Nine

The staff meeting broke up around ten o’clock.

We agreed on a few logistical details, like setting up a proctor station on the second floor, along with shift changes. On the subject of getting the word out, Esther and Tucker were the most vocal.

Esther insisted that “old-school, legacy” advertising would not be necessary. Tucker agreed that posting in the right social media groups, along with word of mouth through their writing and theater communities, would work wonders.

When the news comes through “just the right screens,” Esther insisted, that’s when viral magic can happen.

Dante agreed and said he’d share the news with the graphic novel community. Nancy nodded enthusiastically and offered the idea of doing Instagram and Facebook posts showing writers at work in our lounge.

“You mean once we actually get some writers up here,” Esther cracked.

“Um, yeah,” Nancy said. “Or I could record empty chairs and invite people to fill them.”

Tucker made a face. “Honey, take it from me, empty theater seats never make a good impression.”

I ended the meeting there. The night was turning colder, and I wanted my staff home, safe, and rested for what I hoped would be busy days ahead.

After everyone helped straighten up the future home of the Writer’s Block Lounge, I shooed them out the front door. Their excited chattering went with them, bouncing into the cold night and down the shadowy city street. I threw the lock and drew down the shade. When the whole place went dead quiet, I released a bottomless breath.

Could this one crackpot idea really save our shop?

Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure, and I was glad to have some time alone to consider my next move.

The calming routine of loading the dishwasher and listening to its rhythmic swishing while I wiped down the marble counter soothed my anxieties. Restacking the clean cups and reordering the pantry seemed to reorder my thoughts, which is why I decided to channel my remaining worries into reviewing our balance sheets.

After putting another log on the fire, pulling a fresh espresso, and grabbing the last of our Chocolate-Dipped Almond Biscotti, I settled in with my laptop near the crackling flames.

Using creative accounting, I’d used our wholesale business profits (from sales of our freshly roasted premium beans to restaurants and caterers) to cover our shop’s losses and retail staff’s wages. But it wouldn’t work much longer. And, given the outcome of our staff meeting, I knew what I had to do.

With a tense inhale, I pulled my phone out of my apron pocket.

It was time to tell Madame. I knew it. I just didn’t want to do it.

Now, at least, I could say we had a possible solution to our drop in traffic. I also wanted to learn all I could about the first Writer’s Block Lounge. Who better to give advice on how to make it work than the woman who’d managed the original?

At this hour, I wasn’t sure she’d pick up. But I dialed anyway…

One ring.

Two rings.

By the third, I was starting to feel relieved—

I’ll just leave a voicemail message, I decided, and ask her to drop by in the morning.

When the ringing stopped, I waited for the recorded message, and—

“Clare! Hello!”

“Madame?” I froze for a moment. “You picked up?”

“Yes, I know. I’m usually snuggled up in bed at this hour, but I’m in my car tonight.”

“You’re going somewhere?”

“Returning, my dear, from the Pierre.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot about the charity ball. Was it glamorous?”

“The Pierre is always charming and its service superb. I also heard quite a few compliments on the coffee you supplied for the occasion. Exemplary job, my dear. But I’m afraid, overall, the annual Fall Fantastique was a crashing bore.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Far too many tedious speeches, not enough entertainment. Things were much livelier last year when the Gotham Ladies ran the event. We knew enough to put the pizzazz of premier performers onstage between the tedious speeches.”

“Didn’t your friend Babka attend with you? That acerbic wit of hers is usually a good cure for boredom.”

“Alas, no.” Madame sighed. “She and the other Gotham Ladies opted out this year. But I felt our group should be represented, so I went myself, and I’m glad I did. Near the end of all the dull ball business, the night took an intriguing turn.”

“You mean you met someone intriguing, don’t you?”

“I’d love to dish, but let’s do it in person.”

“Of course. You must be tired. Tomorrow morning, we can—”

“Morning? Oh, no! The night is young! Are you still in the shop?”

“I just put another log on the fire.”

“Perfect. I’ll have my driver drop me at the Village Blend. I’ll release him for the night and cab it back home—as long as I’m not keeping you from that delightful blue knight of yours…”

That “delightful blue knight” as Madame referred to him was my fiancé, Lieutenant Mike Quinn, head of the NYPD’s OD Squad.

Mike and I met the very day I’d returned to Manhattan to manage the Village Blend. Madame had persuaded me to come back after my decade-long exile to New Jersey.

Why Jersey? Back then, her son’s penchant for extracurricular lovemaking in practically every country of the world’s coffee belt had split us permanently, at least in my mind. (Matt’s argument for an “open marriage” never did win me over, though, by his nature, his flirtations would likely never end.) Anyway, as a young single mother, I felt my little daughter would be safer in the suburbs, which is why I’d made the move.

And then Joy grew up.

When she was accepted at a prestigious culinary school here in the city, I accepted Madame’s offer to return to her coffeehouse, not only as manager and master roaster, but also as an equity-earning partner and co-inheritor of the business (along with her wayward son).

As for Mike Quinn, the connection between us was immediate and grew to a level neither of us had ever felt before. Given our similar burned backgrounds—of entering our marriages with a sense of sacred commitment and having those commitments casually betrayed—we proceeded with caution. But step by step, the two of us built bonds of trust and love.

Now I couldn’t wait to marry the man, and I just knew the wedding we were planning for the spring was going to be beautiful.

Madame was certainly all in. And while it might seem surprising that a former mother-in-law would be happy to see her ex-DIL wed another man, the truth is, she’d been more of a mother to me than the real one who’d left me in my childhood.

Since the day Madame and I met, she’d supported me, encouraged me, mentored me, and scolded me like the mother I’d never had. And like a good mother, what she wanted most for me was to be happy. Still, her affection for Mike wasn’t solely based on my feelings.

Over the years, the lieutenant had stuck his neck out for all of us, risking his career so many times to help me, Joy, and everyone at the Blend (even Matt) that Madame already thought of him as family, which is why I wasn’t surprised when she wondered where the man was this evening.

“Since you asked,” I informed her, “Mike texted me earlier. He’s still up the street, at the Sixth Precinct, working with his squad on what he called ‘paperwork’—lab results and official reports, most likely. But he should be here soon…”

“The poor man is overworked! But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The stream of illegal pharmaceuticals seems limitless. Heroin. Crack. Fentanyl, and that new narcotic I read about in the Times. The one called Tank—”

“Tranq,” I corrected. “And you’re right. There is always something new, but sadly they always lead to the same tragic result.”

I could almost feel Madame shiver through the phone screen.

“What a conversation for a freezing cold night. I’m sure he’ll be happy to warm up in your bed—”

“Madame!”

“What, dear? We’re all adults here, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but we don’t have to talk about it.”

“It?”

“The fact that Mike and I are on intimate terms.”

Madame laughed. “Both you and the lieutenant were married before. You’re both passionately in love. Frankly, if you weren’t on intimate terms, I’d be worried.”

“Well, don’t worry. At least, not about that.”

“Oh?” Madame said, suddenly serious. “What should I worry about?”

“We’ll talk when you get here.”

“I am here, dear. My driver just pulled up.”