Until I Saw Your Smile (17 page)

I can't win.
“
After
you answer her question. I'm kind of curious, too.”

“You already know what I think,” Angela said.

“No, I don't think I do.”
You're hard to read, Miss Angela Smith.

Angela shook her head. “All right. I'll give her one quote and that's it.”

And I won't stop talking until the sun sets.
He walked around the counter, smiled at Felisa, and sat in “his” booth.

Angela returned to the counter and stared at Felisa. “What do I think of them? I don't. I have looked out that window since I was a child, and I have seen a number of businesses move into that space only to leave and have another take its place.”

“So you're saying La Estrella won't be here long,” Felisa said.

“I didn't say that, and don't you write that I did,” Angela said, cutting her eyes to Matthew. “All I know is that this place has been here forty years. La Estrella as a
company
has only been around for ten years. This place has stood the test of time, and I defy anyone in New York to find a better large cup of coffee and a better homemade pastry and all for less than five bucks.” She took a deep breath. “Would you like to try a pastry? I have apple and blackberry today.”

“Apple sounds good.” Felisa turned and saw Matthew. “May I join you?”

Matthew looked at Angela. “No comment.”

Angela smiled.

Felisa walked over to him. “You're no fun.”

“And I intend to stay that way,” Matthew said. “I have been instructed by my client not to talk to you. Why not interview some real customers?”

“You're not a real customer, Mr. McConnell?” Felisa asked.

Matthew smiled at Angela.
You haven't defeated me yet.
“You know, Felisa, I
am
becoming a regular fixture here.”

Felisa wrote it down.

“Oh no, Angela,” Matthew said. “She wrote down what I just said. What will she write down next?”

Angela's mouth parted slightly.

I have her attention. Good.
“Felisa, I love this place. It has atmosphere. It has soul. It's open from six until eight, while those knuckleheads across the street are open seven to seven and are closed all day on Sundays.”

Angela mouthed, “Really?”

Matthew nodded.

Felisa finished writing. “And how long have you been a fixture here?”

“I can't get the man to leave,” Angela said.

Now Angela jumps in,
Matthew thought
. This is going to be some story.

Felisa laughs. “This is good.”

“Angela,” Matthew said, “tell her why I
can't
leave.”

Angela's eyes blazed briefly before softening. “Because . . . because that booth you're sitting in is his office.”

Felisa looked up from her notepad. “This booth is your office.” Matthew shrugged.

Angela shook her head.

Matthew smiled.

Angela sighed, closed her eyes, and nodded.

“Yes, indeed it is,” Matthew said. “I am a coffeeshop lawyer, a barrister for the sweetest barista who ever lived. Oh, but don't write that Angela is a barista. She's not a barista. She
brews
and
pours
coffee.”

“So how's business in this booth?” Felisa asked.

Well, my business is so new I haven't actually had any.
“The first consultation is always free, provided, of course, that you buy a cup of coffee.”

Felisa turned to Angela. “So you two are business partners.”

Angela approached the booth. “Unofficially. I have yet to see a written contract.”

One of these napkins will have to do.
“Soon, Miss Smith, soon.”

“I want to see that contract today, Mr. McConnell,” Angela said. “Before the close of business.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Matthew smiled.

Angela scowled.

While Felisa interviewed other customers, Matthew wrote a simple contract on a napkin:

He took it up to her. “Here's the contract.”

Angela read it quickly. “I don't need payment now, remember? I need it in June when my rent goes up.”

“Take it while you can get it, Angela,” Matthew said. “I may not have all of it in June. And this will provide the money for our upgrades.”

“What upgrades?” she asked.

“Wi-Fi for starters,” Matthew said. “And music. And more seating for open-mike night.”

“What open-mike night?” Angela asked.

“You want some of that trendy, hipster money, don't you?” Matthew asked. “Trendy hipsters like to spend money on poetry readings, book talks, and solo musicians. They also like groups like Floetry to serenade them with words. We'll need to get a decent sound system, too.”

Angela blinked. “Absolutely
no
karaoke.”

“I heartily agree,” Matthew said. “That would lower property values from here to Bushwick.”

“Do we really have to do all that?” Angela asked.

“Yes,” Matthew said. “You said something about the lack of an arts venue in this neighborhood.
This
could be that venue.”

“But that would mean later hours,” Angela said.

“But only one night a week, say, Friday or Saturday, and maybe only once or twice a month,” Matthew said. “This place could fill a void in this neighborhood.”

“Cameo is six short blocks away,” Angela said.

“You ever been to Cameo?” Matthew asked.

Angela shook her head.

“It's small,” Matthew said. “You know how many people you could get in here on a Friday night?”

“We'll talk more about this later,” Angela said.

“I like talking to you,
partner,
” Matthew said.

“Oh please.” Angela looked at Felisa. “Is
she
your type?”

In another life, yes. Today . . .
“No.”

“She's Cuban or Italian or both or something,” Angela said. “I thought you liked that nice, creamy, tan skin.”

I do.
“She's too perky.”

“Perky?” Angela said.

“She's too perky, energetic, and outgoing,” Matthew said. “I'm beginning to prefer nervous, brooding, and worried.” He looked into her eyes. “And brown. Most definitely brown.”

Angela looked down, a small smile creeping across her lips. “You know anyone like that?”

“I work for her,” Matthew said. “She makes me mop the kitchen twice because I use too much bleach.”

“She sounds evil.” Angela quickly signed the napkin.

“She's not so bad, once you get to know her,” Matthew said, “and she has a brilliant smile.”

Angela handed the napkin to Matthew. “You still owe her two nights' work.”

“Only two? I promised to help you clean up every night.”

“Yes, you did, didn't you?” Angela said. “It's not on this contract. All I get is money, Matthew Mark. Do you have a brother named Luke John?”

“Luckily, I'm an only child,” Matthew said. “I would have hated to have a sister named The Acts Romans. We will add an addendum to our contract. Miss Smith, what is your middle name?”

Angela closed her eyes. “Simone.” She opened them. “And don't give me any lip over my initials.”

“I wasn't going to say a thing.” He flipped over the contract, writing as he said, “I also promise Angela Simone Smith, who has an extremely
nice, firm
set of initials, to help her close the shop nightly.”

Angela looked at the napkin. “You didn't write that.”

Matthew turned the napkin around.

“You wrote that.” She picked up the napkin. “You really wrote that.”

“Because it's true,” Matthew whispered.

Angela slipped the napkin into her apron pocket. “You don't write all your legal contracts this way, do you?”

Is she blushing? I can't tell. I hope she is.
“Only this one.”

Angela turned away to the register and wiped some dust from the screen. “Good.”

After Felisa left with the promise to run the story in the next edition
,
the Friday rush became a trickle. Matthew sipped another cup of coffee while Angela moved back and forth from the kitchen to the display case restocking her sweet treats.

A thunderous pounding sounded from the kitchen.

Angela literally jumped, and she seemed to frown. “It's my weekly delivery.”

“You don't go shopping for all your exotic ingredients?” Matthew asked.

Angela wiped her hands with a towel. “I don't have the time. Everything is closed by the time I'm closed. I'll be in the back putting things away.”

Matthew left the booth. “I could do it for you.”

“Yes, but I know where everything goes,” Angela said.

The pounding continued.

“I could watch and learn,” Matthew said.

“Just . . . come get me if anyone comes in.” She pointed to the counter.

Matthew went behind the counter. “I could serve them.”

Angela shook her head. “Just come get me, and I'll do the serving. Agreed?”

“Okay.”

An older black woman breezed in a few minutes later, squinting up at Matthew. “Where's Angela?”

“In the back,” Matthew said. “She has a delivery.”
Do I get Angela? No. I can do this.
“How may I help you?”

The woman pointed at the tray of turnovers. “A half dozen of those, what are they, raspberry?”

“Blackberry,” Matthew said.

“A half dozen of those, a half dozen apple turnovers—are they fresh?”

“Just baked half an hour ago.”
I know how to do the soft sell, too.

“A half dozen of those and . . . two dozen chocolate chip cookies,” the woman said. “You work here long?”

“This is my first day.”

Matthew expertly collected, wrapped, and bagged her order. “That will be . . .” He checked the price list taped to the counter. “Twenty-six dollars even.”

“Twenty . . .
six?
” The woman's eyes popped.

“Yes, ma'am.”

The woman handed him a twenty and a ten.

“Would you like some coffee to go?” Matthew asked, ringing up her order and pulling out four ones. “The house blend is especially delicious today.” He handed her the money.

“No, thank you.” The woman looked around him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

The woman shrugged. “No. I've just never seen anyone but Angela or her parents working here, that's all.”

Matthew smiled. “I'm Matthew.”

“Hello.” The woman took her bag. “Tell Angela that Bet was here.”

“I will,” Matthew said. “You have a great day.”

Bet nodded. “You, too.”

Angela returned to the counter ten minutes later. She stared into the showcase. “Have you been eating on the job?”

“Bet was here,” Matthew said. “She likes your pastries, too.”

“How much did you charge her?” Angela asked.

He pointed at the price list. “What it says here.”

“Oh no!” Angela cried. “Did she just leave?”

Uh-oh.
“About ten minutes ago. Why?”

Angela bumped her hip into his thigh. “I told you to come get me.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Matthew asked.

Angela sighed. “Bet is one of my mama's oldest friends. I have
never
charged her full price.”

Oops.
“I'm sorry.”

“What she must think . . .” She shook her head. “It's not your fault. You didn't know.” She looked into his eyes. “And she didn't fuss about paying?”

“Not at all.”

Angela smiled. “I've been undercharging that woman for ten years at least. You done good, McConnell.”

“Thank you, Angela Simone.”

“Hush.”

Later that evening, after he swept and mopped the kitchen in four minutes, he leaned on his mop and watched Angela polishing the glass in front of the display case.

“You lose something?” Angela asked.

Just my train of thought.
“No.”

“Wipe some tables, man.”

“Wiping.”

While Matthew turned the tables into virtual mirrors of dark wood, Angela counted down her register.

“Did you have a good day?” Matthew asked.

“This doesn't make sense,” Angela said. “I made about the same for a normal Friday. Maybe a little more.”