“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.
Twenty-Five
“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.
“We’re so happy your country is recovering after the tsunami,” I told them both.
“Yes, it was like a bad dream, a terrible dream,” Mr. Raja said. “Many were lost. We ourselves lost friends.”
“But we were lucky, too,” his wife added, touching his arm. “Our farm is on a mountain near Lake Tawar in northern Sumatra, so it was not damaged.”
“Matt tells me your farm is very beautiful. And it produces beautifully, too. That last crop was incredible—wild herbal notes, amazing complexity. Delicious.”
The couple smiled shyly and exchanged proud glances. “Thank you,” they said.
A new round of tapas was served, and my appetite was finally back—with a vengeance, unfortunately. I pretty much inhaled my small plate of ceviche de camarones (shrimp marinated in freshly squeezed lime juice served with toasted Peruvian corn and sweet potato).
The dish was stupendously refreshing but not filling enough, so I reached for the next offering: quinoa paella, a delectable version of the Spanish seafood dish. I dug in with gusto, and the rich, spicy flavors tangoed on my tongue. The real surprise, however, was the texture.
In a clever swap, the Machu Picchu chef had replaced the traditional Spanish rice with quinoa (aka Inca rice, a supernutritious grain that the people of Peru had been eating continuously for, oh, about 5,000 years). Like an al dente Italian risotto with a Spanish-Peruvian flair, the combination of crushed saffron, garlic, onion, chorizo sausage, tomatoes, green peas, and piquillo chilies steeped in fresh chicken stock suffused the clams, shrimp, and mussels with bright and piquant flavor.
“Yum-yum,” I said, absently parroting Chef Rafe Chastain’s trademark phrase. I couldn’t help thinking of the man himself, throwing punches with his tattooed arms and chasing a home invader down a Queens back street with a broken floor lamp.
Madame noticed my reverie. “Now what’s that private little smile about?”
“Nothing, really, I was just thinking that I’ll never watch Exotic Food Hunter at Large the same way again.”
“I take it you’re referring to your most recent sleuthing adventure. Matt clued me in on some of the more colorful details. You know, dear, I’m still a little peeved at you for not including me.”