One

Greenwich Village, New York

Two weeks ago

The bell above our front door jingled.

“Hey, I’m back! What’s with the snow?! It’s too early for snow!”

Looking up from behind the counter, I found my ex-husband and current business partner struggling with a bulky backpack. Snowflakes clung to Matteo Allegro’s dark beard and crimson windbreaker—a jacket far too light for such a frosty morning.

“Don’t blame me for the weather,” I called. “Tell it to the polar vortex.”

As I pulled Matt a speedy pick-me-up from our espresso machine, he made a shivering beeline for the blazing brick hearth and slipped the big pack off his strong shoulders. It hit our restored plank floor with a loud thud.

“I’ve been gone for ten days, Clare. Don’t I deserve a ‘Welcome back, partner, how was your trip?’ ”

“Sorry. I was up at five am redecorating the upstairs lounge, so I’m all out of enthusiasm. How about a caffeine welcome instead?”

Stifling a yawn, I brought over Matt’s usual, one shot with a lemon twist. He drained his cup like a busy Roman, while still standing.

“Thanks, I needed that. I’m just off a red-eye from Kigali. Fifteen hours without a decent drop.”

Stripping off his now-dripping windbreaker, he revealed a short-sleeved Brazilian soccer jersey (which explained why he was freezing). After shaking the snow out of his unruly dark hair, he moved one of our (far too many) empty café tables closer to the fireplace, plopped down in a chair, and rubbed his bare hands near the flames.

I took a seat across from him and waved two fingers at my youngest barista. With a toss of her yellow braids, Nancy Kelly gave me a grinning thumbs-up. She knew what we needed.

“So how was your trip?” I asked. “I hope you found some promising cherries this year.”

“Wait till you taste the Burundi!” Matt flashed me a smile, a dazzler of white teeth against his black beard and deep tan. “First shipment arrives next week. The Rwandan’s already in our warehouse—and thank goodness you’re the one roasting it.”

“I appreciate that,” I said and truly did.

My ex-husband was one of the most respected coffee brokers in our trade, and he never flattered lightly. He knew how superb Rwandan coffees could be, but they were tricky. Experienced roasters knew how to fire those green beans long enough to develop a rich mouthfeel without letting the cherries turn to charcoal. Like a lot of things in life, getting results came down to the art of nuance—not only knowing when to push, but when to back off.

“Here you go!” With fresh-faced enthusiasm, Nancy served up a demitasse for me and a new one for Matt. “I felt your pain all the way across the room, Mr. Boss, so I made yours a double.”

Matt nodded his thanks, took a satisfying hit, and leaned his tanned forearms on the Italian-marble tabletop.

“I’m back early, Clare, yet you don’t seem surprised.”

“I would have been more surprised if you were a customer.”

Matt’s tired eyes scanned the coffeehouse floor. “What day is it?”

“Are you really that out of it?”

“My phone ran out of power, and my watch is still on Central Africa Time.”

“It’s Monday, nine forty am Eastern.”

Matt frowned. “Where’s your midmorning rush? This place should be packed, but it’s deader than my phone battery.”

“The shop is dead every day after nine am. Even our early-morning business is nothing like the old days. Unless we turn things around soon, I’m afraid the Village Blend will be dead, too.”

My unhappy news hit my ex-husband with a force harder than his bulky backpack smacking our polished floorboards.

“You can’t be serious!” he cried.

“Lower your voice,” I whispered. “You’ll upset our baristas.”

Matt stared at me. The impact of the word dead (in relation to our century-old shop) had produced more than a booming response. A crimson color flushed the man’s olive skin.

“This couldn’t have come at a worse time,” he said. “I took out a million-dollar loan to build our Red Hook roasting facility. It’s almost ready to open—”

“Calm down. Our wholesale business is doing fine. We’re moving more freshly roasted beans than ever. Restaurants are ordering so much that I can hardly keep up with demand.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Foot traffic. It barely came back after the pandemic. And the disruptions we endured during the location filming in our shop sealed the deal. Midmornings and afternoons are the worst.”

“Why didn’t I see this coming?”

“Because your focus has been on your coffee-importing business. With all your traveling, you’ve failed to notice that New York City has changed. People don’t pop in and buy a morning cup before they head to the office anymore or drop in during their office lunch break.”

“What did they do? Switch to bone broth?”

“They stopped going to the office. Remote work has emptied most of the commercial buildings around us.”

Just then, Esther Best, our resident raven-haired slam poet, emerged from our pantry. As she tied an apron around her ample hips, she spotted Matt, pushed up her black-framed glasses, and cried—

“Hey, Mr. Boss! Welcome back from the Mother Continent, birthplace of the magic bean. You look tired. How ’bout an espresso? Mine are supreme!”

Matt smirked at me. “Now that’s what I call a greeting.”

“Esther is just happy to have a customer. Like all of us, she’s worried. The whole staff is sweating. Nobody wants to be cut loose.”

“You know you can’t do that. These people are family.”

“It’s the last thing I want to do. But your mother put both of us in charge of her legacy, and I can’t pretend it’s not in financial jeopardy. Our place should be packed at this hour, but it’s completely empty. You can see for yourself. Not one customer has come through that door.”

Then the bell rang and made a liar out of me.