Smart vs. Pretty (6 page)

“Somewhere private.”

“A place where we can share our hopes and dreams,” she said.

“Reveal our fears and fantasies.”

They smiled at each other. “You’re being ironic, right?” She had to ask. She knew she was. She honestly wasn’t sure about him.

He laughed and tilted his head back, flashing her another nice clean shot of his lovely neck. He said, “You’re hilarious. Ironic! I love that. Gimme five.”

Oh, dear God.
As he held his muscular arm aloft for the third time in as many minutes, Amanda suddenly understood why this gorgeous, intelligent man was single. She said, “I’m sorry, Chick. I can’t do…that. I just can’t.”

“Do what?” he asked.

“That.” She made a mini high-five motion.

“What’s that?”

“The high-five thing,” she whispered. “I’m not much of a sports fan.”

His face turned to dust. He said, “Oh, Jesus. You think I’m a complete idiot, don’t you? This is humiliating. Here I am, sitting with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’m so nervous I’m reduced to ridiculous jerk-off behavior. Any excuse to touch you, I guess. This is too embarrassing. I’ve got to go.” He leaped off his stool and threw a twenty on the bar.

Amanda, now mortified herself, said, “Please stay. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen? Any excuse to touch her? “You can touch me, Chick.” She felt awful. You can teach a man to stop high-fiving, but you can’t teach him to be gorgeous and adventurous. Why had she opened her mouth at all? She begged, “Really, Chick, please stay.”

“Now I’m a pity case. I like you, Amanda. I really do. I think I love you. That sounds even more absurd than everything else I’ve said. I have to leave. Right away. I’ll call you.” And then he ran into the night, but not before accidentally kicking over his bar stool and disrupting a waitress’s tray of drinks in the process.

Chase after him? Not in this dress, she thought. Amanda groaned. Paul brought her another Kir Royale. She asked the bartender, “Did you hear that?” The entire planet heard it. Paul just nodded. “I don’t get it,” Amanda complained. “He was so confident at Barney Gree…Romancing the Bean. He even held my hand. What happened?”

Paul said, “What you’ve witnessed tonight, my friend, was the difference between a man jacked on caffeine and a man tanked on vodka.”

“Is this a pearl of bartender wisdom?” she asked.

Paul said, “He had three drinks before you showed up.”

“Did you talk to him at all?”

Paul shrugged. “I listened to him babble.”

“I shouldn’t have made him wait,” she whined. “It’s my fault the date was ruined.”

“Forget him, Amanda. He was just another loser with big plans and a light wallet—that twenty won’t cover his drinks and yours.”

“I’d do better with married fathers of two like you?” she asked, slightly annoyed with Paul’s “you can do better” refrain. Paul seemed taken aback by her comment. She tried to laugh it off. “What’s a girl with radiant beauty to do?” she asked him.

“Irony? You’re hilarious. I love that. Gimme five.” Paul raised his hand. She jabbed him in the ribs with a swizzle stick.

Amanda turned to face the windows. No sign of Chick outside. She drank her cocktail and thought about what could have been. Then she went home, determined to get in touch with Chick in the morning, apologize, and try again. She had to. If she’d scared him off, he’d never come into Romancing the Bean. And if he didn’t bring his friends, the whole plan of using these men as bait would be botched. Amanda tried not to imagine Frank’s reaction to the news of the date, Clarissa’s disappointment in her. She’d have to tell her new friend she’d blown it with Chick. Clarissa probably never blew it. The whole doubledate thing was out the window. Amanda couldn’t believe she’d gone from new social circle to alone and miserable at a bar in five seconds flat.

If only she’d stuck with the skirt.

“He
what?
” demanded Frank. It was early the next morning. Amanda had had a terrible night’s sleep. She was relieved in a way to tell her big sister what happened.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Especially for Chick. You should have seen his face. He was so embarrassed. I hope he’s not afraid of me.”

Frank said, “It never stops with you. The innocent mistakes that I have to clean up or absorb. I’m tired of it, Amanda.”

“I’m sorry, Frank. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“You never do. Get dressed,” said Frank. “We’re going to his place. Maybe if you beg him to forgive you, he’ll come back to Romancing the Bean. His picture is going to be in the
Courier.
People will want to meet him.” Frank paced. “I am furious about this, Amanda. Honestly, I’m surprised how angry I feel. If I were wavering about what I wanted out of life, at least now I know. We have to keep the store afloat. It’s a noble thing to own a business, to work hard and provide a service to the community. Thanks to your bumbling, at least now I know for sure.”

“You’re welcome,” Amanda said.

“Just get dressed,” Frank said.

“Ten minutes.” Amanda knew that not even the most potent chamomile tea could soothe Frank when she was in a righteous snit. So she got dressed (jeans and T-shirt, crewneck sweater, boots, and pea coat).

Frank’s lecture about Amanda’s recklessness continued as they walked the four blocks to Chick’s apartment on Joralemon Street (they’d gotten his address from his entry card—the pile was still under the cash register). Amanda half listened to her sister (“Actions have consequences,” “You don’t think before you act”) while mentally preparing for her speech to Chick. She’d been mulling about it all night: “Chick, I want to try again with you. I sense real potential between us, not just sexual attraction. Giving up on what could be something significant after one weird date is like slamming the door on destiny. We might be meant for each other. And the only way to find out is to give us another try.” Amanda believed every word of it. She’d felt a real connection to him since the minute they first met. Somehow she knew that their fates were intertwined. He had to see her again.

As the sisters turned the corner onto Chick’s block, Frank spotted the flashing lights first. The ambulance was parked in front of Chick’s building. Amanda sucked in her breath on reflex. Frank pulled her sister by the wrist as she rushed toward the siren sound. They got to the police blockade just in time to see Chick’s stiff, blue body on a stretcher being wheeled toward the ambulance. The cops hadn’t even covered his corpse. The indignity of it made Amanda ache from sadness.

Frank called out to the EMS guy, “Suicide?”

As he loaded the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, he yelled back, “No.” Amanda felt a rush of relief. Not that her ego was so big. But the soul of a suicide was doomed to be stuck between this world and the astral plane until its natural life span was over—a horrible, tortured state of limbo.

Frank yelled again. “Accident?”

The EMS guy didn’t answer her. He pulled the doors closed and the ambulance sped off. The sisters watched it disappear down the block.

“I know what happened, Frank,” Amanda said softly.

“I don’t want to hear about your intuition right now,” said Frank.

Amanda shut up as instructed. But she felt it in her heart. As soon as she saw his body, she knew.

Chick’s death was no accident. His life had been taken, and not by God.

D
ead bodies. Seeing one was enough for a lifetime. Frank had seen two before Chick’s. She’d been the one to discover her parents’ lifeless bodies in their apartment. Frank had described that wretched moment to Amanda as a giant squashing sensation. All the emotional security, warmth, and personal history she’d ever known shrank into a small, hard nub of bitterness—like a stale coffee bean—and implanted itself in her brain as a permanent reminder. When she was particularly lonely, Frank could feel the nub throbbing under her left eyebrow.

“You’ve never seen one before,” Frank said to her sister.

“No,” replied Amanda.

If there was a virginity for such things, Amanda’s corpse cherry was now broken. On the night Frank had discovered Mom and Dad, Amanda was on a date. Frank called her number a hundred times until Amanda finally picked up the phone to receive the worst news of her life. Thank God Frank wouldn’t have to make a call this time.

“It’s bad luck,” said Amanda.

“Yes, being dead is just about the worst luck you can have.”

“Not being dead. Seeing the dead.”

“Believe me,” said Frank, “Chick’s luck is a lot worse than ours.”

The sisters beat a swift retreat to RTB. Amanda set herself up behind the counter to grind beans, pound after pound. Frank counted the money in the cash register five times, until she was convinced she’d added correctly. Anything to block out the sight of Chick, stiff and blue, rigored in a kneeling position on that stretcher. Gruesome.

“We have to open the store,” said Frank.

“A man’s dead,” said Amanda.

“I’m very sorry about that. But we have to open the store. We can’t afford to be closed for another three days. We can’t afford to be closed for another three hours. I have no idea what we’re going to say to people when they come in here.” Frank felt slightly guilty for thinking only of herself and Romancing the Bean. Amanda was right: a man was dead. Should they sponsor a funeral service? With what money?

“We have to do something for him,” said Amanda. “I could say a few words, like a eulogy.” She cleared her throat. “Charles Peterson was a kind man, a humble man. He…uh, he had really long legs.”

Frank shook her head. “You don’t know a thing about him.”

“I still feel for him. I still mourn his lost potential,” said Amanda. “You can still care if you don’t know someone well.”

“I’m cursed, Amanda,” said Frank. “Obviously cursed. Everything I try to do fails. And I let myself get hopeful. I let myself believe. Clarissa is going to be terribly upset. And it’s all my fault.”

Amanda said, “How is it your fault? Did you kill Chick?”

“It’s my fault somehow,” said Frank. “Just wait. Somehow it’ll be revealed to be because of me.”

The sisters opened late at seven-thirty. Customers streamed in all morning, asking about Mr. Coffee and when he would make his next appearance. Not wanting to explain what had happened, Frank lied. She promised the customers that the king himself should be walking in any minute. Amanda periodically excused herself to the bathroom for cry-and-dry cycles. In the meantime business was good—the storm before the calm, thought Frank. She tried to call Clarissa a few hundred times. No answer. Matt made his first appearance around noon. Frank told him that Chick was found dead at home.

Matt said, “What happened?”

“To be determined,” Frank said. No one had any hard news about it.

Matt nodded and asked, “Where did you say he was found?”

Amanda and Frank looked at each other. “At his apartment on Joralemon Street. Why do you ask?” asked the red-eyed sister.

“Was he inside the building or outside?”

Frank had no idea. “I have no idea.”

Amanda said, “Matt, had you ever met Chick before? The way you were talking last night, I got a strong feeling that you knew each other. Your body language said
familiarity
to me.”

Frank rolled her eyes. She wondered if Amanda knew what Frank’s body language was saying at that moment.

Matt said, “What the hell is this? Some kind of interrogation? If you ask too many questions in this country, you’re thought to be either crazy or a criminal. I happen to be saner than anyone else here. And I follow my own rules, okay? I know the difference between right and wrong.” Then he grabbed a broom and started sweeping frantically. The sisters thought it best to leave him alone and let him sweep.

The old lady, Lucy, she of the eternal refill, made her daily appearance just after lunch. She was carrying her PowerBook and seemed damned pissed off that she couldn’t get a table to herself. She stormed up to the counter and said, “You are evidence enough that we live in a morally depraved society, where the responsibilities to family and home are ignored by greedy, virtueless people like you. Have you no dignity? That contest was deplorable! And now you’re catering to the sex-obsessed rabble. God will punish you.”

Amanda turned to Frank. “Is she right? Is Chick’s death some kind of divine punishment?”

“Lucy,” said Frank, “I appreciate that you’ve been a regular customer for years. But you can’t expect us to hold a table for you. And we’re not giving free refills anymore.”

Lucy squinted. “Mistresses of Satan!” Then she left without even a cup to go.

Frank yelled after her, “You might find a free table at Moonburst.”

On cue, Benji Morton walked in. He looked decent in jeans, a red barn jacket, and Timberland boots, a copy of the
New York Post
tucked under his arm. “Working on your day off?” Frank asked, trying hard to fake blitheness.

He said, “Killing off your best shot at survival? You might as well give the store away.”

“News travels fast,” Frank whispered. She didn’t want the customers to know the truth.

“When it’s on the cover of the paper, it does,” he said, dropping the
Post
on the counter. “I’m happy to start talking about a lease arrangement for your space anytime.”

Frank gasped. Amanda rushed over to take a look at the cover. The photo was just perfect: Amanda and Chick gazing dreamily at each other. The banner headline:
DYING FOR COFFEE
. The deck: “Coffee King Found Dead—Pretty Proprietress Prime Suspect.”

“That photographer from the
Brooklyn Courier
must have sold the
Post
the pictures he took last night,” said Frank.

Amanda held the paper in her trembling hands. “‘Pretty proprietress’? You’d never know it from that photo.” Amanda’s vanity proved to be deeper than her sorrow.

“It’s a gorgeous shot, Amanda,” oozed Benji. “You couldn’t look more like yourself.”

“My hair is frizzing. My skin looks blotchy. My chin—it’s practically tripled. I wouldn’t go higher than ‘passable proprietress.’”

“You’re worried about your hair?” Frank asked. “Being called a murderer doesn’t compare to your blotchiness? If you hadn’t made that date with Chick, he would have been home watching TV like a normal person, not getting himself killed. And now it’s all over the papers. Don’t you get it? Who’d want to buy coffee from a murderer? You might pour arsenic in the decaf!”

Amanda stared. “Frank, calm down.”

Frank said, “Just shut up about the picture, Amanda. You know you look fine. And even if you didn’t, if you looked, say, puffy, no one would be so rude as to point that out.” Frank snatched the paper and opened it up to read the story.

Amanda snatched it right back. “Vanity and grief exist on parallel planes. That’s how a woman could be devastated by a breakup and still be pleased with the fact that she’s lost ten pounds on the heartbreak diet. It’s the reason Grandma always said, ‘Put on some lipstick; you’ll feel better.’ And if I’m going to be on the cover of a major metropolitan newspaper, there’s no crime in wanting to look good.” Amanda, not a speechmaker, smiled when she finished. “And considering that the article is about me,” she said, “I get to see it first.”

“Fortunately for you, the
Post
is written on a third-grade reading level.” Frank tore it out of her hands.

Suddenly the sisters were tearing the paper to pieces. Benji made a futile attempt to rescue his edition. “Hey, stop it,” he yelled. “Someone owes me thirty-five cents.” Customers watched in confusion.

The doors jingled open. Clarissa stumbled in, cradling about fifty copies of the
Post
in her arms. “Get ready, girls!” she bellowed. “Our ship has come in.”

“The
Titanic?
” Frank asked.

“The
Bounty,
” she replied. The door jingled again, and in walked (catwalked?) the J. Crew model, also carting several dozen copies of the
Post.
“Just put those down in the corner,” Clarissa told Walter. To the slightly askew sisters, she said, “Have you seen the story?”

Amanda said, “We were just ripping through it.”

Benji relieved Clarissa of the pile and deposited all but one copy on the floor. He tucked it under his armpit, turned toward Frank, and said, “I’ll leave you to your ruin.” Which he did, with haste.

Frank grabbed the copy on top. Amanda snagged one, too. They read the story simultaneously. “How did the
Post
get photos so quickly?” Frank wondered.

Clarissa explained: “When I called the reporter to give him the story, I had the foresight to connect him with the
Brooklyn Courier
photographer. You need good art these days to sell newspapers. No photos, no story. I learned that in my media-relations class.”

The sisters barely heard Clarissa’s self-congratulations as they read. Amanda, aloud: “‘According to Paul McCartney, bartender at the Heights Cafe, the couple sat together for only fifteen minutes. Then Mr. Peterson ran out of the restaurant. McCartney told a
Post
reporter that the couple had had a terrible argument. Once Mr. Peterson was gone, Ms. Greenfield swore she’d get her revenge on him for deserting her.’

“This is completely untrue!” Amanda couldn’t believe Paul McCartney would say those things to a reporter.

Frank read: “The cause of death was a blow to the head. Mr. Peterson’s skull was fractured. The medical examiner had also requested blood tests for a toxicology report.”

“I never swore revenge,” Amanda pleaded to the room, still incredulous. “This is libel, right? Slander? Which is it? The entire article is a lie. Poor Paul. He must feel terrible to be misquoted like this. I can sense his pain from here.”

“It’s an exaggeration, of course,” Clarissa said to Amanda. “We needed the sensationalism factor. The story you told me on the phone wasn’t very juicy, so I told the reporter he could embellish.”

Frank was now completely confused. She turned toward Amanda. “I’ve been trying to reach Clarissa all morning.”

“I called her cell phone,” said Amanda.

“You have her cell number?” asked Frank.

“And her pager.”

“I don’t have her pager number."

Amanda smiled. “Maybe that’s because Clarissa doesn’t want you to page her.”

That hurt, thought Frank. “I don’t get it.”

“Clarissa doesn’t want to hear from you,” repeated Amanda.

“I meant, why is this good? Why is this the
Bounty?
Are we going to mutiny? Who’s the captain? You planted the story?” Yet again, Amanda won the popularity contest. And Frank thought Clarissa really liked her.

Before Clarissa could speak, Walter J. Crew said, “The best publicity is for the press to rave. The second best is to have them roar. You’ll see, Francesca. The people will come.” To Clarissa he said, “Where should I sit? In the window? And I’ll need some coffee and cookies.”

“Sit at a central table,” Clarissa instructed him. To the sisters she said, “Since Chick is dead, I appointed Walter, our runner-up, to take over as Mr. Coffee. And he’s exactly right. All press is good. The cover of the
New York Post!
It’s massive! That’s why I arranged for the photos; that’s why I convinced the reporter to do the story. And, just for the record, Francesca, Amanda didn’t know what I’d do with the information she gave me. And I gave my cell and pager numbers to her last night for both of you.”

Frank watched Clarissa and Amanda make eye contact. Was it a lie? Why wasn’t she the one trading secret glances with Clarissa? Frank couldn’t keep the horrible feeling of rejection from flooding her. “What happens when the police come here to arrest Amanda?” she asked.

“It’ll never happen,” Clarissa assured them both. “The police spokesperson is quoted in the story as saying they have no evidence linking Amanda to the murder. In fact”—she approached Frank and pointed to a line of type at the very end of the article—“it says right here that the police are more seriously considering several other suspects. I have no idea who they might be. I don’t really care. Who knows what kind of muck Chick was into? What do any of us know about him? That he was out of the country for the last ten years? Climbing mountains? He could have gotten himself into all kinds of trouble abroad. I’m sorry that Chick is dead. He was a nice man. But the rest of us have to go on living, and that means making a splash for the sake of the store. I’m sure Amanda agrees with me.”

Clarissa was standing close to Frank. The overwhelming scent of vanilla reminded the older sister of her mom baking Santa cookies for the customers at Christmastime. She asked Clarissa, “What reporter would knowingly print a nonstory like this? Isn’t that completely unethical?”

Clarissa smiled, catlike and mischievous. “That depends what your definition of unethical is. Now, Francesca, how about a cup for our new Mr. Coffee?” Clarissa approached a tableful of customers. She said, “Ladies, you don’t mind if our Mr. Coffee of the Week sits with you?” They didn’t. He sat down between two eager patrons. They giggled when he took off his overcoat, revealing a nice set of arms under a starched royal blue button-down shirt.

Clarissa buzzed around the customers, handing out copies of the
Post.
They would gasp, look up at Amanda, and order another mug of coffee. Frank, dumbfounded, asked, “Is this really happening?”