Sixty-two

“SEE, Clare, I told you I’d deliver!”

Hours later, Sydney Webber-Rhodes was sitting at my crowded coffee bar in a pastel pink sweater and tartan skirt, her elfin features looking smug as a general reviewing her lockstep troops. Smartphone in her manicured hand, the Cinder CEO closely monitored her prepaid parade of trendy and beautiful people as they “hashtagged” happy comments to thousands of social media followers.

As for my part, the shop was in stellar shape. Joy and my baristas were diligently working to serve drinks and pastries as swiftly and cheerfully as possible—while keeping things tidy upstairs and down; inside and out.

Sydney had been right about those outdoor tables. They were as packed as the ones inside. The customers looked satisfied and relaxed, enjoying the cool jazz flowing through the sound system and the blazing hearths on both floors.

“My strategy is working,” Sydney declared with a wink of one hazel-bronze tiger eye. Then her pink fingernail swiped away, showing me the photos and videos being uploaded about our shop: from smiling selfies to images of coffee and pastries to GIF loops of our crackling fireplace.

“Notice how the crowd is changing?” She tipped her shiny blond pixie toward a large group of newcomers. “Those people are obviously not part of my alpha group, yet here they are—real customers!”

When the motley crew of vastly different ages and body types, most clad in down-market fashions, ordered drinks and headed directly upstairs, I knew Sydney was right and wrong. These new customers were “real,” but she was wrong about why they’d come. It wasn’t because of social media endorsements.

They were here because of Esther.

For the past few hours, I’d tried to spot the Washington Post photojournalist whom Sydney had mentioned was coming. I wanted to provide some background on Esther’s ongoing urban outreach work and her extensive experience with poetry slams. But so many people were taking pictures that I pretty much gave up the guessing game.

Anyway, I had another fish to catch, and so far, my net was empty.

Then something intriguing happened.

Cody arrived in an agitated state. Hurrying through our front door, the athletic woman plowed through the crowd like a rugby forward barreling toward a goal. It was the first time I’d seen Cinder’s square-jawed head of security since our encounter at Equator—which surprised me because Team Tinkerbell had arrived early with Sydney. Its members were now wandering around in their pastel shirts. Only Cody had been absent. Now she rushed up to her boss, tossed back her brownish blond pixie, and whispered almost frantically into Sydney’s ear.

The CEO’s satisfied grin morphed into an eye-blinking frown. When she realized I was staring, she checked her reaction and asked—

“Clare, is there somewhere I can go for a private conversation?”

“Of course, the pantry should be quiet. I’ll show you.”

As Sydney and Cody moved through the crowd to get behind the counter, they crossed paths with AJ, who’d been recording video interviews with happily Cinder-matched couples. Sydney tapped her shoulder and motioned for her to follow us.

Unfortunately, our pantry wasn’t bare. Vicki Glockner, one of my part-timers, was desperately looking for more paper cups.

I turned to Sydney. “You’ll find more privacy in our back alley.”

I pushed open the back door. Sydney barely hit the cold pavement before she placed a call on her smartphone. I was hoping to eavesdrop, but she, Cody, and AJ moved too far from the exit.

Stopping in the middle of the alley, they began their conference right next to my coffee roaster’s venting pipe—a whole other kind of wireless communications device!

After telling Vicki to break open the boxes that Matt had hauled from his warehouse, I hurried down the steps to our basement roasting room, unscrewed the wing nuts on our wall vent, and placed my ear to the opening . . .