SEVENTEEN

“DO you really think Gus can find something out?” I quietly asked Matt after our visit.

“About Panther Man? I doubt it. Gus is my godfather, not the Godfather. I think he was just humoring you. You heard him: he likes you, Clare—and your cupcakes.”

As Matt and I left Gus’s house and crossed the tranquil hidden courtyard, the shadows grew longer, and I slowed my steps to enjoy the coo of the mourning doves.

“Did you ask Gus about that tiff we overheard between Sophia and her husband?”

“Of course not. Sophia’s marital problems are none of our business.”

“I’m not looking for idle gossip. I’m worried about her. Did you at least ask how she’s doing?”

“Sure, and her older sister, too.”

“How is Perla? She must be in her sixties by now? You know I always wondered about that huge age difference between the sisters.”

Matt nodded. “My mother said Gus and Angelica tried to have children for many years, but Angelica had health problems. Apparently, the years in Italy were really hard on her—and she had some miscarriages. When they finally had Sophia, it was a happy surprise for them both. I remember Gus calling her his piccolo miracolo.”

“Little miracle?” I smiled. “That’s sweet. But all the fuss must have been hard for Perla. What’s she up to these days?”

Matt shrugged. “Gus says he doesn’t see her much. She’s too busy with her business. And before you ask, he thinks Sophia made a bad match in Hunter—that’s her husband’s name, Hunter Rolf. Apparently, their union was hasty. They hooked up last year on Aeroe.”

“Aeroe? What is that, some kind of drug?”

“Aeroe is an island off the coast of Denmark. It’s the quickie wedding capital of Europe. Like Las Vegas, only without slot machines or Elvis impersonators. And, actually, it’s a very picturesque place.”

“Hunter must have really swept Sophia off her feet.”

Hum,” Matt said.

Hum?” I echoed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why is it women always want to pretty things up with phrases like ‘he swept her off her feet’ when it was probably nothing more than animal attraction?”

“When did you get so cynical? If it was nothing more than animal attraction, then why would they get married?”

“Wild guess? Failed birth control.”

I stopped dead and faced him. “What an awful thing to say. What is with you lately—” I was ready to say more, but clenched my fists instead.

Matt’s mother had warned me there was something wrong with her son, and I agreed, but this was hardly the place to drill down on my ex-husband’s latent bitterness.

“Forget it,” I said instead and walked briskly ahead.

At the end of the alley, I popped the one-way lock on the iron gate, and tugged the heavy door.

“You, there! Hold that for me!”

The blunt command, in English but with an Italian accent, came from a fit-looking forty-something in a flowing black Valentino trench. The woman stood in the middle of Perry Street, speaking with her driver, a swarthy man in black with a U-shaped scar on his cheek, who cared not in the least that the vintage black Jaguar he drove was blocking traffic.

Impatient honks came from a taxi and delivery van stuck behind her car, which the woman completely ignored as she continued issuing instructions to her driver—or was it her bodyguard? He looked big enough.

Matt noticed this scene as he stepped through the gate behind me.

“Hold it open!” she commanded again, one leather-gloved hand hailing us as her sharp heels clicked across the West Village pavement.

Bright turquoise cat glasses exactly matched her thigh-high stiletto boots in a statement of high-fashion confidence that extended to her dramatic long hair, dyed with salon-ombre shading that moved from beetle brown to volcano ash. Her expertly made-up face displayed cover-girl cheekbones. But overly plumped lips and tightness around the eyes suggested some recent “work”—and not the kind you do with an apron or shovel.

Matt gently nudged me forward and pointedly released the gate, letting it loudly clang shut and lock tight.

Mannaggia! Are you deaf?” The woman faced off with me and Matt. “I told you to hold it! I must see Mr. Campana!”

Matt gestured to the store’s front door. “Then I suggest you ask his staff for an appointment—like everybody else.”

Before the furious, sputtering fashionista could respond, Matt gripped my elbow and urged me toward Hudson.

“Did you know that woman?” I asked, glancing back over my shoulder.

“I know the type well enough from Breanne’s circle. They’re a soulless, self-centered, eternally entitled lot. This one probably has a complaint about an exquisite piece of jewelry that he’s worked on tirelessly to her specification, yet it ‘still isn’t quite right.’ Let her go through Gus’s staff. That’s what he pays them for.”

*   *   *

MATT stewed in silence for the rest of our walk. At the door to our coffeehouse, he checked his watch and sighed.

“It was nice to see Gus, but that visit was a waste of time. You didn’t even ask him about cold brew.”

“I didn’t have to. Gus gave me the inspiration I needed. I know exactly what I’m going to create for the Andrea Doria competition.”

“Great!” For the first time this afternoon, Matt looked happy. “Hit me with it. What’s your idea?”

“Remember when Gus told us about the ‘superb service’ from the Andrea Doria? “Notte e giorno,” he said, night and day. It made me think dark and light. And then you mentioned that island off the coast of Denmark, and that sealed it. I’ll do a Danish blend.”

Matt clapped his hands. “Clare, that’s perfect!”

A mix of dark and light roasted beans, Danish blend, when done right, gave consumers a superb coffee-drinking experience—beautiful smoothness with well-rounded body at any brewed strength. But balance was key, and the beans I selected had to bring enough richness, as “superb” as the luxury liner on which it would be served.

Matt knew it, too, and his joy quickly gave way to concern. “Do you know the coffees you’re going to use?”

“I’m leaning toward your latest from Sumatra for the dark and that sweet honey-processed Costa Rican you found us for the light—”

“Brilliant! You’ll get lots of wild complexity and sweet flavor from those honey-processed beans and the Sumatra will anchor it with richness, body, and depth.”

“Sure, theoretically, if I don’t blow the balance. So before I start testing roast times and ratios, I’ll need one more thing.”

“Name it.”

“The phone number of the company that equipped the galleys on the ship. Can you get it for me?”

“You want to talk to the ship’s contractors? Why?”

“Just get me that number, and I’ll make your winning blend.”