Through the Grinder by Cleo Coyle

he said it that he thought that was sort of silly and phony. He said he liked more down-to-earth women. So, of course, I told him about you.”
    “You what? ” I stopped checking inventory and faced my daughter in shock.
    “I told him he should keep an eye out for someone special around the circle, a woman in a green velvet dress named Clare, because she would be the best connection he’d have a chance at making. Ever.”
    “You said that?”
    “Yeah, Mom. I want you to be happy, you know. And I liked Bruce. So I’m glad you and he connected.”
    “I’m not sure we did, honey. But I’m…I’m very glad you’re glad.”
    “Why do you look so surprised?”
    “Because I thought…” I shook my head and took a break from checking inventory. I went back over to the grinder and processed more beans, enough for three espresso shots.
    “What did you think?” asked Joy. “C’mon, tell me.”
    “I thought you were hoping I’d get back together with your dad.”
    Joy shrugged. “I do…but…”
    “But what?”
    “But I want you to be happy. And…to tell you the truth…well…you remember Mario?”
    “Sure.”
    “You remember how I told Esther I hadn’t really been into him or anything?”
    “Yes.”
    “I lied. I really liked him, Mom, and I was really hurt when he broke it off with me…”
    “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “It was personal, and I was…I don’t know…embarrassed, I guess. I thought it would be easier to pretend he didn’t matter to me. And, you know, after the hurt, I was so angry with him, Mom, I could have killed him.”
    I sighed. “Honey, believe me, I know what you went through.”
    “Exactly…Look, remember when you said you wanted to try dating again? I wasn’t thrilled at first, and I did want you to get back together with Dad, but then I thought how I would feel if you wanted me to get back together with Mario, even after he broke my heart and made me so angry and everything…and well, I wouldn’t be very happy with you if you dumped that on me, you know?”
    “That’s different, Joy. Mario and I don’t have a relationship. You and your father do. So it’s natural you’d want me to get back together with him. But no matter what happens with me and your dad, your dad will always love you. And so will I. That’s not going to change.”
    “Sure, Mom. You’ve told me that, like, a million times. And for a long time I still couldn’t help feeling like the whole world would be right again if only you and Dad remarried…but I’m starting to think that maybe it’s not realistic. And so…I figure if you and Dad aren’t going to get back together…then there’s no reason you shouldn’t be happy. I mean, if any Mom deserves to be happy, it’s you.”
    I reached under the counter—way under, behind the unopened coffee syrups and boxes of wooden stirrers.
    “You know what this calls for?” I announced, motioning for Tucker to come over and join us.
    “What?”
    “Frangelico lattes.”
    Into each of the three cups, I splashed the translucent gold, added a freshly pulled espresso shot, poured in a tsunami of steamed milk, and topped it with a fluffy cloud of foam.
    “She’s underage, you know,” teased Tucker as I handed out the drinks.
    “She’s old enough to vote, drive a car, have a baby, and fall in love. I say she’s old enough for two ounces of hazelnut liqueur. Joy, just pretend we’re in Milan.”
    “Okay, Mom,” said Joy. She lifted her cup. “C’ent anni, mama mia.”
    “C’ent anni, mia fia.”
    “One hundred years,” said Tucker.
    And we all drank.
    I sighed, tasting the sweet hazelnut flavor of the Frangelico, the glowing heat of its alcohol, the earthiness of the espresso, and the soft, milky froth of the steamed milk.
    I hated myself for speculating, but I couldn’t help wondering if Bruce Bowman could possibly taste this satisfying.
    “Uh-oh,” said Tucker.
    Looking up from my pathetic, unattainable