Клео Коул - On What Grounds

Quinn stared at me with no expression, then he looked away, shrugged. “I like your coffee.”

“Really? You didn’t say anything yesterday when I gave you your first cup of our house blend—”

“I don’t gush. Not as a rule. Certainly not over coffee. But I’ll tell you now since you’re asking—it was the best damned cup I’ve had in my entire life of coffee drinking…and that’s a lot of coffee drinking.”

I smiled. “Thanks. What about the latte?” I asked, pointing to the tall cream-colored cup. “Bet that’s your first one, isn’t it?”

Quinn peered down into it. “Never thought I’d like the fancy drinks—they always seemed sort of—well, you know, sort off—”

“Gay?”

He laughed. “What does that make me if I like it?”

“Not gay. Just…oh, I don’t know… Continental, I guess. You know like that Dashiell Hammet detective. The Continental Op.”

Quinn laughed again. Then he grew serious. Exhaled. “If my boss gets wind of my helping you out of school, I’m off the case, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“So whoever your source is, make sure my helping you stays quiet.”

“Will do.”

Quinn looked down at the papers in his hand, noticed the parking ticket beneath the employee list. “What’s this?” he asked, quickly reading it. “A parking ticket—”

“Oh, sorry. You shouldn’t have gotten that. Here, I’ll take it back.”

“One hundred and five dollars? Hydrant violation. What happened?”

“It’s no big deal,” I said, embarrassed. “I mean, I didn’t think I was that close to the hydrant. There was just no other place to put the car for a few minutes. I was going to move it right away, but then I’d found Anabelle, and with all the activity, the car just sat for hours.”

I expected Quinn to return the ticket to my outstretched hand with an accompanying cop lecture about traffic safety or fire prevention. Instead, he shoved the ticket into the pocket of his stained trenchcoat and simply said, “I’ll take care of it.”

“What? No!” I was mortified. The man was already going out on a limb helping me in his spare time. I didn’t need him ponying up to the traffic division for my sake, too. “It’s okay. Really. I didn’t mean for you to trouble yourself—”

“I insist. You were involved in a police action. I can void this for you. Let me.”

I really did hate the prospect of having to either write a 105-dollar check, or take off an entire morning to appear in traffic court.

“You’d do that?” I asked. “It’s no trouble?”

“Well, it’s a little trouble. But it’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Oh, thank you, Lieutenant, I could just kiss you!” I blurted.

For barely a second, his eyes met mine. Then he looked away, as if he’d suddenly realized he wasn’t supposed to want me to kiss him. Or worse, show me that he wanted it.

Ohmygod, I thought. Something just happened. Lightning or fireworks or a radioactive mushroom cloud, but for sure something.

Now it was his turn to fight the awkwardness. He rose quickly from the table, completely draining the cup of latte. “Better go.”

“Would you like one for the road?” I asked.

He eyed the empty cup and nodded. “Sure. Okay.”

I cleared the table, picked up the tray, and walked back to the coffee bar with an extreme feeling of relief—and renewed confidence.

Now that I knew the attraction was not a complete schoolgirl fantasy on my part, I could hold my head up. It was really a matter of pride more than anything. I mean, this wasn’t the movies. Simply recognizing an attraction meant absolutely nothing—especially at this stage of life. A flirty spark didn’t obligate a man and a woman to act on it, go to bed, get married, have children, divorce, remarry, whatever, for the purposes of some two-hour family drama.

No, in real life, a man and a woman might flirt until the cows come home. They might appreciate each other, be attracted to each other—but that was the end of it. Boring as all get-out, but that was as far as these relationships usually got.

I knew that was all there was between me and Quinn—a mutual appreciation. I was also sure it would lead to absolutely nothing. It was just gratifying to know I wasn’t the only one wrestling with feelings that made me feel as awkward and giddy as a high school kid on a first date.

I was just finishing up Quinn’s grande latte when the front door opened on a new arrival. Silver-gray hair, rosy cheeks, and a familiar Chanel pantsuit. In black. Still mourning black.

“ Bonjour, my dears!”

“Madame!” I called. “You look so—” I was about to say “healthy” but caught myself. I’d promised myself not to give away what I knew about her cancer. “—happy.”

“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! I have excellent news. Two friends canceled on my charity auction tonight. They already bought tickets—a thousand a seat, which they consider a donation. With my Matteo back, I can pass them on to you both…Where is he, Clare?”

“Is that my mother here to give me grief?” called Matt, cresting the service staircase with a new bag of freshly roasted house blend.

“Giving you grief is Clare’s job, my errant boy,” she said as he lugged the heavy bag behind the coffee bar’s counter. “Yours is to come here and give your mother a proper greeting.”

Matteo swept around the counter, and his mother held out two hands, ready for the customary shake and polite Continental kiss on each cheek. Instead, Matt opened his strong arms and enveloped the frail, impeccably tailored woman in a big old American bear hug.

Madame’s pale blue eyes widened with flabbergasted shock as her Fendi heels left the ground, but then her features transformed into a state of surprised pleasure I hadn’t seen since Pierre had been alive.

“What’s all this?” she asked. “Oh, I know! You need a loan, don’t you?”

“A loan? Sure. How about a million five? I always wanted my own jet.”

“Can’t do,” said Madame. “But I’ll let you have my frequent flyer miles. I think you can get half a coach seat.”

“Nope. It’s my own air bus or nothing.” Matt released his mother then all of a sudden hugged her again. The sight nearly melted my heart.

“Espresso, Madame?” I asked.

“Please—” she said, her expression of happy surprise now changing to one of puzzlement. “Matt, enough!” she cried, downright dumbfounded by her son’s unusual out-pouring of affection. “What’s got into you?”

Matt released her, turned abruptly, and headed back behind the coffee bar. “Can’t a man miss his mother?”

“No,” said Madame, “not when you’re the man.” Her eyes narrowed and bored into mine with a What gives? look.

I glanced away quickly, finished Quinn’s latte, and handed him the paper cup with the plastic sip lid.

“What do I owe you?” Quinn asked quietly.

“Are you kidding?” I said just as quietly. “You’ve just saved me a hundred and five dollars and all the pleasures of traffic court. Your money’s no good here.”

He nodded in thanks and took the cup. “Hot.”

“Oh, sorry. Here you go—” I snatched a heat sleeve from the pile near the pickup area. The regulars knew the drill, so we saved time behind the counter by putting the sleeves right where the customers could reach them.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it. Then he stopped and stared at the two-inch swath of folded cardboard. “Uh. What’s this?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean—” He turned it around in his hand, staring at it so helplessly I nearly burst out laughing. Clearly, Quinn needed a tutorial.