“No,” I said, getting slowly annoyed.
“Most people in America decide what they like by the brand name,” said Eduardo. “It is the package they buy, not the contents. You see?”
“No,” I said. “We Americans might buy something once or twice because of an advertisement or marketing campaign or even brand loyalty, but if the quality goes bad on us, we’re gone. You’ll lose us forever. Haven’t you ever heard of the expression ‘Where’s the beef?’”
“No.”
“Trust me,” I said. “It’s red-white-and-blue. And there’s nothing as American as the pragmatic expectation of getting what you pay for. Perhaps it’s the Europeans with whom you’re confusing us—the Old World idea of believing aristocrats or royalty at face value.”
“We shall have to agree to disagree,” said Eduardo with an unqualified sneer.
“Yes, we shall,” I said then took a long, satisfying quaff from my steaming cup.
It was Friday night, one of the busiest for the Village Blend, and in another hour Tucker would be expecting barista backup from me.
For a moment, I closed my eyes and simply savored the rich, nutty aroma of the house blend. In no time, the earthy warmth seeped into my every molecule, recharging my weary bones with a splendid jolt of renewed energy.
Thank goodness, I thought. With miles to go before I slept, I was going to need it.
Twenty-Six
“Franchise my ass,” I told Matteo as we climbed up the Blend’s back staircase. We were heading for the duplex apartment to change out of our evening clothes. I was still stewing over the insulting comments of Eduardo Lebreux at dinner.
“Hmmm. Now there’s an interesting idea—”
“What?”
“Your ass. You have a nice one. I just don’t think franchising it would be remotely legal.”
“Matt! I’m serious!”
“So am I.”
The Blend was hopping tonight as our taxi pulled up out front, but Tucker and his two part-timers had it under control. Tucker even told me I didn’t need to come down until closing, and that was fine with me. An hour or so off was just what the doctor ordered.
Matt pulled out his key and unlocked the apartment’s front door. Java greeted me with an ear-piercing mrrrooooow.
“What was that? A jaguar?”
“That means, I’m hungry,” I translated for Matt.
“Big sound from a little cat.”
“She’s got a mind of her own,” I said.
“Just like her owner,” Matt said.
“Why, thank you.” I scratched her ears and poured her some chow. Then I filled the bottom half of my three-cup stovetop espresso pot with water, quickly ground a dark-roasted Arabica blend, packed the grinds into the basket, dropped the packed basket on top of the water, screwed the empty top onto the water-filled bottom, and put the reconnected little silver pot onto the burner.
“I just can’t believe Lebreux would even think of that plan,” I said, continuing my rant.
“Franchising the Village Blend? Why not?” said Matt, pulling loose his black tie and undoing the top buttons of his white dress shirt. “C’mon, it’s not a bad idea.”
“I can’t believe you said that!” I cried, pulling two cream-colored demitasse cups from the cupboard. “The man wanted to take the Village Blend to new lows. Use the Blend name to package up cheap products at premium prices. That was more than obvious from his stated philosophy. Sounds an awful lot like that Kona scandal to me. Need I remind you of those details?”
“No,” said Matt dryly, “but I’m sure you will.”
As he’d already heard his mother repeat countless times, Matt knew very well the tale of how a ring of coffee-broking con artists had been caught transshipping inferior beans through Hawaii, then rebagging and reselling them as the one-of-a-kind Hawaiian-grown Kona.
“In Eduardo’s view,” I said, “that Kona con would have been a keen little trick to play on the American public. Maybe I should have reminded him that the Kona scheme also landed the perpetrators in federal prison.”
“Calm down, Clare. I’m not Lebreux. If I wanted to franchise this place, I’d do it the right way.”
“I don’t want to hear the word franchise out of your mouth ever again, do you understand?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Matt said, shedding his jacket and cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves. “You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll nix the word from my vocabulary.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Don’t laugh—”
“What?”
“The cup. You saw something in that cup.”
“What cup?”
“That kid Mario Forte’s espresso cup. After dinner, when I brought it down to you in the Blend’s basement. You saw something. I could see it in your face.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake—”
I couldn’t believe Matt was still thinking about that twenty-four hours later!
“Come on,” he said. “Tell me.”
“Matt, conditions weren’t even right for an accurate reading! The coffee that was in that cup didn’t produce enough residue,” I lied. “And I was really distracted at the time you showed it to me. I barely glanced at it.”
Okay, so I didn’t want to tell Matt the truth. In the split second I gazed into that cup, I did indeed get a clear and certain picture in my mind of Mario’s character, personality, and path in life—
The image I saw in the residue was called The Hammer, the sign of a forceful, strong, and independent spirit, a leader who turns dreams into achievements. That was very good. Unfortunately, for Mario, his “Hammer” was surrounded by dried grounds in the shape of barbs or licks of fire. That meant that his life would be fraught with peril—and much of it would be of his own making.
Those with the Hammer sign seldom choose an easy path in life, and that hammer would have to pound a lot of nails before any true happiness would be possible.
Seeing that in the grounds actually made me sad, because I knew if Joy was serious about Mario, then she had a long, hard road ahead of her.
Why did I know this? Because the first time I read my ex-husband Matteo’s grounds, I saw the exact same thing. So I gave my ex-husband the only answer I could.
“There was nothing there,” I told him. “I didn’t see a thing.”
Matt stared at me for a moment. He didn’t want to believe me. But I wasn’t giving him any choice.
“Guess the word franchise is still in my vocab, then,” he said, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.
“I can live with that,” I said.
“And me?” he asked. “Can you live with me?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“You were stunning tonight, you know,” he said, moving toward me.
“Stop it.”
“No really. You were really brave. And you looked stunning, too, by the way, but you already knew that.”
The espresso water was boiling and the moment had come for the water to be forced up through the grounds and into the top of the pot. This was my favorite moment, when the entire kitchen was about to become saturated with an intoxicating aroma.
Matt moved in close and his liquid brown eyes seemed to drink me in. I had returned the expensive rosebud-jeweled necklace to Madame in her suite, but I was still wearing the off-the-shoulder Valentino gown. My neck and shoulders felt very exposed, very vulnerable, and his hands slowly lifted to touch that part of me.
His fingers were strong and rough but surprisingly gentle as he slowly and sweetly massaged my tense muscles. The slightly coarse skin of his fingers tickled…it had been a long time since he’d touched me like this, his dark gaze holding fast.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, then his head dipped down and his lips brushed mine.
I closed my eyes, wanting him, not wanting him…he pulled me into his arms. The earthy mix of steaming espresso and the sweet warmth of male cologne sent my head spinning. He brought his hand to the back of my head, opened his mouth, insisted we deepen the kiss.