Клео Коул - On What Grounds

I blended the walnuts, butter, and sugar for the crust. Then I poured the mixture into the pan and patted it down. Next came the food processor—another item I’d brought from New Jersey. As I spooned cream cheese into the hopper, my mind went back to the unpleasant meeting I’d had with Anabelle’s stepmother—who had threatened to sue the pants off the Blend for what happened to her daughter—and the ironic surprise Matteo brought me a few minutes later, when I’d heard Matteo’s voice calling, “Clare? Are you up there? It’s dire I speak with you…”

I was still angry at Matteo for rushing off and abandoning Tucker to deal with the afternoon crowd alone, and I planned to let him know it.

“Up here,” I called, not wanting my staff to see me argue with my ex. After all, he was still the Blend’s coffee buyer—and now he was part owner, too.

I heard his heavy tread on the stairs and a moment later he appeared, his face flushed. It looked as if he’d been running.

“We’ve got trouble,” he announced. No surprise there, I thought. Whenever Matteo’s around, trouble follows .

“What?” I said, my voice tinged with anger. “It couldn’t be nearly as much trouble as leaving the Blend during lunchtime rush with only one person to handle everything. Tucker was swamped when I got here. What the hell were you thinking, Matt, disappearing like that, and—

“Clare, listen! I’ve just seen Gordon Calderone. You know, Gordon from Parasol.”

My face must have gone blank because my mind sure had.

“Parasol Insurance,” Matteo said. “You know: ‘Your Umbrella in Times of Need’? He’s been the Blend’s insurance representative for over two decades now.”

“Oh, that Gordon from Parasol.” I did remember the man. Short and stocky, built like a football player (with an outgoing personality to match), Gordon used to stop by at least once a week, back during the ancient history around here—when Joy was a little girl and Matteo was still my husband.

“How is Gordon?” I asked. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

Matteo sat down in Darla Hart’s seat. I was glad I’d cleared away the mess because cigarette butts gross out Matteo almost as much as they do me.

“There’s a reason you haven’t seen him,” Matt said, his voice even. “It seems that when Moffat Flaste was managing the Blend, he failed to make the quarterly insurance payments. Gordon sent notice after notice, but they were ignored. He stopped by and Moffat brushed him off, implying the Blend had found another provider. Can you believe that? I could kill the guy. The liability insurance on the Village Blend lapsed months ago. In case of accident or personal injury, we’re not covered—not for liability.”

I sank down into the chair opposite Matt.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no…”

I told Matt about Darla Hart’s visit, and her threat of legal action. After that we sat silently, just staring.

“My god,” I said, “for once you weren’t kidding. The situation is dire.”

“She could own this place by the time she’s through,” said Matt.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“I’ve renewed the insurance coverage,” Matteo said. “It just about emptied my checking account, but it could have been worse. I was honest with him about what happened, and he did what he could, which is sign us up to cover anything that happens in the future—”

“So we’re not covered for Anabelle?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

“No, we’re not covered for her,” Matteo said. “But when the police report about Anabelle’s accident is filed, it will be too late for the parent company to deny our renewed coverage or raise our rates. We owe Gordon big time for this favor!”

I nodded in agreement. At least the business was now covered in case another barista took a tumble down the stairs, or a customer slipped on a wet napkin. That was something, at least.

But for me the real surprise was Matteo. I was always the level-headed, pragmatic adult in our relationship, he was always the Peter Pan, yet I didn’t even think of checking with the insurance company—something I should have done immediately after the incident (I still didn’t think it was an “accident”). Matt, however, was right on it, and he may have saved our butts and our business—at least from future liability. His generous gesture of paying the insurance bill was doubly unexpected.

“We can’t tell Madame,” I admitted to Matt during that same conversation. “Not about Anabelle, not about the insurance. Not now.”

“Why not?”

I told him about St. Vincent’s cancer ward, about her saying she was too “tired” to come to see Joy for dinner. Matteo nodded, his face grim.

“No, we can’t tell her,” he agreed.

I sighed, remembering the look on Matt’s face as he said that. Then I slid the cheesecake into the oven, and set the timer.

Maybe Madame would beat the cancer, I told myself.

And Anabelle…maybe Anabelle would wake up tomorrow, tell us all what happened, and everything would be solved. Maybe.

But then I recalled the girl’s butterfly pulse, her pale face, her twisted rag-doll body at the bottom of the steps, and I felt my heart despair.

Suddenly, a series of rhythmic knocks sounded at the front door. There was only one person who knocked that way—my pride named Joy. I smiled, my spirits lifting.

I opened the door to the apartment, fully expecting to find Joy standing on the threshold. Instead I found Matteo, arms weighted with grocery bags.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I bought so much stuff I couldn’t get to my keys.”

“I thought you were Joy,” I said.

“Why?”

“The knock,” I said. “Rat-tat-uh-tat-tat. That’s Joy’s knock.”

“Who do you think she picked it up from?” he said, breezing by me and making a beeline for the kitchen.

I could smell the freshly grated Pecorino Romano wafting up from the grocery bags. Two crusty brown loaves of baguettes rustica protruded from another paper sack.

“It’s dinner for three, not thirty,” I called over my shoulder, closing the door.

“I only bought a few essentials,” he replied. “If I’m going to stay here, I’ll need some staples.”

Except you’re not staying here ! I thought. At least not for long.

“Fine” is the word that actually came out of my mouth.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Matt called. “And don’t worry. You can have the bedroom. After dinner I’m going to clean out the storage room upstairs. It used to be my bedroom when I was a boy. I can haul up the foldaway bed from the basement, and I should be set for the week.”

Then Matt threw me a teasing leer. “Unless of course you’ve got a better idea for the sleeping arrangements.”

“No,” I said. “Sounds like you’ve got it figured out just fine.”

Matt rolled up his sleeves and checked his watch.

“You still have that thing?” I asked, surprised.

“I love this thing,” he said with a smile.

It was a sporty self-winding duograph chronometer from Breitling (list price new: $5,000; “gently” used price at Torneau’s resale shop: $1,500). I had scrimped and saved during our first year of marriage and even borrowed some money from Madame so I could surprise Matt on our first anniversary. It moved from time zone to time zone with ease and even displayed the correct time in two zones at the same time—the perfect timepiece for a globe-trotter traveler like Matt.

“Wow, it’s late! I’d better start cooking,” he said.

“Well, don’t open the oven,” I warned. “You’ll ruin dessert.”