Once Upon a Grind (2 page)

Control your own destiny or someone else will.

—JACK WELCH

Once upon that morning . . .

“W
HAT'S
the matter with you, Clare? Don't you want a little magic in your life?”

My ex-husband thrummed his fingers on our coffee truck's countertop.

I refilled the napkin holders, ignoring him.

“Come on,” he pressed, “nearly every member of our staff has visited our resident gypsy, everyone but you.”

“I've told you, Matt. I've sworn off fortune telling.”

“But today is special—”

“What will it take to get through to you? Maybe I should text you? Adopt our daughter's favorite way of indicating emphasis by using periods after every word:
I. Am. Not. Reading. Coffee. Grinds. Today.
”

“And I'm not asking you to. I simply want Madame Tesla to read
yours
.”

I took a breath for patience. This morning had started out so perfectly. The brisk October dawn had painted the sky with a golden light, making Central Park's dewy grass glisten like a fairy glen. Even the chill in the air was ideal for enjoying my freshly roasted coffee.

New York's favorite waking potion was something I usually brewed downtown, among the picturesque lanes of the historic West Village. But today I'd joined a few of my baristas on our coffee truck. By 8
AM
, we were stocked up and parked in our assigned spot with the other food vendors near Central Park's Turtle Pond, a stone's throw from the Delacorte Theater, home of Shakespeare in the Park.

The only real challenge facing me at this early hour was Matteo Allegro—my former partner in marriage and current partner in business.

“Look, Matt, I realize you're trying to get some buzz going for these so-called ‘magic beans' you've sourced from Ethiopia, but you're the one handling the Seer's tent. Why do I have to be involved?”

“Our gypsy knows you learned tasseography from your grandmother. If you don't let her show off for you, she'll be insulted, and—”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I did. That's the reason!” One look at my expression and he threw up his hands. “Look, even if it isn't, what harm is there in humoring a nice old lady?” Matt's big, brown bedroom eyes were now blinking at me. This was his “hurt little boy” look, the one designed to make me feel guilty.

Unfortunately, it did. But like a lot of things that preyed upon me lately, I ignored it.

“I'm too busy,” I said.

“You are not—” Matt tapped his watch. “The Kingdom doesn't open for another hour . . .”

“The Kingdom” was New York's inaugural Storybook Kingdom, a weekend festival celebrating the Brothers Grimm, Mother Goose, and classic literary characters beloved by children of all ages. In sixty minutes, families would be streaming into this Central Park compound for arts and crafts, costume contests, even a Fairy Tale Village with jugglers, puppeteers, and knights in shining armor. The whole production was dreamed up by the mayor's office. And since Matt's mother—our esteemed octogenarian employer—happened to sit on the Fairy Tale Fall events committee, we were roped into service.

“You're done setting up, aren't you?” Matt pressed.

“Yes, but the festival staff has kept us hopping since we parked. Here comes another wave . . .”

Matt stepped back as Esther and I filled coffee drink orders for two knights, a court jester, and a half-dressed dragon. When I looked up again, I saw that Matt's focus on fortune telling had finally shifted—to a slinky princess in scarlet.

The young woman's gown had a full, filmy skirt that sparkled in the morning sun. Its stunning red color was repeated in the bright streaks streaming through her soot black, chin-length hair.

“Has Pink Princess come by for coffee?” she asked Matt, her low voice hinting at a Russian accent.

“I don't know. What does the Pink Princess look like?”

The Red Princess laughed. “If you saw her, you would not be asking! My friend is gorgeous. Long blond hair, nearly to waist, and she is very much taller than I.”

“Sorry, I haven't seen her,” Matt replied.

“If you do, tell her to call Red.”

Matt smiled. “You have a phone in that getup?”

“Is strapped to my thigh,” the girl informed him with a playful wink. “
And
is set on vibrate. Want to see?”

I shook my head, hardly surprised by the flirtation. Well into his forties, my ex was old enough to be the young woman's father, yet his muscular good looks and world-traveler ease made him the most attractive man in sight.

When we were married, Matt's standard uniform was paint-stained jeans and a flannel shirt. Now that he'd hitched himself to a fashion-forward spouse, Matt was slicker than a
GQ
cover model.

Today's ensemble featured a jacket of stag brown suede tailored to his broad shoulders. His dark hair looked rakish against his bronzed complexion, burnished from a recent sourcing trip to East Africa. His toothy smile dazzled and his dark eyes smoldered. The true trick to Matt's appeal, however, was his appetite. When Matt liked a woman, he let her know it. And he pretty much liked them all.

Of course, none of these things enchanted me. When you've lived behind a magician's curtain long enough, tricks lose their thrill.

What did surprise me was my ex-husband's rejection of Red's less than subtle invitation to watch her phone vibrate.

“Ah, no, that's okay . . .” He told her, rubbing the back of his neck. He actually looked a little embarrassed. “But I'll keep an eye out for your friend.”

Red didn't appear bothered in the least by Matt's response.

“You are a prince!” she declared, and in a gesture that would prove astoundingly prophetic, she raised her fairy wand and tapped Matt's forehead before gliding away.

“W
HO
was that young woman?”

“The Red Princess,” Matt replied with a shrug. “She's looking for her friend, the
Pink
Princess. How many princesses are in this Kingdom anyway?”

“I don't know, but do me a favor and keep your pants on. This is a fall fantasy, not a male fantasy.”

“Give me a little credit, will you? That girl is our daughter's age. Now where's Dante?”

Dante Silva was my
artista
barista—fine arts painter by day, java jockey by night.

“Why do you need Dante?”

“I want him to relieve you so you can visit the fortune-telling tent.”

I resisted the urge to scream. “He's busy inflating the balloon Giant out back.”

“Balloon Giant?”

“It's part of our
Jack and the Beanstalk
theme.” I used my finger to draw a giant air circle. “Are you blind?”

“Oh, is that what these dangling vinyl vines on the truck are for? And the fake cow by the picnic tables?”

“Perceptive, aren't we?”

“Not entirely.” Matt smirked. “For instance, I have no idea why you're dressed like a Tyrolean peasant. Unless your boyfriend has a secret Alpine fetish.”

“Leave Mike Quinn out of this.”

“I don't know . . .” Matt made a show of looking over my ruffled white blouse, laced bodice, and Oktoberfest-worthy dirndl skirt. “It's kind of sexy.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Not entirely. Who wouldn't go for the shapely wench at the rustic tavern? Your flatfoot certainly would—if you grabbed a beer stein, showed a little more cleavage, and lost the babushka.”

“I think it's time
you
got lost.”

“Touchy this morning, aren't you?” Matt regarded my outfit again. “Who are you supposed to be playing anyway, Eva Braun?”

“I'm Jack's
mother
.”

“Fine, Mrs. Beanstalk, then answer me this: Why does Esther have a musical instrument in her beehive?” He pointed to the large and lovely barista pulling shots at our espresso machine.

“Hey, I heard that!” Esther Best pushed up her black, rectangular glasses and pointed right back at Matt. “No
harping
on my headgear,
Signor
Boss-o!”

“That's not an answer.”

“Esther is playing the part of the Magic Harp,” I explained. “Given her fondness for reciting urban epics, we all thought it was apropos—and so did her rapper boyfriend.”

“Thanks to Boris, my harp actually plays!” With a tilt of her high-haired head, she plucked out a tinny version of “On Top of Old Smokey.”

Matt gawked. “I don't recall a harp in
Jack and the Beanstalk
.”

“You would if you'd read it to our daughter repeatedly for the better part of her fifth year,” I reminded him. “The year you practically lived in Hawaii.”

“That was business!” The hurt look was back on the man's face, but this time it was genuine. “Those were boom times for Kona, Clare, and I was setting up trade with Japan.”

“Now who's touchy?”

Okay, I confess chastising the man about his failures as a father was low. Matt had worked hard in recent years to make things up to me and Joy—and, honestly, with my daughter's ongoing culinary career in Paris, he now saw her more than I did. I was about to apologize when a high-pitched scream rang out.

We all froze—until we saw Nancy Kelly, our youngest barista, barreling out of Madame Tesla's colorful little tent. She ran right for me, wheat braids flying, arms flapping.

“Boss, boss! You
have
to visit Madame Tesla. She's so amazingly authentic!”

Matt arched an eyebrow. “I told you.”

“She gave me a
great
reading!” Nancy said. “And she told me to tell you she's waiting for you!”

Matt raised his arm and (not unlike the Grim Reaper) pointed at the tent.

“I can't! I'm too busy!” As I frantically resumed swabbing the counter, Nancy climbed back into the truck.

“Ms. Boss, you look white as a ghost. What's your problem?”

“Only one,” Matt said. “She's crazy.”

“Tell me.” Nancy touched my shoulder. “Why are you so afraid of reading coffee grinds?”

I met the girl's gaze. “Because I can see bad things.”

“What kind of bad things?”

“Death. I can see it coming.”

M
ATT
shook his head. “Stop being melodramatic.”

“It's true,” I said. “Have you forgotten? I saw
your
death.”

“But I didn't die!”

“You almost did!”

“But I didn't.”

For several seconds, we glared in silence at each other. Then he tilted his head at Esther and Nancy, who'd gone wide-eyed over our nonmarital spat.

“Let's not do this in front of the children.”

He was right. I could see our employees wanted details. Esther began to ask, and Matt changed the subject—to Nancy's head.

“Speaking of death,” he said. “Why is Nancy wearing a dead bird?”

Nancy touched her elaborate headpiece. “That's not a dead bird! It's the Goose That Laid the Golden Egg.”

“And your face is painted gold because—”

“I'm the Golden Egg, silly!”

“You're dressed as an egg with a goose as a hat, and I'm silly?”

“She wanted to play the Golden Goose,” Esther noted, “but her costume couldn't fit behind the counter.”

“So I compromised,” Nancy explained.

“Because Nancy is a good egg,” I said simply.

Matt folded his arms. “Well, I hope you don't expect me to play Jack because I have
no
intention of putting on some ridiculous—”

“Dante is playing Jack,” I said, “even though you have more in common with the role.”

“Excuse me?”

“She's right,” Esther said. “You were sent into the world at a tender age by your widowed mother—”

“And you forged your own destiny by obtaining ‘magic beans' from faraway places,” Nancy added.

There was a third parallel I could have made, but I kept it to myself.

Like Fairy Tale Jack, Matteo Allegro had developed a dangerous addiction. For Jack, it was the giant's wife. For Matt, the addiction was
cocaine
, which led to that near-fatal overdose, the one
I'd predicted
in a reading of his coffee grinds.

It was a miracle Matt had survived, and after months of rehab, he was finally able to chop down his need to get high. He'd remained clean for over a decade—and I continually prayed, along with his mother and daughter, that his feet would stay firmly on the ground.

“I don't care how much I have in common with Bean Boy,” Matt groused. “I am not putting on a costume today—”

“Well, you can rest easy,” I said. “Dante is happy to play Jack.”

“And I'm happy to report our cow hasn't run dry,” Esther declared, sliding a steaming cup across the counter. “Enjoy our ‘Milky White' Latte.”

“You named a drink after Jack's cow?”

“That's nothing!” Nancy bragged. “We've also got a Snow White Chocolate Mocha, Cinderella Pumpkin Cake Squares, and—”

“We Storybook-ified the menu,” I finished for her.

Matt glanced around. “What menu?”

“Isn't it out there?” I sighed. “Give me a minute . . .”

As I located the stand-up chalkboard in the back of the truck, I felt my cell phone vibrate. (No, not against my thigh à la Red Princess—but in my peasant skirt pocket.) Hands full, I ignored the call, and instead wrestled the large sign out our truck's narrow door.

That's when I saw the vision . . .
in pink.

Twenty feet away, the flap to Madame Tesla's colorful gypsy tent opened and a young woman stepped out.

Tall and lithe, she moved with regal steps that made her sparkling layered skirts seem to float through the air. Her gossamer gown was nearly identical to the dress worn by the Red Princess, except for the more innocent shade, which was fitting because this Pink Princess was likewise more refined, her beauty surreal, as if God had created another species.

Her blond hair fell in a curtain of gold down to her waist and her ocean turquoise eyes appeared exotic with their slightly almond shape—Tartar-esque, I realized, like many of the women I'd met who'd emigrated here from Eastern Europe.

Remembering Red's message for her friend, I was about to call out when I realized she had a cell phone pressed to her ear. She was talking fast and seemed to be upset. Was she crying?

Great
,
I thought.
Another reason I wanted nothing to do with telling fortunes. It was far too emotional . . .

I'd seen similar reactions years ago with my nonna, who'd played fortune-teller therapist in the back of our family's Italian grocery. Every few days some neighborhood woman would rush in teary-eyed, until Nonna steadied them with that special cup of coffee before drawing them out, helping them see . . .

And that's when I saw—

A hulking knight, one of the two who'd stopped by our truck earlier, was sipping his brew slowly and staring directly at the Pink Princess.

While a man checking out a woman was as old as time, this was different. He held my take-out cup steady, as if deliberately hiding his lower face from view. With the helmet covering much of his head, only his eyes were visible. And the way the man's dark gaze tracked the Pink Princess looked downright predatory.

It sent a chill through me.

When my phone vibrated again, I actually started. Pulling the cell out of my skirt pocket, I checked the caller ID and tensed.

Why is Mike Quinn trying to reach me at this hour?

I hit the answer button and put the phone to my ear. When I looked up again, the predator knight was gone.

And so was the Pink Princess.