“Fiancé, Papa, Lucia corrected.
“Yes, yes,” Enzo said, but under his breath I heard him mutter. “Who ever heard of an engagement with no ring?”
To this, Glenn made no reply — maybe he hadn’t heard Enzo’s low remark or maybe he was smart enough to pretend he hadn’t. Either way, he turned his full attention to greeting us. As he happily chewed his gum, dimples appeared in his lean cheeks. A bleach-blond Elvis.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything here,” Glenn said.
“You are always welcome,” Enzo replied. “How about an espresso?”
“Sure.” Glenn shrugged, taking out his gum. “Maybe a few cookies, too?” He smiled a little sheepishly, “I really liked those Italian ones — ”
Enzo snorted. “They’re all Italian.”
Lucia tapped her watch. “No coffee tonight, Glenn! We have to go.”
“Why?” he asked. “What’s the hurry?”
“You said it yourself. You’re double-parked! You didn’t work for a solid year to restore that car of yours just so some jerk can sideswipe you!”
Glenn put the gum back in his mouth. “The New Jersey Custom Car Show’s this weekend,” he informed us, jerking his thumb toward the door. “I’m showing my ’68 Mustang.”
Madame and I moved to the caffè’s picture window. The restored coup sported a chassis that gleamed redder than strawberries in a newly glazed tart. The convertible top and leather interior were whiter than castor sugar. Racing stripes ran like Christmas ribbons from bumper to fender, a retro bonnet scoop topped the hood, and the chrome grill was so highly polished it could have been cut from a mirror.
Note to self: Do not, under any circumstances, let Lucia Testa see my car!
As Madame and I gushed compliments to Glenn, Enzo turned to his daughter and spoke in Italian. “What’s one espresso? What would your mama say about your rude behavior?”
“Well, I don’t want you to be rude to Mrs. Quadrelli,” Lucia replied in English.
“Basta, child! Blanche and Clare do not have all night to sit here with me! We will drink our coffee, and I will be on the bocce court in less than an hour. Okay? Happy?”
“Okay! That’s all I wanted to hear!” Lucia finally looked relieved. “I’ll see you on Sunday, Papa. C’mon, Glenn. Don’t forget my bag.” She pointed to a Pullman in the corner as her gilded gladiators clicked toward the front door.
“Sorry, Mr. T,” Glenn shrugged again, grabbed the Pullman’s handle. “Maybe next time. Nice to meet you, ladies.”
A moment later the door shut, and we heard Lucia struggling to throw the old lock. Silence hovered. Finally, Madame cleared her throat.
“Mr. Duffy seems like a nice young man...”
Enzo let out a breath. “He’s nice enough, sì. And he has a good job working on cars. That is how he met my daughter. Car trouble. Mr. Fix-it comes to the rescue, but Lucia, she is pushing too hard...”
He shook his head with that exasperated parent shake (one I knew oh so well). “For years, she had offers to marry — plenty. None of them were good enough. Now she is finally feeling the hands of life’s clock spinning faster. But Glenn is still a boy. Time passes slower for the young. He is in no hurry. That’s why there is no ring!”
Madame and I exchanged glances. What do you say to that?
“Well,” Madame finally replied, “Lucia wasn’t wrong about our tardiness. If you have someplace else to go, perhaps we can reschedule — ”
“Nonsense! Sit down!”
We did, taking seats at one of the marble-topped caffè tables.
“I have no intention of playing bocce tonight,” he said as he slipped behind the counter and prepared our espressos. “I fibbed to my daughter to send her on her way. Meeting up with that donna pazzesca, Mrs. Quadrelli? That’s Lucia’s idea, not mine.”
Donna pazzesca? My eyebrows rose. Crazy woman? I mouthed to Madame.
“She’s trying to fix you up?” Madame asked, obviously curious.
“I take her to dinner a few times. Nothing special. A movie once or twice. Now the woman stalks me at my game every Thursday, and how she talks my ear off! Madonna mia!”
Madame sent me an amused look.
“Knows all the gossip in the neighborhood, that one! And she’s always complaining — the daughter-in-law, the store clerk, the upstairs neighbor, eh! Enough already! I told her last week, as clear as I could, that my business was taking too much of my time so she should leave me alone.”
Enzo crossed the room with a small tray, set the espressos in front of us. “I don’t want to hear complaining tonight.” He lifted his demitasse and made a toast. “Tonight I am visiting with my ravishing Blanche and her Clare...”
Two hours later, Enzo and Madame were reliving their past via an illustrated narrative of old photo albums. They’d continued toasting, too, only now they’d moved on to grappa.
“It’s so quiet down here,” Madame declared (because we’d also moved on to the caffè’s basement). She proffered her drained glass for a refill.
“I’ll put on some records,” Enzo said. “Good stuff, too. Not that crap kids listen to today.”
He rose, a little wobbly, and crossed to an ancient machine with an actual diamond needle. I checked my watch. Being the designated driver, I’d declined the Italian brandy — no big sacrifice since I was still drying out from last night’s green beer — and I was beginning to wonder when this visit was going to end.
As Madame and Enzo fox-trotted around stacks of clutter, I felt my jeans vibrating. Assuming a certain NYPD detective was the reason once more, I dug into my pocket with relish. (Watching these two old friends reflame their affections had me aching for my own man.) But it wasn’t Mike on the line. The cell call came from Dante Silva, one of my baristas.
“Hey, boss. Did you get it? The Blend’s old roaster?”
In fact, the vintage German Probat was standing right in front of me. It was about the girth of a small washing machine (only taller) and tarnished with age and neglect — nothing I couldn’t remedy with a lot of polish and elbow grease. (Seeing Glenn’s restoration job was sufficiently inspiring.)
Of course, I wasn’t enough of a mechanic to get the thing up and running again, but that was never my intention. I wanted the antique for display purposes.
“How did you know about the Probat?” I asked Dante, raising my voice over Tony Bennett’s dulcet crooning. “You didn’t have a shift today.”
“I called in to check my schedule and Tuck told me about it. And since I was here in Queens anyway, I thought I’d snap a few pics.”
“You’re in Queens now? Where?”
“Here. On the sidewalk out in front of Caffè Lucia,” he said. “Unless I’m at the wrong Caffè Lucia. The lights are off and the place looks closed.”
“We’re in the basement. I’ll be right up to let you in.”
Topside, I spotted Dante’s form hovering near the picture window, his trendy chin stubble a textural contrast to the clean geometry of his shaved head. A distressed leather jacket covered the self-designed tattoos on his ropy arms, and around his neck hung a digital camera, which he used for artistic studies, capturing the play of light on urban images from dawn till dusk.
He waved at me as I emerged from the back of the shop. The door’s old lock was gluey as Marshmallow Fluff, but I managed to throw the bolt. Then my young, talented barista breezed in, full of beer and good cheer.
“Is that knockwurst on your breath?”
“And sauerkraut. But mostly hops, boss. Lots of hops.”
“Where were you, anyway?”
Dante grinned, glassy-eyed. “I helped a buddy install his exhibit at the Socrates Sculpture Park; then I hung at the Bohemian Hall Beer Garden with a bunch of aspiring Jasper Johns.”