Once Upon a Grind by Cleo Coyle Page B

hail a cab. I pulled it down. The cool night air felt refreshingly good against my flushed face, and I took a deep breath of it.
    â€œHow about we stretch our legs instead? I think we could both use a moment’s peace after that pressure cooker upstairs . . . and maybe a snack?”
    â€œGreat idea, but you’ll have to choose the restaurant. My stomping ground was the West Side, not Upper East. The only restaurant I’ve heard of around here is Babka’s.”
    My mouth watered at the mere mention of that legendary eatery—a cozy, comfort-food paradise with lines around the block at its adjacent bakery.
    â€œWhile Babka’s food would be amazing”—I tapped my watch—“we’ll never get a table at this hour. That’s true of most of the places around here.”
    â€œThen let’s take a walk and see what comes.”
    â€œPromise me one thing,” I said as Quinn looped his arm around my waist. “Wherever we end up, let’s sit in a back booth.”
    â€œYou want privacy, eh?”
    The man’s thrilled little smile made me realize he’d gotten the wrong impression about my request. It wasn’t for intimacy. My festival costume might have been a turn-on for Quinn, but to the general public, I would still look like Eva Braun at a
biergarten
.

T WENTY - FIVE

    W E headed downtown and toward the river, away from Park Avenue’s sedate royal forest of grand stone towers, and toward the “lesser” avenues of neon lights and bustling life.
    â€œSo how much did you overhear tonight?” Mike asked.
    â€œExcuse me?” I snuggled closer for warmth—and camouflage.
    The chic locals we passed smiled at me as if I were making a quaint Yorkville fashion statement. Cold as I was, however, I knew covering my peasant dress with Dalecki’s floor-length red cape would have pushed their passing glances into disapproving “What a kook!” stares, so I kept the cape under my arm and myself under Mike’s.
    â€œYou walked in on us while we were arguing,” Mike pressed. “I think you overheard more than you’re letting on.”
    â€œMaybe a little . . .”
    â€œOr maybe a lot?”
    â€œWell, I
did
happen to hear her refer to me as a pastry pusher. What do you think that means?”
    â€œMy fashion plate ex-wife doesn’t eat carbs. In her world, Cosi, you’re worse than a drug dealer.”
    â€œI see. What if I started giving out valium and diet pills with my espressos? Would I be in like Flynn with her pack?”
    â€œAbsolutely. The fashion-forward crowd adores pharmaceuticals. It’s brownies and scones that scare them silly.”
    â€œThat’s it then. The next time I see that redheaded vampire, I won’t bring a silver cross, I’ll wave a chocolate chip cookie.”
    I was glad to get a smile out of Quinn, but the underlying sentiment was no laughing matter: the reigning royalty of Fashionista Land loved making women believe in order to feel superior they (ironically) needed to be reduced. In their world, any female over size 6 should be banished to “the racks.”
    At my age, it was easy to dismiss their sneering attitudes with a mental eye roll. What I couldn’t forgive was their influence on young women. Anorexia, bulimia, diet pills, plastic surgery—I’d seen enough of it in this town to want to torch any billboard showing a model who looked like she’d stepped out of Auschwitz.
    â€œYou know,” Quinn confessed, “when I was a young, dumb rookie, Leila’s ‘poor me’ sobbing act worked like a charm. Tonight I just wanted to throttle her.”
    â€œFor Leila, old habits die hard.”
    â€œWell, they’re wearing thin on me.”
    â€œSpeaking of Leila’s habits, do you remember that phone conversation we had this morning when you told me about your ex-wife’s flaky behavior, and you