Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

I scanned the sign: Bake Sale! Union Square! Be There! Live music, hourly raffles, and the best goodies in the five boroughs. Benefits the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund.

“Riveting.” I smiled. “You wrote the ad?”

“I’m also the gullible chump who had it printed. Tina Wade was supposed to do both, but she crapped out on me — two kids with the flu and a husband pulling 24/7 mutuals. I took care of it. I’ve got a stack of these going to businesses all over town. I was hoping you could take a few and spread the love.”

“Glad to. I’ll post ours right now.”

I moved to the front window and set the placard beside our own plaque, the one that simply read: Fresh Roasted Coffee Served Daily. With the exception of our standing sidewalk chalkboard, the century-old tin was the only sign the Blend had ever displayed — or ever would as long as Madame had anything to say about it.

The bell jingled just then, and I glanced up to find the silver-haired woman herself breezing through the front door, black pants flowing like silk drapery, magenta and lime jacket displaying expressionistic swirls so vibrant they rivaled the feathers of a peacock.

“Clare, we need to talk.”

“You’re the second person who’s said that to me in the last ten minutes.”

I was smiling. She was not. Oh, no. The news was there in her red-rimmed eyes, the strain around her mouth.

“Enzo?”

“When I got there...” She shook her head. “They said he had a stroke very early this morning. He’s in a coma. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

I was dreading exactly this. My initial shock gave away to sadness, and then I remembered Rossi.

“You weren’t able to speak with Enzo?”

“Child, he’s in a coma .”

I closed my eyes. “Sorry.”

When I opened my eyes again, I found hers tearing.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” she said. “This is my fault.”

“No. It’s not. ” I took hold of her shoulders. “The person responsible is the monster who set that fire.” In my mind, the connection was automatic. “His daughter,” I said. “Enzo asked me not to call Lucia unless things got worse. I have her number upstairs — ”

“Lucia’s already at the hospital. Mrs. Quadrelli called her last night. The child was very upset, of course.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

“Very little. I tried speaking with her, but she brushed me off and not very politely. You saw how she acted last evening.”

“Sorry to interrupt...” It was Val, she had crossed over from the espresso bar. I hadn’t noticed her standing right behind us and wondered how long she’d been listening. (I didn’t like anyone eavesdropping on me, although, I had to admit, I’d done it myself enough times in the name of snooping.)

“I should be going,” Val told me, “but I did have one other thing to discuss with you.”

“No problem,” I said, “but first let me introduce you to my employer, Mrs. Dubois. Around the Village, everyone knows her as Madame.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Val said.

“This is Valerie, Madame. The wife of James Noonan, the firefighter who carried you out of that caffè last night.”

A moment of blank surprise passed over the older woman’s features; then she opened her arms and hugged Val tight. “If there’s anything Clare or I can do to thank James for what he’s done.”

“Actually,” said Val, glancing meaningful at me. “I do have an issue you might be able to help me with.”

Madame released her and nodded. “Tell us, dear.”

“Well, I had planned to use the same beverage vendor for the bake sale that supplies my catering events at the hotel. Unfortunately, they’re letting me down. I just got word. I was wondering if you could hook me up with your coffee distributor. I know it’s last minute, but...”

“The Blend is its own distributor,” Madame said, “and we’ll be delighted to help.”

Val’s nutmeg eyes widened. “That’s very good of you — ”

“Clare, you can set up a kiosk, can’t you?” Madame said.

“Easy.”

“And the Blend will supply a free cup of coffee for anyone who makes a bake sale purchase,” Madame declared.

Val’s mouth gaped. “That’s a lot of coffee!”

“Those young firemen saved my life, and they jeopardize their own health and safety every day. It’s the least we can do.”

“Thank you both!” Val said, then grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “Sorry I’ve got to dash. Tons to do yet and only my lunch break to do it!”

Outside, I noticed she stopped abruptly, fished in her handbag, and lit a cigarette. For another moment she stood there, inhaling with visible signs of relief. Then she quickly headed up Hudson.

“Mother!”

I turned from the window to find Matt striding across the floor. Before Madame or I could say a word, my ex had swept his mother up in a hug so enthusiastic her heels took flight.

“Son! Put me down! My goodness!”

Matt complied — after a gentle spin and a peck to her cheek. “I was worried about you!”

She glanced at me. “First a troop of doting firefighters, now a public display by a wayward son. Perhaps I should become trapped in burning buildings more often.”

“Please don’t,” I said. “My heart can’t take it.”

Madame smiled. “I want to show you both something.” She motioned us to the espresso bar where she drew a yellowing snapshot out of her bag. “This came from the photo album Enzo gave me last night. There’s your father, Matt...”

Her expression softened, one wrinkled but beautifully manicured finger caressing the image. “And that bouncing little bambino is you as a toddler! Such big brown eyes and thick black hair, just like your daddy...”

Tucker peered over Madame’s shoulder. “ Bambino Matteo. Très cute, not unlike the big-boy version.” He threw Matt a wink.

Matt smirked. “I’m still straight, too, Tuck.”

“I know.” Tucker waved his hand. “Such a waste.”

The shop bell rang again and a customer rushed in. I barely noticed, too distracted by Matt’s (admittedly) adorable baby pic (and my own disturbing nanosecond of yearning for one just like it — the baby, not the picture). Too late my peripheral vision registered the fedora coming at me.

“You are no longer boss to me!”

Oh, no. Now what?! Looking up, I realized Dante Silva was looming over me. “What’s this all about?” Was he angry? Was he quitting?

“I can’t call you boss anymore, Clare, because you’re my hero !”

Before I knew what was happening, Dante put his arms around me and lifted me off the floor.

“Hey! Put me down!”

Instead, my crazy barista spun me around. The flight path was much the same as Air Matteo, but with a much higher altitude.

“Did you hear me, Clare? You’re my hero!”

“A hero is a sandwich!”

“A hoagie is a sandwich. A hero is my boss!”

Now I knew how James Noonan felt — embarrassed. “Okay, okay, I get the idea! Down , please!”

Dante finally obeyed.

“What’s with the hat?” Esther asked, pointing to his fedora.

He removed it to show her. His shaved head was swathed in bandages.

“Look, look, everyone!” Esther cried. “It’s the Thief of Baghdad! Tell me, oh, genie of the lamp, if I rub you the right way, will you grant me three wishes?”

“Esther, you don’t rub anyone the right way,” Dante replied, “except maybe your commie ex-pat boyfriend.”

“Boris was never a communist. He believes in freedom of expression.”