Coffee Sonata (7 page)

“Can you bring me the check? I need to go walk the dogs.”

“Do you think you’ll be back, Vivian?” Mike asked tentatively.

Mystified, Vivian nodded. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“If you leave your name, address, and phone number on a slip by the cash register, you can keep a running tab. We do that for our regulars.”

To Vivian’s surprise, a faint blush crept up Mike’s neck and colored her cheeks.

“That sounds perfect. You know where I live, after all.” She smiled and rose from her chair. “And don’t forget to visit. You did promise.”

After a brief silence Mike grinned and said, “I did, didn’t I? Well then, since I never break my promises, I’ll come by later in the week and check on your stage fright.”

Not bothering to notice if any of the patrons were watching, Vivian slid her hand up along Mike’s bare upper arm. “Good. See you soon,
cara
.”

*

“We’ll be off then, Michaela,” Martha said just after closing time at ten, tucking her hand under her husband’s arm. “See you tomorrow morning.”

“Night. Have a good one.” Mike walked them to the door and locked it after them, waving through the window before returning to the counter. She emptied the cash register, counted the money, and added up the credit card slips. As she went through her normal routine, part of her mind was elsewhere.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Vivian all day. She’d smiled at her customers and provided the best service possible, all the while mulling over her earlier conversation with Vivian. Vivian fascinated her. She was a world-famous celebrity, and yet she was kind and warm and approachable. She was obviously wealthy, but she didn’t seem bothered that she and Mike came from different sides of the track. She had offered friendship, with no strings attached, and Mike felt her defenses were weakening, whether she liked it or not.

As she sorted the paperwork, she returned to her thoughts of Vivian and her heart sped up.

She’d watched Vivian during lunch, memorizing her image for future reference. With her hair pulled back and no makeup, Vivian looked fresh and naturally beautiful. She’d seemed intently focused on Mike, her eyes sometimes clouded with emotions Mike couldn’t read. Unaccustomed to such exclusive attention from anyone, Mike still felt the weight of her gaze. And to think she was afraid of faltering during her first performance ever in her hometown. Her, with all her talent and experience.

Mike gave a short bark of a laugh. Until a decade ago, failure had been her specialty. She would have to tell Vivian how the Belmont Foundation had helped her turn her own life around. It wasn’t something she talked of easily, but something in the way Vivian listened to her made her want to. With that thought in mind, Mike placed the money in the safe and switched off the lights.

Edward jokingly called her basement apartment “Mike’s bunker,” which wasn’t far from the truth. The stairs took her down to a narrow hallway, which in turn led into a large room where she spent her precious little free time.

The room boasted a twin bed, an entertainment center holding her wide-screen television and stereo, and a leather couch with a driftwood coffee table. In the far corner stood a small, elevated stage where her prized possession reigned in solitude. She’d dreamed of owning a drum set ever since she’d played in high school. Being able to buy the latest state-of-the-art Yamaha digital drums had healed yet another of her wounds.

Too tired to play that evening, Mike went into the bathroom and showered quickly. The hot water soothed the shoulder that always ached after carrying trays all day. After drying slowly, she dropped the towel to the floor.

Unusually aware of her own nakedness, Mike wondered for the briefest of moments if Vivian could ever find her attractive. Hell, she didn’t even know if Vivian was into women. She glanced over at the stack of newspapers that she’d bought earlier that day in hopes of finding out more about her new friend. She couldn’t remember reading anything about Vivian’s private affairs. There was no mention that Vivian had ever married.

Mike shuddered from the cool air against her damp skin as she pulled on a pair of gray flannel shorts and a tank top. After quickly brushing her teeth, she climbed into bed, grateful to tug up the covers for warmth. She grabbed one of the many pillows and buried her face in the crisp cotton fabric. Out of long habit, she began to hum an old lullaby. “Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder where you are…” It was one of the few things that always helped settle her.

Unprepared for the image of Vivian that appeared behind her closed eyelids, Mike stopped humming and drew a deep breath, uncertain what to think. The memory of how Vivian had focused on her made her heart race. She hugged the pillow to her chest and let Vivian’s image fill her mind as sleep overcame her.

“Good morning, Ms. Belmont,” her assistant, a blond, thin man with a receding hairline, said. “The press conference went well.”

“Glad you approve, Dennis,” Manon said absently and put her briefcase down next to her computer. With dark cherry hardwood floors and an enormous rolltop desk from the early 1900s, her office held a lot of Belmont history. It was located in a building constructed in 1796 and protected for many years by the National Historical Registry.

Manon sat down behind her desk and welcomed the familiar surge of comfort. This was home, so much more so than her penthouse condo. Here she did what she was meant to do and interacted with the people who helped her make it happen. Her staff had been with her a long time, a couple of them having even worked for her grandfather. They were as loyal as family members and nearly as dedicated to the foundation as she was.

“Are those my messages?” Manon pointed at Dennis’s hand.

“Yes. They require your personal attention.”

“Thanks. Coffee?”

“I’ll make some.”

As Dennis left the room Manon booted her computer and glanced through her phone messages, two of which were from the woman coordinating the charity event. Concerned, Manon dialed the phone number at the bottom of the notes. Someone answered after only one ring. “Belmont Foundation. Kay Masters.”

“Kay, Manon here. I got your messages. What’s the problem?”

“Our leading lady.”

“Vivian?” Manon frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t put my finger on it—but something seems off and it’s making me nervous.”

Manon knew how Kay could get when every single detail wasn’t ironed out. “All right. Can you at least give me a hint?”
Please, not yet, Vivian. Hold on.

“I don’t know. It’s how she’s dealing with the staff at the concert hall. I know she’s
the
prima donna whatever, but she’s always had a reputation for treating her crew properly.”

“She’s mistreating the stagehands?”

“Heavens no! But she’s acting…weird. She doesn’t seem to want to be around anyone—or have anyone near her. I’ve even seen her literally stumble backward when any of the crew comes near. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s paranoid.”

“Sounds odd. Want me to drop by later? I’ve got some time just before lunch.” She checked her watch. The concert hall was just two blocks down the street. “If rehearsals have started by then.”

“Yes, that’d be a good idea. Maybe she needs to talk to you. You know, friend to friend.”

“Maybe so,” Manon said noncommittally before she hung up.

She logged into her e-mail and browsed through the urgent messages, responding to the most critical ones and then starting on the others.

She’d been at it for several hours when the intercom buzzed. “Yes, Dennis?”

“A Ms. Goddard from the
New Quay Chronicle
on line one. Do you want it or should I take a message?”

Manon flinched. The call was unexpected and, considering last night’s guilty pleasure, somewhat disturbing. “Thank you. I’ll take it.” Manon switched lines. “Ms. Goddard…Eryn. Manon Belmont here.”

“Ms. Belmont. Am I interrupting anything important?”

“Call me Manon, please. And no. I’m just about finished.” Manon rolled a fountain pen between her fingers, her mouth dry. “What can I do for you?”

“Since you arranged the press conference for Ms. Harding, I’m curious what you think of my article.”

Eryn sounded enthusiastic but cautious. She also sounded as if Manon’s opinion mattered.

“I thought you did a very good job. The townspeople will know a lot more about our most famous performer.” Manon fiddled with the up and down arrows on the laptop keyboard. “So, is there—”

“I was wondering—I have to go to a photo shoot near your office this afternoon. Are you free for lunch?”

Manon glanced at the calendar sitting next to her computer, surprised by Eryn’s directness.
Say no to her!
“Yes, I think so. Let me check.” Her calendar was clear.
Why didn’t I just say no?

“Great! How about meeting me at the Lobster House, on the corner of your block?”

“Would it be on or off the record?”

“Neither. Just lunch between neighbors. I just want to try the chowder. Nothing to do with work and no inquisitive questions, I promise.”

“Their chowder is superior.” Her cheeks warming, Manon relented. I can be there at 12:30. Should I ask my assistant to reserve a table?” She heard papers being shuffled.

“Perfect. See you there!”

Eryn hung up before Manon had a chance to say good-bye. Manon slowly put the receiver down and considered the unexpected invitation. Despite her reservations, she was looking forward to seeing her persistent, and very attractive, neighbor again.

*

Eryn turned to her computer and tucked another pencil into her hair, just where the loose braid began. She was having lunch with Manon Belmont! Her boldness didn’t surprise her—she was normally spontaneous—but she
had
been pretty daring.

She’d been at her desk since seven o’clock, working on her current assignment. The school board misappropriation of funds appeared to reach as high as the principal himself. And the whistle blower who had made the situation public was none other than Manon Belmont.

Manon was definitely mysterious and exciting, even if her less than positive attitude toward the press still pushed Eryn’s buttons. She thought of all the hours she spent doing her job in a way she could be proud of, and her ire flared again.

She Googled the Belmont Foundation in search of more info about the family. She scrolled down one page after another, certain that there was more to Manon Belmont than the woman Manon allowed the world to see.

The first several hits showed clippings from different newspapers’ society columns. It didn’t take her long to conclude that Manon had never married and attended functions with a different man on her arm each time.

Looking regal, Manon posed for photos at charity events, elegantly turned out in designer dresses and expensive jewelry. The men by her side beamed at the cameras more than Manon did, and Eryn wondered if she was imagining it or if the measured smile on Manon’s lips was just for show.

Her interest piqued, Eryn moved on to the archives of both the
New Quay Chronicle
and the
New York Times
. It didn’t take her long to assemble a rough timeline of events in Manon’s early life, and the resentment she’d harbored for her new neighbor’s standoffish approach evaporated. Eryn squeezed the mouse hard as she read about Manon’s twin being killed when they were thirteen.

Because the articles became fewer, Eryn deduced that the Belmonts withdrew from the spotlight after the tragedy. From what she could determine, Eryn pieced together that Manon grew up living with her father, who never remarried after his wife left him, and her grandparents. She graduated from Harvard with a double major in social science and business management, which suggested to
Eryn that Manon had always been as driven and goal oriented as she seemed now.

“Hey, kid.” Her boss’s harsh voice broke Eryn’s concentration. “How much more do you need to print the school board scandal story?”

“Hello, Harold.” Eryn sighed, irritated by his favorite nickname for her. “
Kid.
”
Presumptuous asshole.
“It won’t take me long. I just have to interview a few more people to verify where the money actually went. So far, all we know is that it didn’t end up where it was supposed to and that it may cost some teachers their jobs.”

“Write the story ASAP. I’ve got some other assignments after that, kid. There’s the horse show, and the Maxim Circus is coming to town.”

“I need more time.” Eryn frowned and tossed her braid back over her shoulder. “We can’t print what we have now or jump to conclusions about who’s culpable. Everyone respects these people. Besides wanting to get at the truth, I don’t want to have someone suing us for slander. Someone’s got their hand in the till, but for now—”

“As I said, get it done ASAP. Horses and clowns await your review.”

Eryn bit back an acerbic comment.
Oh, joy. Just the reason I became a reporter. I’m sure the hot stories in East Quay will get me the freakin’ Pulitzer Prize.
“I’ll get the story for you, Harold. Don’t worry.”

She clenched her teeth. She’d worked at the
New Quay Chronicle
since graduation. The excellent articles she’d produced on subjects ranging from high school reunions to a series of local bank robberies had prompted several larger newspapers and news stations to offer her a job. But she declined them all because she wanted to stay in East Quay. Frank, her mentor and the previous editor-in-chief, had lived and worked here. Unfortunately, Frank had retired early due to health problems and Harold, who lacked both skill and tact, took over.