Once Upon a Grind (6 page)

A
FTER
some fast walking, we came to a fork in the road. Just like my dream, the trail split into two paths. Each curved out of sight.

“So? Which way does your ‘mother's intuition' tell you to go now?”

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure those dream images. I saw the giant oak tree, and the huge lighted sign hanging on its trunk.

“The blinking traffic sign was on a downward grade,” I said, opening my eyes. “So let's follow the descending path.”

“Did you say something about a
blinking
traffic
sign? In the
woods
?”

Leading with the flashlight, I hurried down the trail.

“Clare?”

I faced him. “I had a dream, okay?”

“Last night?”

“No, I nodded off in your mother's tent. I didn't tell you because I
know
it's not rational. But I can't get it out of my mind, and—”

“Before you had this dream, did you drink my coffee?”

“Excuse me, but this is no time to discuss the quality of your—”

“Answer me, Clare! Did you
drink the coffee
in the gypsy's tent?”

“Yes! I had two cups and the dream came after that. I must have dozed off because—”

“You didn't doze off. And you didn't have a dream. What you experienced was a vision.”

I studied Matt's face. “You're serious, aren't you?”

He nodded, and I realized he looked more than serious. He looked
excited
. “Are you telling me those so-called ‘magic' beans you brought back from Africa really are—”

“The beans don't work on everyone. In Ethiopia, the village shaman told me the drinker must have a ‘special spirit'—essentially a natural gift of insight. Let's just say she convinced me.”

“How?”

“Trust me, Clare. After what I witnessed, I became a believer.”

“A believer in
what
exactly?”

“In the coffee beans' ability to . . .” He looked away. “I know it sounds crazy, but I sent a sample to a friend. He's a chemist—and a coffee aficionado. I want to know what properties in these beans help certain people read . . .”

“Read the
future
? Is that what you're trying to say?”

“
Now
do you understand why I was trying to get you into that fortune-telling tent?”

“No. I do not understand. Mike's kids didn't go missing until the end of the day. What kind of future were you hoping I'd see?”

“Yours.” Matt shifted from one pointy boot to the other. “My mother and I were both hoping the fortune-telling session would help you make an important decision . . .”

My stomach clenched.
They couldn't know about Mike's question. I was keeping it from them.
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

It was a weak lie, and Matt knew it. “Come on, Clare.”

Oh, for heaven's sake.
“How did you find out?” I demanded. “Did Tucker tell you?”

“That's not important. What
is
important is your peace of mind.”

“Listen,
now
is not the time to discuss my future!” I walked away.

He gently grabbed my arm. “You asked me to be a good partner. I failed at that in marriage, but I won't in business—or as a friend. After we know the kids are safe, you and I—and mother, if you like—will sit down and help you figure out what to do, okay?”

I took a deep breath. “I just hope those kids
are
safe.”

“What makes you think they aren't? Talk to me. After you drank the coffee, what did you see?”

I told him my vision, but not from the beginning. It was the
end
of the vision that disturbed me most.

“I remembered being very cold. Not so much temperature as temperament. It was a black, empty cold, the kind that chills you from the inside out. And there was a presence . . .”

“What does that mean?”

“It was a feeling at first and then I saw this black specter . . .” I described how it first appeared human and then transformed, twisting into a beastly thing.

“You saw Death in the woods?”

“Not Death. Someone who has no problem using it.
Now
do you see why I'm so desperate to find Mike's kids?”

Matt grimaced and his tone changed. “Tell me more about your vision. You said something about a traffic sign?”

“A giant oak tree was blocking my path. A sign hung on it with blinking bulbs. The lights spelled out
Bridge Detour
.”

Matt pulled out his smartphone. “Let's try something . . .”

“What are you doing?”

He tapped the phone's screen a few times and showed it to me. “These are photos and descriptions of all the bridges in Central Park. Scroll through them and tell me if anything looks familiar.”

“Balcony Bridge at West Side Drive—
No
.” I continued down the list. “Bow Bridge across the Lake; Bridge Number Twenty-four across the Bridle Path; Gapstow Bridge across the Pond at Fifty-ninth Street; Oak Bridge across Bank Rock Bay—”

“Stop,” said Matt.

“What?”

“Didn't you tell me the
Bridge Detour
sign in your vision was attached to—”

“An oak tree! Matt, I remember now: This morning Jeremy said something about showing Molly the ducks at Oak Bridge! Where is it? How far?”

He grabbed back the smartphone, tapped up a map. “We're very close. Look—”

“It's just ahead!” I bolted down the trail.

“Slow down!” Matt yelled. “Don't make me look for you, too!”

I picked up my pace instead (which may have been a tad reckless). Hitting a patch of wet leaves, I slipped, skinning an elbow as I fell.

Footsteps sounded behind me. Then a hand appeared in front of my face.

“Really, Clare, hasn't your boyfriend taught you the value of
backup
?”

With a sigh, I took Matt's hand and hauled myself up. “I'm just so worried about them.”

“I know. Let's go . . .”

Together we continued along the trail until the Ramble's famous Arch appeared. Flanked by massive boulders, this narrow stone bower reminded me of a giant keyhole, and I felt like a shrunken, shivering Alice as we passed through—until I saw another breadcrumb (so to speak).

“A hair ribbon!”

I moved the flashlight's beam over the object. The ribbon looked like Molly's, except the sunny yellow color was half-buried in blackness.

The sight of that innocent little thing soiled and ground into the dirt sent a deathlike chill through me, and I took off again.

“Clare!”

“Come on!” I shouted, unable to stop myself.

By now, I could see a glimmer in the distance—lamplight reflecting on undulating waves. I jogged toward the light until I reached a small section of Central Park's Lake.

The landmark Oak Bridge spanned the inlet. Flanked by beaux-arts lampposts, the beautifully restored bridge had been carrying people safely across the brackish water for well over a century.

In the middle of its wooden deck, I spied a boy and a girl in a pool of golden light, leaning against its cast-iron railings.

“Molly! Jeremy!”

With a shriek of joy and relief, I ran to them.

M
OLLY
threw herself into my arms.

She's crying
, I realized,
and not tears of joy . . .

“We tried to find Annie!” she said between heartrending sobs. “Someone told us they saw the Pink Princess in the Ramble, but when we got here—”

“Penny ran away, Aunt Clare,” Jeremy said in an emotionless tone (not unlike his father's).

“She took off after a squirrel,” Molly added through tears. “The leash slipped out of my hand!”

Molly wiped her nose with a tissue she pulled from her pocket.

I noticed something shiny coming out with it—a chain of silver and gold links with a broken clasp. I tucked the broken necklace back into her pocket and continued to comfort the inconsolable girl.

“It's my fault, Aunt Clare,” Molly wailed. “Now Penny is lost!”

Jeremy squeezed her shoulder. “Don't cry, Mol. I told you I'd find Penny, and I will.”

By now, Matt had caught up with us and was on the phone with Samantha Peel. In record time, an electric buggy appeared on the far side of the Oak Bridge.

Samantha rode in back with a fuming Leila Quinn. Up front, a police officer sat behind the wheel next to the festival's legal advisor.

I sighed.
Has our society turned so litigious we need lawyers to oversee the reunion of lost kids with their mothers?

The buggy rolled to a halt and Leila jumped out. No greeting, no thanks. The woman simply pushed me aside and grabbed Jeremy's arm.

“What were you thinking?!” she yelled, shaking the boy. “I was worried sick—”

“Leila, stop!” I dived in, pulling the woman off her son. “Penny got lost. They've been searching for the dog ever since.”

Leila's eyes flashed. For a second, I thought she was going to shake me, too—she even balled her fist.

Oh, go ahead
,
I thought, balling my own.
Give me a reason.

It was eleven-year-old Molly who acted like the grown-up. “Stop fighting!” she shouted. “We have to find Penny!”

The little girl's eyes filled with tears, and Leila's maternal instincts finally kicked in. “This policeman will find your dog,” she cooed.

The officer's expression was doubtful, and Molly—a detective's daughter—immediately picked up his negative vibe.

“We have to find Penny
ourselves
!” she told her mother in a firm voice.

“We can't. It's late and you're both going home.”

While Molly and her mother argued, the festival's attorney climbed out of the electric buggy, resplendent in casual-Saturday lawyer wear—navy blue sports coat, open-necked shirt, nicely pressed jeans, and highly polished loafers. To my surprise, he didn't approach Leila. Instead, he pulled Matt and me aside.

In his late forties, Harrison Van Loon (pronounced “Van Loan,” or so he said at last week's vendors' planning meeting) lived on the leaner side of trim with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, a fashionably close-cropped beard, and horn-rimmed glasses through which his intense hazel green eyes were (unfortunately) studying Matt and me with open suspicion.

“From your costumes I'm guessing you're festival staff?” The toothy smile looked friendly, but the tone of voice was disturbingly serious.

I gave him our names, and he pointed at Matt.

“Allegro? You're the one Samantha signed up this morning, aren't you? I told Sam you should have been vetted first. Everyone who works around children has to be vetted. We don't want the festival to be exposed to legal action . . .”

This
I knew from the aforementioned vendors' meeting, where Van Loon had handed out a long list of
do's
and
don'ts
in dealing with the public (emphasis on the
don'ts
) . . .

Do be courteous;
don't
be argumentative;

Do smile at the children;
don't
touch the children;

Do offer children food;
don't
hand the children food;

Do hand it first to a parent or caregiver
in loco parentis
 . . .
et cetera, et cetera
,
ad nauseam.

“Look, I signed a bunch of papers,” Matt told the lawyer. “I followed your rules. I didn't know you wanted DNA samples on top of it all—”

“There wasn't time for formalities,” I hastily added. “Samantha was in a bind and Matt volunteered to help out. You should be thanking him.”

“You say you
found
these kids?”

“We didn't
say
we found them. We
found
them.” Matt pointed to the children. “Ask them.”

He glanced at Molly and Jeremy, who were continuing to argue with their mother. When he turned back, his suspicious lawyer gaze was no longer on Matt. Now he was focused on me.

“Exactly how do
you
know these children, Ms. Cosi?”

“Through their father, an NYPD police detective on assignment with the Justice Department in Washington.”

Van Loon continued to frown down at me until Matt pointedly added—

“Clare is in a
relationship
with the man.”

“Oh, I see . . .” Van Loon's stiff posture instantly relaxed. “I was trying to cognize why I witnessed the hostility toward Ms. Cosi from the children's mother. But now that you've explained the
personal
situation . . .” He shook his head and actually broke into a smile before suppressing it.

Oh, brother.
Before I could give him something else to
cognize
, he lowered his voice.

“Let me ask you something. Did the children tell either of you how they got here? I mean, did anyone—especially members of our festival staff—
lure
them into the woods?”

“No, nothing like that . . .”

As I explained how the search began first for the Pink Princess, and then the lost dog, Van Loon began patting his many pockets. Finally, he came up with an engraved silver case, out of which he produced two cards with little loons on them (the feathered kind).

“For the record, I may have to contact you two again, after I speak with the kids and get
their side
of tonight's events.”

Gritting my teeth, I reminded myself that lawyers—like cops—had to get everyone's side of the story. It was the naked condescension I could have done without.

Van Loon handed over his cards. “It's merely a formality. We want to avoid exposure, and protect the festival from legal action. I have your contact info, now you have mine, and—”

Jeremy's strong voice interrupted the lawyer. “No way, Mom. We're not leaving the park without Penny.”

With a frosty look, Leila tried to silence her son. It didn't work.

“I told Molly I would find Penny and I'm going to do it,” he declared, his expression displaying a determination beyond his years.
Like Mike
, I thought again, and almost smiled—
almost
because the kids' distress over their lost dog was heartrending, and their mother's attitude wasn't helping.

I pushed past the lawyer and stepped up to Molly.

“We'll find Penny,” I promised her. “Matt and I will bring her home tonight.”

My ex shot me a dubious look. But Molly's face brightened, and that was all I cared about.

“Can you really find her, Aunt Clare?”

I squeezed Molly's hand. “I'll do my best.”

“If you can't find Penny,
I'm
coming back, first thing tomorrow,” Jeremy declared.

Leila opened her mouth to speak—and for once thought better of it.

Samantha Peel never said a word during the encounter. She sat in uncomfortable silence, hands in her leopard print lap, obsessively playing with one of her chunky rings while Leila and the kids climbed aboard the cramped buggy.

Is Sam embarrassed by all this?
I wondered. The woman was a socialite who traveled in elite circles. Charity balls, celebrity fund-raisers, black-tie galas—these were the tent poles of her year. I'd served coffee and croissants in Manhattan long enough to know how her species acted (and reacted). For someone like Sam, appearances were everything.

Did she think the story of two lost kids would hit the papers? I couldn't imagine why. They weren't lost for very long. It all seemed like very small potatoes.

Oh, well
, one glass of imported vino, and Samantha Peel would forget all about this little hiccup in an otherwise smoothly run event. And Harry Van Loon, attorney-at-law, would be relieved that Mike's ex-wife had no grounds to sue the festival.

“Excuse me, folks . . .” The policeman sidled up to us. “The mother gave us a description of the dog. I'll notify Animal Control to look out for the collie in and around the park, but . . .”

Matt sighed. “Don't get our hopes up?”

The cop shrugged his shoulders. “Give it your best shot, your royal highness, but don't stay in Central Park too long. In that getup, you never know what kind of trouble will come your way.”