Nan’s kitchen timer.
Damn, I thought. Damn. Damn. Damn.
It was the first time in this entire evening I hadn’t wanted the thing to bing.
“Wrap it up, everyone!” called Nan. “Say your goodbyes.”
I shrugged. “Our playgroup leader has spoken.”
“Playgroup,” he repeated with a laugh. I liked his laugh. It was deep and genuine and reflected its bright energy in his eyes. “Yeah, you know, you’re right. This whole thing is sort of one big sandbox, isn’t it?”
“That or a Hopper painting,” I quipped.
He glanced around. “Yeah, I can see it. The crowded yet lonely scene of couples not connecting in the stark light and shadows of the hearth’s dying fireplace.”
“An urban study in oil on canvas,” I added. “Very Room in New York.”
“Or Excursion into Philosophy,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
Excursion was an odd choice, I thought, remembering Hopper’s desolate couple: the man sitting fully clothed on a narrow bed, indifferent to the beautiful, half-clothed woman stretched out behind him, facing the wall, her red hair on the white pillow, her naked round bottom sunwashed, looking like ripe fruit ready to be enjoyed. Beside her, the man’s face remains in shadow, full of angst. He ignores the fruit within his reach, staring instead at the floor, lost inside himself, possibly contemplating the book laying open next to him.
Did it represent the isolation of modern life? The depressive folly of the intellectual, brooding instead of living? Was Hopper laughing as he painted it? I used to wonder.
“I always saw that painting as the end of the road,” I said. “No longer being able to connect. You know, years after the marriage vows. When disillusion sets in.”
“Not for me,” said Bruce. “I see it as the morning after the one-night stand, waking up with the wrong woman. He’s tasted the fruit, and he’s suddenly dejected, maybe even feeling a little fleeced, because she’s not what she seemed. And he’s no longer interested.”
“You’ve seen the Whitney collection, I take it?”
“Maybe twenty times.”
“You won’t believe this, but my duplex includes two framed original charcoal Hopper sketches. They were done right here, too. It’s amazing — one of the perks of living upstairs.”
“I can’t imagine a better one.”
We smiled that disbelieving smile again — like we’d both found a three carat diamond in a Cracker Jack box.
“All right, gentlemen, and that means all of you!” Nan called in our general direction. “Please move along to your next Ms. Right. The clock will soon be ticking down!”
“Run, runner,” I murmured.
Bruce laughed. “I hope I’m not ready for ‘Carousel’ yet.”
My god, I thought. He actually got my Logan’s Run joke.
As a Goth twenty-something with black lipstick and a tattoo approached us, Bruce rose from the chair. I held my breath as he extended his hand.
“Would you like to go to dinner with me tomorrow, Clare?” he asked.
OH, YES.
“Uh…tomorrow…yeah, sure. That would be nice.”
I placed my small hand in his large one. To my unending delight, he didn’t just shake and release — he held on.
“Bowman. That’s my last name.”
“And mine’s Cosi. Clare Cosi.”
“You have a nice smile, Clare Cosi,” he said quietly.
“Thanks. So do you.”
“Tomorrow then.”
Eight
“Mom! I cannot believe these notes of yours. They are, like, so out there.”
As Joy flipped through my notepad’s pages, I hung a blue Village Blend apron around my neck, brought the long strings to the front of my waist, and jerked them into a tight bow.
After the Cappuccino Connection had officially ended and most of the customers had departed, I had tried to “casually” discuss the evening’s McMeetings with my daughter, but truthfully all I could think about was Bruce Bowman.
Bruce Bowman. Bruce Bowman. Bruce Bowman.
After shaking his warm, strong, slightly callused hand, I’d been on what felt like a super caffeine high, reciting his name like a New Age chant — until it hit me that every woman sitting on the Blend’s second floor tonight was tracking Bruce’s movements around the Cappuccino Connection circle.
Obviously, Bruce was the big Kahuna, the catch of the night, and Nan Tulley, the evil witch, had insisted all of us make three connections, at least. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise to me when Bruce left the Blend with another “connection” on his arm. A tall, beautifully dressed redheaded woman.
I could have strangled her.
And him.
Of course, the fleeting flare of emotion quickly passed, and I coolly regained my composure, maturely resolving to forget about him forever.
Easy, right?
Wrong.
It was an hour later, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Stupid, silly me just could not shake the feeling that we’d connected on some significant level, and I began to obsess about whether he’d actually keep his date with me tomorrow — and where exactly I ranked on his list of dates. Was it just under the redheaded amazon? Or was I farther down? Who else in the room had made “Cappuccino Connections” with him?
This was the state I’d been in when Joy rushed over to me to begin discussing the evening’s men (and I couldn’t remember any of them clearly but Bruce). Anxious to make sure my girl didn’t end up with a loon, I’d resorted to reading over my notes.
Joy put up with my flipping back and forth through the pages for about two minutes before she’d snatched the Hello Kitty pad right out of my hand. “Let me see that,” she’d cried.
Now she was leaning on the Blend’s blue marble front counter, flipping through the pink pages, her eyes incredulous saucers.
“Tucker, you are not going to believe this. My mother asked these guys about their personal drug use, their arrest record, and the reason for their last breakup. Then she labeled every guy she met. Like they were coffee blends or something!”
“Joy, not so loud,” I cautioned from behind the counter. It was almost midnight and most of the customers had drifted out, but a few couples still lingered quietly at the far end of the main floor, near the first floor fireplace. Reluctant to throw them out, I decided to give them one last hour of romantic firelight — while Tucker and I cleaned and restocked.
“Coffee is not exactly a bad analogy,” Tucker told Joy. “I mean, if you think about it, men can be like coffee blends. A very subtle blending of elements can form the most interesting tastes. Some are bolder, some rougher, some sweeter…”
“Some have whiney overtones,” I quipped.
My assistant manager frowned at my caustic remark. Pausing in his cup-stacking duties, he wiped his hands on his apron and said, “Let me see that notepad.”
Joy handed it over and he flipped through its pages.
With a concerned sigh, he began to read aloud, “Mr. Slick, Mr. Jock, Mr. Type A, Mr. Freeloader, Mr. Superficial Artsy, Mr. Far Too Old, Mr. FunnyBook Boy, Mr. Cabby/Musician, Mr. Mama’s Boy, Mr. Moviefone…” Tucker looked up and wrinkled his nose. “Mr. Moviefone?”
I shrugged. “He had that voice.”
“You mean the guy sounded like Mr. Moviefone?” asked Tucker.
“Yes, and I found it very distracting.”
“I remember him!” said Joy. “He had a mustache and his cologne smelled like Gummy Bears. Did you know Kira left with him?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, they looked pretty chummy, too.”
I nodded, remembering the man. “He did mention crosswords were his passion. Maybe I should have labeled him Mr. Crossword Puzzle Man.”
“Clare, you know, I’m really surprised at you,” said Tucker, shaking a finger. “Such catty, cynical evaluations are usually beneath you.”