The coffeehouse had moved, like the days of her youth, onto a back burner. But it never moved off the stove. Even though Pierre’s fortune was immense, Madame had refused to sell the Village Blend. For all these years, she had hung on, as if it were a thread to something so vital, so precious, that she’d fight to her last breath before letting it go.
“I need you, Clare,” Madame said at last, her tone dropping to an octave I rarely heard.
She’s choosing me, I realized in that moment. I’m the one she wants to carry it on.
I suddenly wondered what the Dubois children would think about this decision of their stepmother’s. I’d met most of them over the years. And none seemed to understand the importance of the Blend—not to the community as an institution nor to their stepmother as a symbol of her convictions.
Of course, their attitudes weren’t surprising to me. Raised in wealth, educated in elite schools, constantly surrounded by art and culture, the Dubois children believed themselves above the difficult daily toil of managing a small business. They were all grown now, of course. Some resided in Europe, others on the West Coast and New York, all in the upper reaches of society, and consequently out of touch with the way most of the world lived.
Matteo Allegro had next to nothing in common with them. I could say that for my ex. But he was apparently not Madame’s choice for guardianship of her beloved coffeehouse, either.
While Matt worked around coffee, his passion came not from serving the beans but from traveling the world in pursuit of them (among other things—usually women). The man was a hard worker, but he couldn’t hack a marriage commitment, let alone the stationary lifestyle that running a daily business would require. And his own mother apparently knew it, too—just as she knew that business was never the point.
The Blend wasn’t about buying and selling. It was about tradition. About legacy. About love. And that, more than anything, was why I agreed to sign her contract.
“I’ll do it, Madame,” I promised, finally meeting the woman’s gaze.
“Thank you, my dear. Thank you.”
Four
Making Greek coffee was a simple, straightforward process, really—
Three ounces of water and one very heaping teaspoon of dark roast coffee per serving. (I used half Italian roast, and half Maracaibo—a lovely Venezualan coffee, named for the country’s major port; rich in flavor, with delicate wine overtones.)
Water and finely ground beans both go into the ibrik together. The water is then brought to a boil over medium heat.
The ibrik has no lid. It’s tall and tapered toward the top to keep the mixture from boiling over and has a lip to allow the coffee to be poured without grounds following.
The two police officers watched me work. As I reached for the sugar, I noticed the squeaky-clean state of the area behind the counter. If Anabelle had fallen down the staircase the evening before, I realized, then she must have fallen after she’d already cleaned and restocked the service area. The espresso machine was gleaming, and the cupboards were filled with cups, napkins, and wooden stirrers.
So why is there such a mess in the pantry, above the stairs? Why was the garbage can hauled over there and coffee grounds spilled so negligently?
I kept the mixture swirling over the heat, and the scent of strong coffee began to rise from the ibrik and fill the shop.
The custom for serving Greek or Turkish coffee at unhappy occasions, such as funerals (or assistant managers being carted away in ambulances), was to leave out the sugar. But I refused, adding one heaping teaspoon per cup with a kind of conjuring hope that it was not a tragic occasion and Anabelle would be all right.
“Pardon me, but are you open?”
A handsome thirtyish man with salon-styled floppy hair and a cashmere crew-neck poked his head into the open front door.
“No,” said Officer Langley. “The place is closed.”
“Check back later in the day,” said the other cop.
“But I only want a double espresso to go,” said the man, his finely creased khakis stepping quickly inside. “How much trouble is that?”
“Come back later,” said Demetrios.
“I’ll just wait at a table—” said the man, snapping open his Times and heading for a chair.
I wasn’t surprised by this customer’s behavior. There was a certain part of the Manhattan population that just didn’t hear the word no. Not as if it applied to them, anyway. Rules existed, sure—for everyone else.
“I’m speaking English, right?” Demetrios tossed to Langley.
The man didn’t get more than two steps from a chair. Demetrios stiff-armed him all the way out to the curb, then returned to the shop, closing and locking the door behind him.
The moment the ebony mixture in the ibrik began to boil, I poured half the contents into three tall, thin glasses, shaped cylindrically to keep any stray grounds far away from the lips. I returned the remaining bit of coffee to the heat, stirring to create a foam that I spooned onto each glass. Silver holders with filagreed loops for handles served as ornate cradles for the hot glasses, which I placed on a tray and carried to one of the Blend’s marble-topped tables.
Demetrios looked at me with astonishment.
“You even got the face on there,” he said, taking a seat.
I nodded, sitting next to him. “Yes, but I cheated and used a spoon. I’m not feeling steady enough to pour it right from the pot.”
“What face?” asked Langley, taking the third chair.
“The foam,” I said. (On a better day I could actually drop that last bit of foamy coffee right from the ibrik without transferring anything but the finest trace of grounds.)
“Yeah,” said Demetrios, “they call it ‘the face’ because you lose face if you serve the coffee without it.” He sipped and sighed. Then he said something in Greek.
I gave him a feeble smile. “What does that mean?”
“What? You make Greek coffee this good and you’re not Greek?”
I shook my head.
Demetrios laughed. “I said, ‘It’s like my mama used to make.’”
“Holy Mother, not mine,” said Langley after taking a sip. “Wow, that’s strong.”
“But good?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Langley, sipping again. “But it needs Irish whiskey and lots of straight cream.”
“Drink it like a man, Langley. It’ll put hair on your chest,” said Demetrios, then he winked at me.
Usually, I hate winkers—winkers and trigger-finger clickers. But it wasn’t that kind of a wink, you know? Not a bad used-car salesman sort of “I’m joking—don’t ya get it” sort of wink. It was more of a “Buck up, kid, we’re here for you” kind of wink, which made me feel a little less like I needed to throw up, but not much.
“That’s what they told us Greek kids,” Demetrios continued. “And believe me, Langley needs some chest hair.”
“Get Plato here,” said Langley. “He forgets that Greek kids don’t get hair just on their chest. They get it everywhere else, too. Especially places you definitely don’t want hair.”
A loud knock sounded from the front door. A tall man stood beyond the pane. He wore brown pants, a white shirt, and a red and gold striped tie in a loose knot. A beige, worn trenchcoat in need of a good cleaning hung off his broad shoulders. His dark blond hair was cut pragmatically short, and his fortyish face sported shadowy stubble along the jaw and dark smudges under his eyes.