Клео Коул - Espresso Shot

“I learned so much from my mom,” Joy told Breanne (which I certainly hoped didn’t include a long list of obscenities—in French or any other language). She glanced at me then and raised her glass once more. “And I owe her a lot, too.”

I almost pinched myself. Given the rough ride I’d endured with my child over the past few years (which mainly consisted of Joy telling me—with a great deal of attitude—to butt out of her business), I often wondered whether we’d ever again be as close as we were when she’d been a little girl. Her maturing outlook gave me hope.

“Despite what your lovely daughter implied,” Breanne told me in private a few minutes later, “I don’t feel that I owe you anything.”

“ You don’t owe me,” I said. “That’s true.” We were standing alone at one end of the bar. Matt had taken Joy by the arm to proudly introduce her around the room, leaving Breanne and me to talk alone. “What I did, I did for the father of my child, as a wedding gift. And I hope you know the only reason Matt thanked me was because I saved the thing he most wanted in his life right now: you.”

“Right now.” Bree rolled her eyes. “You’re so transparent, Clare.”

“I am?”

“You want him back.”

I nearly choked on my sparkling water. After last night’s beers, I’d declined any alcohol. I suddenly changed my mind.

“Pisco Sour,” I told the bartender.

Hoping to shake Breanne’s interrogation, I gave her my back, turning my attention instead to the bartender. With swift, efficient movements the young man mixed the Pisco (a brandy made from grapes grown in Peru’s coastal valley) with lemon juice, sugar, and ice, garnished it with Angostura bitters, and handed me the tumbler. (It was Matt who’d introduced me to the cocktail. He’d sampled it in Lima during one of his Andes buying trips.)

“Answer me, Clare,” Breanne hissed in my ear. “You won’t deny it? You want him back?”

Oh, for pity’s sake. Can’t this woman take a hint? I turned to face Breanne (since she gave me no choice) and took a nice long, unhealthy hit of my cocktail. The flavor was sweet yet tart; and though the drink itself seemed mild at first, the ninety-proof Pisco carried a kick you had to respect. I main-lined it into my quiet reply: “All right, Breanne, listen to me, and listen good. You’ve got the Tiffany’s engagement ring and the big, lavish wedding. On Saturday, you’re even acquiring the optional accessory to your grand event—a worthy groom. So why don’t you focus on that instead of what I do or don’t want in my life because, frankly, I’m sick to death of your superior attitude.”

“And I’m sick to death of your meddling.”

Meddling?! Unbelievable! I risk my life for this woman, and this is what I get?

“You know what, Bree? You’re a big girl. I think it’s time you heard the unvarnished truth: I don’t want Matt back, and do you know how I can prove that to you for once and for all? If I had wanted him back, you wouldn’t be planning this wedding.”

Breanne’s royal-blue eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare imply that I’m sloppy seconds,” she hissed, her ivory cheeks turning the color of her lipstick.

“I’m not implying anything that crass. I’m trying to get you to remember that Matt’s going to put Nunzio’s ring on your finger a few days from now. Not mine.”

“Hey, kids...” Matt walked over, a big, clueless grin on his handsome face. “How are two of my best girls doing?”

Breanne turned on him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man’s puppy-dog smile fell.

Congratulations, Matt, you finally picked up on your bride’s mood. What did it for you? The acid tone or the murderous scowl?

“What?” He scratched his head. “What did I say?”

Breanne rolled her eyes. “ Two of your best girls?”

“That’s right.” Matt shrugged. “I’ve got my daughter here today, too. And my mother. I have a lot of important girls in my life, Breanne, you know that.”

God, Matt, just open your mouth and put your Bruno Magli shoe in already.

Breanne took another drink of her sangria. “I need something stronger than this.”

“Allow me.” I turned to the bartender and ordered Bree her very own Pisco Sour.

“Everything’s okay, isn’t it?” Matt said, his gaze darting from Breanne to me and back again.

“Ask her ,” I said.

Breanne waved her French tips. “I was just telling Clare that although her concern was appreciated, I really don’t think my ex-husband was anything more than a nuisance. The entire episode was blown way out of proportion.”

Matt’s eyes found mine. “I don’t feel that way.” He turned to his bride, took hold of her arms. “I was worried about you, Bree. And Clare helped me out. She helped us both out, as far as I’m concerned.”

Breanne broke away, took her drink from the bartender, and began nursing it.

“Clare, dear! Over here!” From across the crowd, an older woman with sleek silver hair, a softly wrinkled face, and amused blue eyes waved at me.

Saved by the ex-mother-in-law!

“Excuse me,” I said to the unhappy couple. “Madame is calling.” Then I moved with all speed to the opposite end of the party room.

“Having a good time, dear?” Madame asked in a cheerful tone. Then she lowered her voice. “You looked like you needed someone to throw you a rope.”

“Yes,” I said, my stiff smile still in place, “and, as you can see, I grabbed it.”

“Well, you’re out of the hole now, Clare.” She raised a silver eyebrow. “For the moment.”

The remark was pregnant with meaning, but I wasn’t up for pursuing it. “I’d just like to get my appetite back.”

“Well, have another cocktail, dear, and you’ll be feeling far less pain. In the meantime—” She took my arm. “Let’s work the room together, shall we?”

I drained my cocktail and set it on a passing waiter’s tray. “Lay on, McDuff.”

Together we began to move around the room. I’d already said hello to many of the men who’d been at Monday’s bachelor party: Koa, the big Hawaiian Kona grower; Dexter, the Rasta-haired Caribbean coffee merchant; and Roger Mbele of Kenya’s Nairobi Coffee Exchange.

But there were lots of others here as well, men who hadn’t been able to make Matt’s bachelor party, and some women, too, although none of us could hold a candle to Madame, whose impeccable taste had her looking as elegant as ever in a shimmering V-neck double-tiered sage dress with a matching scarf thrown over one shoulder and a long, stunning necklace of pearls threaded through delicately entwined chains of white gold.

“Who have we here...” Madame began, introducing me to a number of people from her son’s long, globe-trotting life that I’d never had the chance to meet.

First was Joao, a stout, apple-cheeked, middle-aged grower from Brazil whose teenage granddaughter was thrilled to be making her first trip to New York. Then I met a well-spoken young Costa Rican man and his bubbly sister, both with hazel eyes and beaming smiles.

Matt wandered over when he noticed us speaking with Pierre Audran, a striking Belgian blond who used to be an officer in the French Foreign Legion, and who now grew coffee in Africa. With a mental roll of the eyes, I excused myself when he and Matt started reminiscing about some wild nights they’d had a long time ago with a half-dozen half-drunk Parisian girls.

Finally, Madame presented me to a sweet Indonesian couple, who’d been providing the Village Blend with their earthy, full-bodied Sumatra for the last five years.