TWENTY-THREE

“CLARE, look. Something’s going down on Hudson . . .”

A week after my “legal status” discussion with Quinn, my assistant manager was directing my attention to a pair of police cars rolling up in front of the Village Blend. More sirens wailed in the distance.

As rippling scarlet beams cut the magic-hour glow of the Manhattan twilight, my curious, caffeinated customers looked up from their smartphones—well, some of them did.

When a third squad car arrived, I stepped out from behind the coffee bar. But before I could join Tucker at the door, the touch of a gently wrinkled hand gave me pause.

I faced Madame’s violet gaze and genial smile. “It’s rude to rush off in the middle of a conversation, dear.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m worried there might have been another shooting . . .”

Leaving Madame, I stepped outside, checked with the officers out front, and quickly returned.

“They wouldn’t tell me a thing,” I informed Tucker. “Just asked me to stay off the street.”

Far from reassuring, I thought, but then the entire city had been on edge for a week. Quinn and I hadn’t seen much of each other these past seven days, and when we did, our encounters were heartbreakingly brief, nothing more than tense updates on our busy lives.

Every night, I lay alone in bed, aching for him—and wondering if he was consciously putting distance between us to “lessen” my worries. The longer it went on, the more I feared he had made his decision and was gradually breaking things off between us.

The more fool him.

Seeing less of him didn’t lessen my worries. But it was accomplishing one thing—it was shredding my heart to pieces.

As I walked back to the coffee bar, Madame waved me over and patted the seat beside her.

“Sit down, Clare. Take a break. That sound and fury could be anything, or nothing at all. This is New York, you know.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Tuck said, and as he distracted our customers with a few bars of “On Broadway” (in his Off-Broadway cabaret voice), Madame leaned close.

“Please don’t worry, Clare. I hate to see you so troubled.” She reset a strand of hair that escaped my ponytail and squeezed my hand. “Now let’s get back to your presentation plan for next week’s Andrea Doria competition.”

I prepared a sample cup for Madame and held my breath as she inhaled the aroma, preparing to sip.

Earlier in the week, I’d created the Danish blend with a dark-roasted Sumatra and light-roasted Costa Rican, but this coffee needed something more. For days, I tested and retested ratios until one golden afternoon, I remembered something more from my talk with Gus.

The gold of the autumn sun reminded me of another afternoon, one I’d spent in Florence, shopping among the goldsmiths on the Ponte Vecchio, and I suddenly remembered the yellow caturra—a coffee plant that produces yellow instead of red cherries.

Matt had this unique varietal stored in his climate-controlled warehouse in Brooklyn. Grown in the volcanic loam of Puna, it was even honey-processed, like his outstanding Costa Rican.

Unlike the more common “washed” processing method, which used water to strip the coffee bean of the fruit surrounding it, honey-processing removed only the skin of the cherry. With the sticky-sweet pulp remaining, the beans were spread on racks and raked gently under the golden sun several times a day to quicken the drying process. The coffee then rested for months, developing exotic flavor and striking character in its sugary cocoon before the dried parchment layer was finally removed by machine and the beans sold for roasting.

Though the method was labor-intensive, it produced some of the best-tasting coffees in the world. The honey-processed Puna was one of them, with transcendent notes of floral and spice, apricot, caramel, and almond.

Unfortunately, Hawaiian coffees were highly priced—demand was high, supply limited. But if I used only 10 percent in my blend, I could bring our “Night and Day” Andrea Doria entry to a premium level for a price far less than our Billionaire Blend—which was Matt’s directive.

Madame tasted the results of my honey-yellow experiment, closed her eyes, and swooned.

“Superb,” she said simply.

She sipped again. “Beautifully balanced, Clare, with a plush mouthfeel. The flavors are dazzling, and they continue to unfold through the sip and swallow.” With a nod, she continued sampling as the coffee cooled. “Ah . . . perfect caramelization. Like the perfect man: smooth yet exciting, sweet yet exotic, and”—she winked—“a little nutty.”

“I didn’t think I could produce a winner in the short time I had but—”

“You know what I say, dear. No pressure, no diamonds. And this is a jewel. Un bijou! A coffee diamond!”

I grinned with relief (and a little pride) explaining how I’d even done a little detective work, calling the ship’s contractor to discover what machines they’d installed in the galleys for making coffee (a brand of super-automatic now popular with many of New York’s top hotel kitchens).

“Now I can adjust the roast for that particular machine’s optimum settings,” I noted. “And the addition of a Hawaiian coffee will be attractive for the marketing and menu descriptions—luxury taste without an astronomical price.”

“In plain terms, it’ll make a nice profit—for them and us.”

“No profit, no business. Isn’t that what you also say?”

“Exactement!”

As we chatted, I pretended to ignore the fact that more NYPD cars were arriving by the minute, or that our sidewalk was now a municipal sea of uniforms. Then several officers began cordoning off the area around the front door.

They’re setting up a perimeter, and the Village Blend is ground zero. Why? Are they trying to keep people out, or rope us all in?

I was about to storm outside and demand answers when a parade of officers pushed through the door enough times to make our greeting bell peal like a country church on Christmas morning.

Detectives Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass, partners who’d been nicknamed the “Fish Squad,” led the pack in starched slacks and navy blazers. I counted these women as friends, or at least friendly acquaintances—but you wouldn’t know it from their grave demeanors.

Oh, God, I thought. Something terrible must have happened to Mike, and they’ve come to tell me!

Despite my worst fears and weak knees, I faced the police squarely. “Detective Soles. Detective Bass. How can I help you tonight?”

“We’re here to place you under arrest, Clare Cosi.”

I blinked, certain I’d heard wrong. “Arrest me?”

“Yes, you.”

It was Sue Ellen Bass who spoke this time. The more volatile of the pair, she quickly reached for the handcuffs on her belt.

With their ridiculous charge came a realization. There’s no “bad news.” Mike Quinn is fine, and the rest of this is just a stupid, silly misunderstanding!

The rush of relief left me giddy. But my goofball happy grin infuriated Sue Ellen.

“Did you think you could get away with it?” she demanded, rattling the cuffs like a dungeon mistress.

“Get away with what?”

“Grand theft.”

I gawked at the pair. “Are you kidding?”

Lori Soles shook her head. “This is serious, Clare. In New York State, stealing a police detective’s heart is a Class A felony.”

With the practiced perfection of a Rockettes chorus line, the wall of uniforms parted, and there was Mike Quinn, down on one knee, wearing a crooked smile and his best blue suit.

Time seemed to stop, the packed coffeehouse stilling with it, as his hand lifted a white ring box. My breath caught at the sight—of Mike, the box, and the tiny golden bell embossed on top.

“Clare,” he began. “I love you, and I know you love me.”

He opened the box to reveal a small but perfect diamond, its ice blue color shining as brilliantly as the good in Mike’s eyes.

The uniquely Campana-cut stone had exceptional clarity—but it was no solitaire. Around the blue center, a circle of smaller coffee diamonds winked at me with shocking familiarity.

I knew at once that Gus’s own hands had made this stunning piece, a perfect replica of the legendary lost Eye of the Cat, which I’d openly admired in his home just a week ago.

But how could Mike have known?

When I tried to ask him, he shushed me.

“First, I have something to ask you. And you better think hard about your answer. With these law officers as witnesses, it’s going to be tough to change your story.”

I nodded dumbly, waiting for the question to pop.

“Clare Cosi, will you marry me?”