I met my daughter’s green eyes. “I’ll tell you the truth, okay? Bruce Bowman and I had a very nice little meeting, but that’s all it was. He asked me out, but I really don’t think he’ll call. He left with that Sahara McNeil person, and it’s obvious he’s much more interested in her than me.”
“No, he’s not.”
I blinked. That was the last thing I’d expected Joy to say. “Of course, he is, honey. So just forget about it.” I turned to my assistant manager. “Tucker, we need more cardboard heat sleeves. Can you bring some out from the pantry?”
“Sure, Clare.”
I abandoned my espresso beans and turned to continue checking inventory, but Joy wasn’t taking the hint that I’d closed this discussion. She came around the counter and began following me as I surveyed the shelves and cabinets.
“Listen, Mom, Bruce told me Sahara McNeil is just an old college friend. He was glad to see her only because he was hoping to reconnect with some other classmates they both knew.”
“Honey, it sounds like this McNeil woman is an old flame, and he wants to date her again.”
“No. Listen. When Bruce sat down, he told me right off the bat that I was too young for him — he was really nice about it, too, but he said he’d tried dating someone a year ago in her early twenties, someone who worked in his office, and it was a disaster, so I was definitely not even in the ballpark. So we just chatted in general and he mentioned being surprised at seeing his old classmate sitting at the table next to mine. I quietly asked him if he was interested in her, and he shook his head no. He told me she was always too far out for him. Too edgy. Said her real name was Sally but in college she’d changed it to Sahara because it sounded more artsy. I could tell by the way he said it that he thought that was sort of silly and phony. He said he liked more down-to-earth women. So, of course, I told him about you.”
“You what?” I stopped checking inventory and faced my daughter in shock.
“I told him he should keep an eye out for someone special around the circle, a woman in a green velvet dress named Clare, because she would be the best connection he’d have a chance at making. Ever.”
“You said that?”
“Yeah, Mom. I want you to be happy, you know. And I liked Bruce. So I’m glad you and he connected.”
“I’m not sure we did, honey. But I’m…I’m very glad you’re glad.”
“Why do you look so surprised?”
“Because I thought…” I shook my head and took a break from checking inventory. I went back over to the grinder and processed more beans, enough for three espresso shots.
“What did you think?” asked Joy. “C’mon, tell me.”
“I thought you were hoping I’d get back together with your dad.”
Joy shrugged. “I do…but…”
“But what?”
“But I want you to be happy. And…to tell you the truth…well…you remember Mario?”
“Sure.”
“You remember how I told Esther I hadn’t really been into him or anything?”
“Yes.”
“I lied. I really liked him, Mom, and I was really hurt when he broke it off with me…”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was personal, and I was…I don’t know…embarrassed, I guess. I thought it would be easier to pretend he didn’t matter to me. And, you know, after the hurt, I was so angry with him, Mom, I could have killed him.”
I sighed. “Honey, believe me, I know what you went through.”
“Exactly…Look, remember when you said you wanted to try dating again? I wasn’t thrilled at first, and I did want you to get back together with Dad, but then I thought how I would feel if you wanted me to get back together with Mario, even after he broke my heart and made me so angry and everything…and well, I wouldn’t be very happy with you if you dumped that on me, you know?”
“That’s different, Joy. Mario and I don’t have a relationship. You and your father do. So it’s natural you’d want me to get back together with him. But no matter what happens with me and your dad, your dad will always love you. And so will I. That’s not going to change.”
“Sure, Mom. You’ve told me that, like, a million times. And for a long time I still couldn’t help feeling like the whole world would be right again if only you and Dad remarried…but I’m starting to think that maybe it’s not realistic. And so…I figure if you and Dad aren’t going to get back together…then there’s no reason you shouldn’t be happy. I mean, if any Mom deserves to be happy, it’s you.”
I reached under the counter — way under, behind the unopened coffee syrups and boxes of wooden stirrers.
“You know what this calls for?” I announced, motioning for Tucker to come over and join us.
“What?”
“Frangelico lattes.”
Into each of the three cups, I splashed the translucent gold, added a freshly pulled espresso shot, poured in a tsunami of steamed milk, and topped it with a fluffy cloud of foam.
“She’s underage, you know,” teased Tucker as I handed out the drinks.
“She’s old enough to vote, drive a car, have a baby, and fall in love. I say she’s old enough for two ounces of hazelnut liqueur. Joy, just pretend we’re in Milan.”
“Okay, Mom,” said Joy. She lifted her cup. “C’ent anni, mama mia.”
“C’ent anni, mia fia.”
“One hundred years,” said Tucker.
And we all drank.
I sighed, tasting the sweet hazelnut flavor of the Frangelico, the glowing heat of its alcohol, the earthiness of the espresso, and the soft, milky froth of the steamed milk.
I hated myself for speculating, but I couldn’t help wondering if Bruce Bowman could possibly taste this satisfying.
“Uh-oh,” said Tucker.
Looking up from my pathetic, unattainable reverie, I saw why Tucker had complained. We hadn’t locked the door yet, and a new customer had walked in, a young man in a long gray overcoat.
“Shall I tell him we’re closed?” asked Tucker.
“No, I’ll take care of his drink order and tell him it has to be to go. You grab the keys and lock up after him.”
“What about the lovebirds?” asked Tucker.
The last three couples, spillovers from the Cappuccino Connection “Power Meet” session, were still nursing coffee drinks near the fireplace, heads together, talking with that intimate tell-me-everything-about-yourself intensity that always comes during the first fiery flush of an infatuation. I still didn’t have the heart to pull the plug.
“We’ll let them out one at a time as they approach the door,” I said. “I have another thirty minutes’ work here at least, then we’ll kick their butts into the street.”
“Sounds good,” said Tucker.
He turned and strode toward the back pantry, where we kept our thick ring of shop keys on a hook. I took another satisfying sip of my Frangelico latte, waiting for the new customer to approach our coffee bar counter and place his order.
But he didn’t.
Like a ghost, the young man drifted hesitantly over to those last three remaining couples. He approached one of the tables, hands in the pocket of his long gray overcoat. He stood there, waiting for them to look up. When they did, he mumbled to them. They shook their heads and looked away, then he moved to the next couple.
“Joy, something’s up with this guy,” I whispered. “Go get Tucker.”
In less than thirty seconds, both Joy and Tucker were back.
By this time the lone customer had drifted to the second couple, with the same result. The man at the table, a slight guy in a navy sport coat and glasses, and the young dark-haired woman shook their heads; then the stranger moved along.
“Tucker, watch this guy,” I whispered. “Something’s not right.”
The stranger moved to the third couple, spoke to them, and again was turned away. Finally, the man in the overcoat moved toward the coffee bar. He wasn’t that old, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. He had pale skin, short brush-cut brown hair, and a very unhappy expression on his face.