Once Upon a Grind (15 page)

I
N
the upstairs bathroom, I stripped down and sank into the tub as prescribed. An ugly bruise formed on my thigh where that
Cuckoo
nurse had stomped me, but the hot water felt good, and I attempted to “chill-ax” (to borrow a phrase from my baristas) by focusing on the swishing of branches outside my bathroom window.

A minute later, the chill became real.

Though the window was sealed tight, an icy breeze touched my shoulders. At the same time, the water in my bath grew hotter.

How was that possible?

In the blink of an eye, I found out—

My apartment's walls melted away, and I was outside in some kind of hot tub. Looking around, I realized the “tub” was black iron, shaped like an antique pot, and propped over an open fire.

Paralyzed, I rubbed my eyes, but the vision was still there. Then the heat of the fire increased. “Help!” I cried. “Someone help me!”

Cackling laughter was the only reply.

I drew breath to scream—but didn't have to. In another eye blink, I was back inside my bathroom. The black cauldron was gone, the water harmlessly tepid.
Instead of a scream, I blew out air.

What in heaven's name just happened?

Sanity dictated one answer—I had dozed off. Yet what I experienced wasn't a dream. It felt far too real. My heart was beating double time; my brow was damp with sweat.

It must be the coffee . . .

Matt's crazy African coffee was still affecting me. I stepped out of the tub, splashed cold water on my face. Then I threw on my short terry robe and hurried down the hall to find the master bedroom empty.

Where did Mike go?

His suit jacket was draped over a chair and his holstered gun sat on the dresser. The sight of both eased my mind. While most nights I was fine with my solitude, tonight I really needed Quinn's comfort.

In the hearth, a fire now crackled. I was glad he'd kindled it. With the lights low, the flames cast an almost magical glow across the room's antiques—from the stained glass of the Tiffany lamps to the Italian marble of the century-old mantle and the polished mahogany of the four-poster bed.

The radiant light continued up the French mirror and across the high walls, gilding the hundreds of paintings, etchings, and doodles that helped make this landmark home so special to me. Over the years, Madame had cheered these artists on—and up—even sobered them up with her pots of French roast. In return, they'd given her these works.

I may have been an art school dropout, but I was the
de facto
curator of this precious coffeehouse collection, in sole charge of selecting what to rotate down to the shop or lend to museums—like Basquiat's
Dreadlocks and the Three Bears
, a mixed-media collage that I'd proudly delivered to the Museum of Modern Art for the upcoming Brothers Grimm exhibition.

If I
were
to move to Washington, caring for these treasured pieces was one of the many things I'd miss.

My gaze caught on another of my favorites, a small oil-on-canvas titled
Café Corner
. The artist had conceived it right downstairs. The subject of the piece was a golden-haired young woman, sitting alone among a sea of empty tables.

Like Edward Hopper's much more famous
Automat
, the girl was more than alone. She seemed completely isolated (a common enough irony of city life, being alone in a crowd). And the cup she stared into didn't exactly runneth over. It was full once, but she'd drained the contents, and now sat contemplating the emptiness.

The city was full of girls like this. They came to New York with golden dreams for fairy tale futures, dreams drained by all the bad choices and wrong turns, by dark intentions rooted here long before they arrived. And though the afternoon sunlight was strong in the painting, it cast equally strong shadows.

I'd never noticed it before but the crossbars of our French doors looked almost like prison bars. It made me reconsider Hopper's title for the work.

Was the girl in
Café Corner
doing more than sitting in a corner of a corner café? Perhaps she was feeling cornered, trapped, like all those fairy-tale characters, by a choice she'd made. Or couldn't make.

Or was I reading too much into it because of my own situation?

Out the window, the storm was getting worse. Raindrops pelted the glass, and the bushy top of a sidewalk tree swayed heavily in the wind, back and forth, back and forth.

For weeks now, I felt like that battered tree, swinging between two wishes: Being here. Being with Mike. In the morning, he would expect an answer. He deserved one. But which choice was right? Which would I regret?

Catching my reflection in the window, I saw the same troubled expression as the girl in the painting. To confirm it, I glanced again at the canvas—and froze.

What in the world?

The painting had changed. The golden-haired girl was replaced by a fortyish woman with shoulder-length hair the color of Italian roast. I stepped closer.

It's me. I'm the subject of the painting!

I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but my image was still there.

“You know, you look adorable in that robe, Cosi. But it's got nothing on that peasant dress.”

Mike had
returned to the room. I could hear his deep voice, yet it sounded miles away.

“I didn't want to mention it at the hospital, but I especially liked the sopping wet, button-free version . . .”

What's happening to me?
I felt disoriented, woozy, and unable to tear my gaze away from the canvas.

Should I tell Mike what I'm seeing? And if I do, will he believe me? Or drag me out of this asylum and into a real one?

M
IKE
crossed the room and pressed a warm cup into my hands. “Drink this. You'll feel better.”

I took a few gulps, hardly tasted it.

“Is something wrong? You look a little confused.”

“I'm fine,” I croaked and gulped down more of the hot liquid.

“The coffee's good, isn't it? I made it myself.” He put his lips close to my ear. “Of course I had a great teacher.”

When I failed to reply, he touched my cheek, pressing me to face him.

He'd changed into his old NYPD sweatpants and a worn Rangers tee. His light brown hair was mussed and he looked more human, more huggable. His typically icy gaze was alive now and flickering with the warmth of blue fire. He looked ready for bed, for me.

I watched him sample the coffee he'd made for us. I joined him, slowing down and sipping this time, so I could actually taste what was in my cup.

The notes of flavor were enjoyable—chocolate, plum wine, cloves. Then came that familiar hint of exotic spice, the one I couldn't identify.

That's when I panicked.

“Mike, what is this coffee?”

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Just tell me.”

“I don't know exactly. I got the beans from a shiny green bag in your cupboard.”

Oh, God. Matt sent that bag up from the roasting room two days ago, but I'd been too busy to sample it!

“I admit I was curious about the
M
written on there with black marker. Is the
M
for Mike?”

“Only if you're
Magic
Mike.”

“That would require a striptease, wouldn't it?” An impish smile appeared. “I'm not averse to that, if it's just you and me—and I get one in return.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“What's gotten into you?” I asked and knew the answer was right in front of me:
the coffee!

“Mike, listen to me, these beans aren't meant for drinking casually. They're for ritual fortune telling. My ex-husband sourced them in Africa, and his mother used them at the festival today. The beans are supposed to be . . .”

“Be what?”

I felt silly saying it, but—“I wasn't kidding about the
M
.”

“You mean I'm drinking
magic
beans?”

“Yes!”

“You're serious?”

“All I can tell you is these beans are having a peculiar effect on me. I believe they're inducing . . . well,
visions
, for lack of a better word. I better not drink any more. And you shouldn't, either.”

He took a few more sips. “I don't taste or feel anything out of the ordinary—except excellent coffee. Look, I think you're overwrought. You need to take it easy. Why don't you try some more? You'll see your imagination is getting the better of you.”

“How do I get through to you? Fine, I'll show you.” I pointed to the wall. “See anything strange?”

Mike frowned at the work. “What should I be seeing?”

“Me!”

“You're in it? Really?” Mike stepped closer. “Where? Behind the counter?”

I gawked and looked again. No more Clare Cosi in the corner.

The golden-haired girl was back in her seat, contemplating an empty cup.

“I do think someone should paint you,” Mike said as he set our own cups aside. “But not like this, more like . . .” Behind me now, he curled his arms around my waist, fumbled with my robe's belt.

“Mike, I swear, I saw myself in this painting—”

“Mmm, yes, like this.” His fingers finished their work and my robe fell open. “It's time to relax.”

“I can't.”

“You can. And I'll help. After all, I've been dreaming of these curves all week.”

“You have?”

“Oh, yeah.” I felt his lips on my neck, his hands on my body. “And don't you want to make a guy's dream come true?”

“It's my dream, too,” I whispered.

“Good. We can dream together.”

Then Mike's mouth found mine and my robe found the floor.

B
EEP-BEEP!
Beep-beep!

Car horns?

Stirring from a deep sleep, I rubbed my eyes. Mike's large body lay beside me, sinking the mattress. I was a happy victim of gravity, tight against his snoring form.

Unsure of the time, I glanced at the bedside clock.

Seven
PM
? That can't be right . . .

Lifting Mike's heavy arm from around my waist, I slipped free of the covers and went to the window. Laughter drifted up from the sidewalk crowd as taxis snarled traffic, dropping off fares at my coffeehouse.

If the clock was right, then we'd slept all day, and this mob was here for Esther's Poetry Slam—the thought of which made me slam my forehead.

If I don't get a move on, I'll miss my chance to question Red!

Letting Mike sleep, I threw on jeans and a sweater. Then I dashed down the service staircase and burst into our shop's second-floor lounge.

The mass of bodies was thick, merry, and loud. As I plowed my way through, Esther grabbed a microphone and announced—

“Attention, everyone! She's here!”

Applause and cheers rang out. A bright light swung and I was blinded.
Is that spotlight on me?!
Confused, I lifted my arm to shield the glare and saw a broad-shouldered silhouette approach.
Matt?

My ex-husband was back to his Prince Charming act—literally. He wore the same costume he had at the festival.

“Allow me to escort you,” he said, offering his arm.

As we walked forward, I saw our queen. Matt's mother wore a flowing gown of royal purple and a golden crown on her silver head. When I stepped up on the stage, she opened her arms—

“Welcome, my dear princess!”

“But I'm not a princess,” I said. “And I certainly don't look like one.”

Madame waved her diamond wand and my jeans and sweater transformed into a pink gossamer gown, its filmy fabric sparkling in the spotlight.

“You see? You are a princess,” Madame insisted. “But you cannot have two kingdoms. You must choose one.”

“No, I can't choose. Please don't make me!”

“You must choose by morning, dear, or the choice will be made for you.”

“We came here to dance!” cried a young woman from the crowd.

“Yes, we want to dance!” another shouted.

“Dance, dance, dance!” more girls chanted.

“And so you shall!” Madame replied. “Ladies, come up to the stage!”

Out of the crowd, twelve young women stepped forward, wearing a rainbow of sparkly gowns. They formed a circle around me and began to dance, sing, and
float
—because each had a pair of translucent fairy wings.

Then thunder cracked and a lightning bolt shot through the room. When the flash was over, a dark silhouette stood in the middle of the gasping crowd. The figure wore a long black robe with a large hood.

I peered into the raised hood and saw a pitch-black void where a face should have been. Everyone in the room quaked—except our queen. She was furious. Madame rose from her throne and pointed a finger.

“You were not invited!”

Ignoring the accusation, the hooded figure floated toward the circle of twelve princesses. “Show me your keys,” the specter commanded.

Each of the twelve quivering fairy princesses pulled out a golden key, hanging on a chain beneath her gown. I touched the chain around my own neck, pulled it free, but there was no key attached.

“Show me your key!” the specter demanded.

“But I have no key,” I squeaked

A hideous howl sounded and everyone fell back.

“She is a princess,” Madame warned the specter. “You must bow to her.”

The hooded figure stooped in front of me. I could feel its dark pride and murderous anger as it went down on one knee—but not to bow. An animal paw shot out of the robe. A single claw stabbed my leg. Blood poured out, but there was no pain, only wooziness.

“Sleep!” the figure commanded, and I collapsed on the stage.

*   *   *

I
woke abruptly. The crowd was gone and so were my clothes.

Stripped naked, I sat in a giant cauldron of hot water. Dark woods surrounded me and an open fire burned underneath. The sound of cackling filled my ears—Fletcher Endicott stood laughing at me.

A black pointed hat covered his receding hairline, and a velvet cape hung from the shoulders of his hound's-tooth sport jacket. His nose had grown long and crooked, and warts freckled his newly pronounced chin.

“You're in hot water now, my pretty!” he cried.

Equal parts embarrassed and enraged, I sank lower in the water, folding my arms over my breasts.

“What do you want?” I demanded.

He pointed to something in the distance—a large snow-covered hill. Two figures were skiing down the slope toward us. One was Matt in his Prince Charming costume. The other was Endicott's heavyset partner, wearing his flapping raincoat.

As they skied up to the fire, Endicott's partner pulled out his gun and waved it at Matt.

“Get in, Your Royal Pain-ness!”

“That's right!” Endicott cried. “You two should be in it together!”

Matt said nothing. Head hanging low, he pulled off his boots and climbed into the hot water with me. But he didn't float. He sank.

“Matt, no! Don't give up!”

As I lunged to save him, Endicott's partner used his ski pole to stir the pot. Then the two men chanted—

“Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble!”

The flames beneath us rose higher and the water began to spin. The bubbling whirlpool was pulling me under!

All sound stopped as the water enveloped me, washed me down a giant pipe. With a splash, I landed in an immense rectangular pool. The woods were gone, along with Endicott and his partner. I looked around for Matt, but there was no sign of him.

“Ma'am? Would you like a hand?”

I looked up to find two linebackers in blue suits. They stood next to a horse-drawn carriage.

In the distance, I saw the rounded dome and fluttering flag of a grand castle. Closer to me stood an immense obelisk. In the opposite direction, a stone giant sat on his throne, gazing into the pool I'd landed in.

As I waded out of the water, one of the blue-suited men held up a bath sheet. I wrapped myself in it and climbed into the carriage, where my towel transformed into a ball gown and my wet hair dried into a stunning French twist laced with flowers and pearls.

One of the men talked into his suit sleeve while another tapped an earbud.

Then the horses began to trot and we were on our way, rolling along a lengthy strip of manicured lawn and towering trees. Finally, the carriage pulled up to my destination—a neo-Palladian palace of painted sandstone.

The carriage door opened to a red carpet flowing down a staircase between grand columns. On the carpet stood a rugged man in formalwear, light brown hair in military trim, cobalt eyes blue enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

“Hi, Clare.”

“Hi, Mike.”

“Welcome to the White House.”

He escorted me inside, where a large party was under way. Men and women waltzed on a ballroom floor. Mike took me in his arms and we danced together. He spun me so fast that I felt drunk, dizzy with happiness.

“Choose me,” he whispered.

“I do,” I said, and my words released a glittering whirlwind around us.

Then the ballroom dissolved.