Клео Коул - On What Grounds

“Why? What did her stepmother want?”

“It wasn’t her stepmother she was fighting with. It was The Dick—”

“The what?” I said.

Esther rolled her eyes. “Anabelle’s boyfriend, Richard.”

“What do you know about Richard, anyway?”

“Richard Gibson Engstrum, Junior. Total asshole. Dartmouth senior this year. But this past summer he was living at home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Upper East Side.”

“Where does he work in the summer?”

“He doesn’t. Ever hear of Engstrum Systems? Daddy made a fortune on the NASDAQ run-up. They cashed out before the dot-bomb. The Dick’s got his lifestyle covered.”

“And his parents let him laze around all summer?”

Esther shrugged. “All I know is what Anabelle told me. Since she met him in July, he hasn’t worked.”

“Do you know where they met?”

“He was slumming with some friends at an East Village dance club—Nightrunners or Rah, one of those Alphabet City places. He saw Anabelle moving on the dance floor, and that was that. In case you haven’t noticed, guys drool over the girl.”

“I noticed, Esther. And it’s pretty hard not to notice that you’re incredibly angry about it.”

“About what?”

“About Anabelle—and her ability to attract male attention.”

“Hey, listen, I’m not like one of those nicey-nice Barbies who hides what she really thinks while she proceeds to stab you in the back each and every chance she gets. That’s what Anabelle liked about me—or at least she said so. She liked that I told the truth—and the truth ain’t always pretty. And the truth about me and Anabelle is that I’ve never been angry at her, I’ve just been jealous of her. So at least get that straight.”

“And what are you jealous of, exactly?”

Esther shrugged, turned away to stare at the girl in the ICU. “She’s just so beautiful and it’s always been so easy for her to just…I don’t know”—Esther shrugged again—“get what she wants.”

“Esther, tell me the truth now. Were you jealous enough of her to argue with her at the Blend last night and maybe accidentally cause her to fall down that flight of stairs?”

“ No. No way. I may be jealous of Anabelle, but I’m also her friend. I mean, okay, we aren’t that close, but I’d never in a million years hurt her. Not like this.”

The distressed look in Esther’s eyes made me believe she was telling the truth.

“Besides,” she added with a sigh, turning toward the observation window again, “suspecting me of something like that doesn’t even make sense.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “I was nowhere near the Blend all night. And we share an apartment. Don’t you think if I was going to go postal on her, I’d have done it in the privacy of our own living space, like most domestic violence stuff?”

The girl did have a point, I thought.

“Have you been in to see her?” I asked.

“Just when they first brought her in. But the ICU is pretty strict. They wouldn’t let Richard’s mother in, either.”

“Where is she?”

“Oh, she left. Probably to give her son the update. I called Richard at school and didn’t get an answer so I called his parents’ apartment, and she came for him. They’ll only allow one visitor in there at a time. I was the one who called Anabelle’s stepmother, too, to tell her what happened, and when she got here, I got booted out.”

“It’s nice that you stayed here so long.”

“I don’t mind.”

I was just beginning to think the girl had a selfless streak I’d never before appreciated when I noticed her rapt gaze had shifted from Anabelle to another bed, farther up the ICU ward. A handsome young Chinese-American doctor in a white coat was finishing up there and swiftly walking toward the exit. Esther’s eyes followed him like a cartoon mouse watching a ripe hunk of traveling cheese.

“That’s John Foo,” I told Esther.

“You know him?”

“He’s a Blend regular.”

“Why haven’t I seen him before?”

“Because he’s an opener—he’s in and out by six-thirty in the morning, right after his martial arts workouts. And you, my dear, insisted on no shifts before noon.”

“I admit it, I’m a sleep whore,” said Esther, watching the young well-built doctor’s every move. “But he’s almost worth getting my butt out of bed for. Almost.”

Dr. Foo moved through the set of double doors that led out of the ICU and came directly toward us.

“Esther, you’re still here?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor,” she said, rushing toward him. “I was hoping Anabelle might wake up.”

I felt my eyebrows rise at that. For all Esther’s talk of being a direct individual, I had a hunch she was dulling the edge there for the good-looking Dr. Foo. Her tone, I noticed, had even softened to a perceptible purr—a marked departure from the usual snarl.

“Yes,” I said, stepping toward them. “Has she woken up at all?”

“Clare Cosi. Nice to see you.”

Dr. Foo held out his hand, and I shook it.

“Nice to see you, too, Doctor.”

“You weren’t open this morning,” he said. “I came by at the usual time.”

I pointed to Anabelle. “Your patient was our opener.”

“Oh, I see. I’m so sorry.”

“How is she, Doctor?”

“Not good. She’s in a coma.”

“Is she assigned to you?”

“No. I believe Howard Klein is taking care of her.”

“I don’t know Dr. Klein. Does he ever come to the Blend?”

Doctor Foo laughed. “Klein’s an anti-caffeine fanatic.”

“I see. Well…would you mind doing me a small favor?”

“What’s that?”

“I need some information.”

“Excuse me? Did you get that? A mochaccino with skim milk?”

“Is my latte coming this year?”

“Double. Double espresso!”

“What’s the holdup?”

“Is someone going to take my money?”

Coffee drinkers were usually very “on” people—ambitious, fast-thinking, fast-moving, aggressive, aware, and involved. I liked them, and I liked serving them. But gourmet coffee drinkers who had to wait an excessively long period to get their fix were not the most patient people on the planet to be wading through.

“Hi, Tuck,” I called over the crowd. “Need a hand?”

“Clare! Thank the lord you’re back!”

Tucker Burton was my afternoon barista. A gay thirtysomething actor and playwright, he’d been born in Louisiana to Elma Tucker, a single mother with a few Hollywood screen credits who had returned to her home state claiming her only son was the illegitimate offspring of Richard Burton. Thus, upon turning twenty-one, Tucker moved to New York City and legally changed his name from Elmer Tucker to Tucker Burton.

Maybe it was his Southern roots, but when especially agitated, Tucker seemed to take on the inflections of a revival tent preacher. He was also tall enough for me to see his mop of light brown hair and angular face over the bevy of bodies lined up three deep at the blue marble counter.

“Clare is here and we are saved! Hal-le-lujah!”

This was the lunchtime crowd from the offices located a few blocks away on Hudson: Assets Bank workers, Satay & Satay Ad execs, and Berk and Lee Publishing people. The neighborhood regulars were here, too, and I exhaled with relief.

Who knew what sort of rumor hit the streets at the sight of an ambulance in front of the Blend—botulism could not be ruled out. Bacteria-laden half-and-half or salmonella in the cream cheese strudel.

Now that the police had allowed us to reopen, I was overjoyed our customers had not flocked elsewhere. It was a satisfying affirmation that the Blend served the best damn cup in town.