“Then what is?”
“I just have reservations . . .”
“About me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Because most of my days are spent digging the truth out of a steaming pile of equivocations, and it certainly sounds to me like you’re trying to break it to me gently.”
“Break what?”
“The fact that your feelings for me . . . that they have limits.”
“Mike, I love you. I love you with all my heart.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“It’s not my problem. It’s yours. I’m sorry Joy brought this question up, because whether or not you want to admit it, you don’t want a wife—”
“Hold it right there—”
“Look, maybe want is the wrong word. Need is a better one—what you need and what you don’t need.”
He folded his arms.
“You need your freedom, Mike, a pass to come and go, to put your work first. And that’s okay with me. You don’t need the burden of a wife waiting for you to show for dinner every night, expecting you to hold up your end of a conventional relationship.”
“I don’t follow your argument. I’m very happy in a relationship with you. And I thought you were, too. I don’t see how you can argue that what we have now isn’t working, because it is.”
“You’re not hearing me. I’m saying the opposite. What we have now is working. And that’s why I want to keep things the way they are. I love my life, too . . . and I’m not about to change on you, but if our relationship changes, our lives change, and I’m not ready for that . . .”
“Clare, please . . .” He massaged his forehead. “Explain to me exactly: Why would our lives have to change?”
“Why?” I threw up my hands. “You’re the one who nearly resigned his position this week! You don’t think that would change everything? If they reassigned you to a precinct in southern Brooklyn or eastern Queens, I would never see you.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Okay, I would hardly see you.”
“I would simply commute to a new precinct.”
“With the hours you keep? The commitment you have? I’d have to move with you to keep our relationship going. Uproot from this place, this life . . .”
“You do realize this is a theoretical argument?”
“So? Most of your days are spent finding and proving some theory of a case, aren’t they?”
“That’s work. Law and procedure; cold, concrete crime solving. What I’m talking about is practically the metaphysical opposite—and I know you know that.”
Did I? I looked away, not sure what to say . . .
Mike spoke again, his voice quiet. “You’re a worrier, Clare, but worrying isn’t going to solve anything. You have to learn to trust.”
“Trust you?”
“Trust yourself. Your decision. Your choice. Trust that things will work out . . . and if they go off track, you’ll find a way to get them back on again.”
“I just . . .” With a deep breath, I turned off the burner under the milk, moved to sit with him at the table. “I want things to stay the way they are. Is that so bad?”
Mike fell silent. He met my eyes. “You’re telling me it’s my turn to wait?”
Another man might have said those words with brittleness, with sarcasm. Mike said them with calm, quiet comprehension. I loved him all the more for it.
Leaning closer, I took his hands in mine. “I just need time, Mike.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. Enough to be sure we’re on the same path, enough to make certain that a wedding ring won’t end up feeling like a locked handcuff, on either of us.”
He took a breath. “I guess we both know waiting is a state I’m acquainted with.”
“Thank you. I mean it.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Clare. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I said. “And I’m here for you. That I promise you.”
“A promise is all I’m after.”
Thirty
The next day my coffeehouse was filled with small actors (literally).
Up the street, auditions were again under way for the new musical sequel to the Wizard of Oz, and (like the Wicked Witch coven before them) the vertically challenged citizens of Munchkin Land designated us their java bean outpost.
Our morning regulars fell silent as the front door opened and sixteen little people paraded across our floor. Most were middle-aged, a few older, every one of them less than four feet tall. As the group approached the counter, my newest, youngest barista didn’t even blink.
“Good morning,” Nancy Kelly said with a practiced smile. “What can I get you?”
I bit my cheek as Esther threw me a deadpan stare. “Looks like Dorothy is finally getting the hang of not being in Kansas anymore.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Except she never mentioned living in Kansas.”
“Hey, given all the places that girl is supposedly from, I’m sure it was a stopover.”
Tucker Burton’s boyfriend, Punch, was back at our coffee bar, too. Like Nancy, the lean Latino didn’t bat an eyelash at the new rush of customers. He stopped sneering at the concept for this new musical, too. Now he was complaining there were no parts for him.
“I’ve already missed the witch call,” Punch said with a sigh. “And I do great green-skinned drag. I would jump in today, but I’m too tall to play a member of the Lollipop Guild.”
“Oh, come on. It’s a big show,” Tuck said in his usual upbeat tone. “Check the audition schedule at HB Studio. I’m sure you’ll find a chorus part.”
“This is my first audition,” one of the little people announced. In his late twenties with a square-jawed handsome face, the wannabe Munchkin waited patiently for me to pull him a double. “That’s what I’m hoping for—a part in the chorus. You got to start somewhere.”
Tuck nodded. “Good attitude! Remember, there are no small parts, only small—”
Esther and I froze, Punch’s eyes bugged in horror, and Tuck’s mouth suddenly snapped shut.
“I’m... I’m so sorry,” he stammered.
All of the little people burst out laughing.
“I’ve heard that line ever since I got my Equity card,” an older actor shouted out. “The only funny thing about it is seeing big people like you swallow their tongues.”
The little people laughed even harder.
“Yo! Boss!” Esther called an hour later.
By now, the Munchkin rush had slowed considerably. Some had left with cups in hand, but most were still relaxing at our café tables.
“What it is?” I called.
“Your apron has been beeping for the last fifteen minutes. Do you have a clue when it’s going to explode?”
“Sorry, that’s my cell.” I looked up from the inventory spreadsheet on the countertop. I’d hung up the apron before taking a break. “Would you mind handing it to me?”
I set down my pen and gently touched my tender nose. Fortunately, the bruise from my scuffle with the Apollo of Abs was healing fast. By the time I’d opened the Blend this morning, only a little tenderness remained, but something pained me even more—the cloud Alicia Bower had placed over this shop.
“Here you go, boss.”
“Thanks.” I punched up the voice mail message and scowled. Don’t speak of the devil, my nonna used to warn, or he may appear.
In this case, the devil was a she.
“Clare, it’s me. Listen up,” Alicia began in her imperious tone. “I’ve dispatched Daphne with a set of instructions. It is crucial that you follow them to the letter. I’ll be unavailable for a call back from you, but we will speak soon . . .”
God, it was difficult to swallow that tone from the woman who could put this landmark shop out of business. And “out of business” for the Blend meant more than breaking my heart by breaking up my cozy little family of baristas. It meant Madame would lose her life’s work, Matt his century-old family trade, and my daughter her legacy.