed longingly at the espresso machine. A double wouldn’t be enough. I could tell already—

This was going to be a triple-shot day.