Holiday Grind by Cleo Coyle

invigorating, it’s like a song I never tire of hearing; the sight of an old friend stepping again and again through my front door . . .
    “Getting back to last night,” Matt said as he brought the demitasse to his lips. “Did your guard dog ever call you back? Or are you frosted at him for ignoring you?”
    “Mike dropped by after work. And I’m not frosted at him. There was a very good reason he didn’t come to the crime scene.”
    “Another woman?”
    Spare me. “No. As I recall, that was typically your reason for not returning my calls. But only when we were married.”
    Matt grunted. We’d run our wagon wheels over this road so often, the grooves reached the earth’s mantle.
    “And how’s Breanne?” I asked after a long, awkward silence.
    “Breanne is . . .” Matt looked into his cooling cup, where the exquisite crema was slowly beginning to dissipate. “The same as she ever was.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Matt shrugged. “You know how she gets.”
    “What exactly are you two fighting about?”
    “At the moment?” Matt shifted on his bar stool. “She’s obsessed with micromanaging her magazine’s holiday party: all the details, the food, the music, the guest list—”
    “Guest list? I thought a company party was supposed to be for the employees? You know, to pat them on the back for a job well done over the past year.”
    “Well, that’s your version. Breanne sees it as a networking opportunity for Trend . She’s invited name designers, press people, celebrities—she’s got her staff working after hours on an ‘exclusive’ holiday issue for the attendees. Photographers will be there to capture every Technicolor moment. She’s determined to garner national buzz.”
    “I see. And how do you fit into all this?”
    “I don’t. And frankly, Clare, I’m sick of being ignored by my own bride. I mean, I come home after a two-week tour of Central American coffee farms and what do I get? The cold shoulder. She comes to bed after I’m asleep, gets up before I’m awake—”
    No sex, in other words. I arched an eyebrow. For Matt, that was tantamount to no food or water.
    “I’m just going to stay out of her way till this holiday crap blows over. But it really pisses me off. I cleared my travel schedule for December. I thought we were going to celebrate a nice, romantic Christmas together. Now I can’t wait until January second.”
    Great , I thought, another bah-humbug refrain . “Well, you shouldn’t be so eager to see the holidays come and go. Our daughter’s flying all the way from Paris to spend time with us.”
    “Joy’s coming?”
    I nodded. “She called yesterday morning—morning my time, I should say, with Paris six hours ahead. She asked for two weeks off to celebrate the holidays with us. She says the restaurant’s sure to be busy, but she’s owed a lot of time off and her bosses are willing to give it to her.”
    Matt’s expression lightened. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week. You know, you’re right, Clare, I should focus on our daughter . . .” He reached out and took my hand. “You want some company tonight? I mean, you’re probably still upset about Alf and everything.”
    “I’m fine. I don’t need company.” I gently reclaimed my appendage. “Listen, can I give you some advice?”
    Matt exhaled. Loudly.
    “Breanne’s just stressed right now. A combative attitude from you is not going to help the situation. Try to be patient with her. And while you’re waiting for her workload to lessen, don’t go looking for love in all the wrong places.”
    Matt glanced away. “Whatever.”
    It was then I noticed his neglected espresso. Its thick, golden foam was shrinking and collapsing, breaking up into ugly patches that revealed the black pool beneath.
    “Your drink’s gone cold,” I told him.
    Matt should have known better. Espresso was a tricky commodity. Once the harmony of the crema was lost, the experience could turn