Клео Коул - Holiday Grind

After finishing the pull, I set the white porcelain cup on its saucer and slid Matt’s shot across the blueberry marble counter.

Customers sometimes ask me if I ever grow tired of smelling coffee. I never do. Unlike perfume or incense, the caramel-sweet aroma of a perfectly pulled espresso is neither overbearing nor monotonous. To me, it’s a living scent, rising and falling with the life of the cup. Intoxicating yet invigorating, it’s like a song I never tire of hearing; the sight of an old friend stepping again and again through my front door...

“Getting back to last night,” Matt said as he brought the demitasse to his lips. “Did your guard dog ever call you back? Or are you frosted at him for ignoring you?”

“Mike dropped by after work. And I’m not frosted at him. There was a very good reason he didn’t come to the crime scene.”

“Another woman?”

Spare me. “No. As I recall, that was typically your reason for not returning my calls. But only when we were married.”

Matt grunted. We’d run our wagon wheels over this road so often, the grooves reached the earth’s mantle.

“And how’s Breanne?” I asked after a long, awkward silence.

“Breanne is...” Matt looked into his cooling cup, where the exquisite crema was slowly beginning to dissipate. “The same as she ever was.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Matt shrugged. “You know how she gets.”

“What exactly are you two fighting about?”

“At the moment?” Matt shifted on his bar stool. “She’s obsessed with micromanaging her magazine’s holiday party: all the details, the food, the music, the guest list—”

“Guest list? I thought a company party was supposed to be for the employees? You know, to pat them on the back for a job well done over the past year.”

“Well, that’s your version. Breanne sees it as a networking opportunity for Trend . She’s invited name designers, press people, celebrities—she’s got her staff working after hours on an ‘exclusive’ holiday issue for the attendees. Photographers will be there to capture every Technicolor moment. She’s determined to garner national buzz.”

“I see. And how do you fit into all this?”

“I don’t. And frankly, Clare, I’m sick of being ignored by my own bride. I mean, I come home after a two-week tour of Central American coffee farms and what do I get? The cold shoulder. She comes to bed after I’m asleep, gets up before I’m awake—”

No sex, in other words. I arched an eyebrow. For Matt, that was tantamount to no food or water.

“I’m just going to stay out of her way till this holiday crap blows over. But it really pisses me off. I cleared my travel schedule for December. I thought we were going to celebrate a nice, romantic Christmas together. Now I can’t wait until January second.”

Great , I thought, another bah-humbug refrain . “Well, you shouldn’t be so eager to see the holidays come and go. Our daughter’s flying all the way from Paris to spend time with us.”

“Joy’s coming?”

I nodded. “She called yesterday morning—morning my time, I should say, with Paris six hours ahead. She asked for two weeks off to celebrate the holidays with us. She says the restaurant’s sure to be busy, but she’s owed a lot of time off and her bosses are willing to give it to her.”

Matt’s expression lightened. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week. You know, you’re right, Clare, I should focus on our daughter...” He reached out and took my hand. “You want some company tonight? I mean, you’re probably still upset about Alf and everything.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need company.” I gently reclaimed my appendage. “Listen, can I give you some advice?”

Matt exhaled. Loudly.

“Breanne’s just stressed right now. A combative attitude from you is not going to help the situation. Try to be patient with her. And while you’re waiting for her workload to lessen, don’t go looking for love in all the wrong places.”

Matt glanced away. “Whatever.”

It was then I noticed his neglected espresso. Its thick, golden foam was shrinking and collapsing, breaking up into ugly patches that revealed the black pool beneath.

“Your drink’s gone cold,” I told him.

Matt should have known better. Espresso was a tricky commodity. Once the harmony of the crema was lost, the experience could turn bitter.

“I’ll just have a new one then,” he announced. “ Doppio , please.”

After that, he settled in near the fireplace with his double espresso, his cell phone, some industry trades, and his PDA. Every once in a while, he’d look up at me and wink. But that was Matt, ever constant in his inconstancy.

AS the day wore on, business picked up, and I was glad to see Dante arriving on time. Tying on his apron, he joined me behind the counter to deal with the crescendo of the after-work crowd. By six thirty—far too early for my bottom line—the rush began to slow again. That’s when Dante spotted my relief coming through the front door.

“Gardner’s here!” he called at the register. “And look who else decided to show on her night off...”

I glanced up from my espresso machine to see who was walking in behind Gardner’s easygoing strides. Esther Best . And she wasn’t alone. Sweeping in after her on a blast of frigid air was the last person I expected to see tonight—Vicki Glockner, the daughter of my murdered Santa Claus.

“Vicki, I’m so sorry about your father.” I came around the counter to embrace my former barista.

She nodded her head, setting off the tiny jingle bell earrings. “Thanks, Ms. Cosi. That means a lot.”

Her pretty face was florid; her eyes, which were the same bright hazel green as her father’s, were now puffy from crying and shadowed from lack of sleep. Under her fuzzy yellow beret, her mass of salon-streaked, caramel-colored curls, usually silky and soft, were frizzy and windblown. She tossed back a handful and sniffled.

I pointed out an empty table. “Have a seat, girls; I’ll get us some drinks.” A few minutes later, I brought three mo chaccinos over on a tray.

Vicki sniffled again as Esther and I helped her off with her long, belted beige coat. She pulled off her yellow hat and matching scarf, then wiped her eyes with a tissue. Esther and I took seats flanking her.

As we drank in silence, I couldn’t help recalling some of the last words I’d said to Vicki almost eight months earlier...

“No opening shifts. No closing shifts. I’m sorry, Vicki, but I can no longer trust you with the keys to this coffeehouse.”

Within two weeks of hearing those words, Vicki had quit—via a cell message. She’d wanted more hours to earn more cash, and I wasn’t willing to accommodate her.

Vicki’s skills weren’t the problem. She’d come to me from a recently closed restaurant on Staten Island, already trained on a professional espresso machine. She started out loving the coffeehouse experience—experimenting with the bar syrups, learning how to prep our menu of coffee drinks. She was great with the customers, too, (crucial for a true Italian barista), but food and beverage service wasn’t only about skill and affability.

Vicki had started coming later and later for her shifts, forcing her coworkers to cover for her, and her behavior at work was becoming far from reliable. One evening, I found Gardner alone, dealing with a growing crowd. Vicki had gone downstairs to fetch supplies, and she hadn’t come up for thirty minutes.

I found her down there, all right, making out behind the roasting machine with a cute customer. She didn’t know the guy. He’d simply been flirting with her and she’d invited him down there for a necking session—and I’m being polite. When I’d interrupted them, their hot-and-heavy focus was moving a lot lower than the neck.