Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

“How was Ethiopia?”

“Great. Our Amaro Gayo is outstanding, picked at the perfect time and the sorting is good. You should see the first shipment any day.”

“I’m looking forward to roasting it.”

“And I’m looking forward to tasting your roast.” He smiled then, a genuine vote of confidence, which I appreciated.

“Does Breanne know you’re back?”

Matt stifled a yawn as he nodded. Annoyed by his own jet lag, he reran a hand over his dark head then waved at Tucker. “Another double!”

“How’s Bree been?”

I hadn’t seen her since the Blend’s holiday party last December. But then Breanne Summour, the ultratrendy, trend-setting editor of Trend magazine, traveled in much different circles than moi . The woman was a definite trade-up for my ex — in wealth and looks.

Before their marriage last spring, wagging tongues had speculated what a wayward coffee hunter and a socially ambitious fashion maven could possibly share. But I didn’t question it.

Despite their wildly different career choices, I knew Matt and Bree weren’t so very different under their toned tans. Both enjoyed living large, both craved excitement, and both jetted around the world for their respective careers. Granted, Matt’s dusty treks through Nairobi and Bogotá were more exotic than Breanne’s glittering tours of Milan and Barcelona, but to someone left behind, globetrotting is globetrotting no matter where your loved one trots. Conveniently, the Allegro-Summour union left no spouse behind while conveniently providing each nomadic partner with the comforting illusion of a rooted marital home.

“We texted each other before I got on the plane,” Matt said. “She’s on her way to Milan by now — another trade show. I missed her at JFK by ninety minutes.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Not really.” Matt shrugged, a little too casually. “Gives me a little space to relax, kick back, enjoy some time alone in the Big Kumquat...”

I frowned. After years stranded on Matteo Island, I’d become way too fluent in Matt-speak. Even his eyes were sparking with that regrettable when-the-cat’s-away look.

Before I could challenge the man’s wet noodle of a moral code, the Blend’s front bell jingled. Glancing up, I saw James Noonan’s wife coming through the door.

Valerie Noonan wasn’t much taller than I, but the dynamic charge of her fast-clicking heels across my wood-plank floor appeared to lift her to the stature of her firefighter husband.

“Clare!” she called with the burning energy of a Con Ed plant. “We need to talk!”

“How are you?” I asked when Val approached our table.

“Great — now that I know I’ve caught you!” Val’s low, throaty voice belied her bubbly demeanor and freckle-sprinkled nose. What it betrayed was a pack-a-day habit.

I felt for her. I’d smoked a little in high school but quickly kicked it (the kick in the pants from my grandmother had helped). Val said she hated her addiction, had stopped for a few years, but the recent stresses of her job had sent her back.

“You made quite an impression on James last night!”

“Really?” It was the last thing I expected her to say.

“Yes, and let me tell you” — she arched a slender eyebrow — “it’s not easy hearing your husband gas on about another woman’s heroism before you’ve even had your coffee!”

“Heroism? Not me. James and his friend Bigsby Brewer were the ones who ran into that burning building. They’re the real he — ”

“Don’t say it.” She held up her palm. “James hates the word. He’d say he was just doing his job and that a hero is a sandwich.”

Matt coughed — loudly.

Yeah, okay, Matt, keep your pants on. “Val, this is my business partner, Matt Allegro.”

As Matt rose to give up his chair, Val cocked her head. “Allegro?” She glanced at me then back to Matt. “Clare’s daughter’s name is Allegro — Oh! You must be Clare’s ex — ”

“We’re still partners,” Matt said. “But only in business. Very pleased to meet you, Val. That’s a pretty name. Short for Valerie, right?”

Matt took her hand, the simple shake turning into a meaningful squeeze. He moved a little closer, the dilation in his dark pupils as clear a sign of the man’s interest as a construction worker’s wolf whistle.

If I didn’t know Matt better, I might have assumed he was having a simple, Pavlovian reaction to the rich, russet shade of the woman’s short, bouncy curls and trim business suit, both of which displayed the exact color of a perfectly pulled shot of espresso crema. But I did know Matt, and his reaction had everything to do with woman’s curvy figure beneath that stylish suit.

“Val’s husband is a firefighter ,” I told him with pointed emphasis. And he’ll break your head with his Halligan tool. “He’s also the very same fireman who pulled your mother out of that burning building last night.” So poach elsewhere, please.

Matt instantly dropped Val’s hand. With a weak little smile, he asked her to thank her husband for him then excused himself to “freshen up” in our restroom.

As he sauntered away, I noticed Val considering his well-built back. I shook my head. Matt’s Tabasco-colored tee may have appeared to be an easygoing choice, but I knew he’d purposely selected the tighter size to show off his molded pecs. And while his open denim work shirt looked loose and casual, those sleeves had been rolled with strategic precision, giving full exposure to his tanned, sinewy forearms while tempting the ladies with that first teasing curve of his bulging biceps.

Val lowered herself into Matt’s chair and leaned toward me. “You actually divorced that hunk?”

“Yes. With relish.”

“Do dish.”

“It’s a lengthy saga.”

“Let me guess. He’s a womanizer.”

“One of his many issues, yes...”

“Too bad you handled it by divorcing him. He looks like a real catch...” She gazed after Matt once more to connect with him, but he was gone — a succinct description of my young marriage.

“If James ever cheated on me,” Val said, “I wouldn’t be divorcing him. I’d be dealing with the female involved.”

That view surprised me. “Isn’t James the one who made you the promise of fidelity?”

“A married man is already taken. The woman is the one who’s doing the poaching. She’s the one who needs to be dealt with.”

“But don’t you think your husband owes you — ”

“Hey, that’s just my view. To each her own.” She laughed, but it sounded a little force. “I’d love to hear your side of the story. You and me, after work, over a couple of microbrews, okay?”

“Beer?”

“Oh yeah. That’s my drink, don’t mess with it.”

“To each her own, then.” I smiled. “Now how about one of mine?”

She nodded, and we moved to the espresso bar where I fixed her up with our latest special, a Belgian Mochaccino (espresso, foamed whole milk, a pump of coffeehouse vanilla, and a half shot of my homemade special syrup, which consisted of imported bittersweet chocolate, cream, sugar, and a pinch of French gray salt).

I leaned on the bar. “So, Val, what is it that you need me to do for you today?”

Val laughed. “How did you know I needed something?”

“The way you came in here. Most of my customers come for a break. You strode in like a general looking for volunteers.”

“That’s what my husband calls me at home. The Little General.” She sighed. “Well, Clare, you’re not wrong. I need your help...”

She pulled a colorful ad card out of her tote bag. “Can you display this?”