SEVEN

DETECTIVE Quinn kept his promise, though it took him until almost nine that evening.

Blanche spied his broad-shouldered form through the Village Blend’s rain-streaked windows. Face twisted into a scowl, Quinn strode across Hudson looking as cold, wet, and battered as a piece of storm-tossed driftwood.

Blanche met the poor man at the door, helped him off with his trench coat, and hustled him into a warm chair near the brick hearth.

Esther was there in minutes with a steeping pot of a beautiful single-origin coffee from El Salvador with notes of brown sugar, ripe strawberry, and raisins. Matt had sourced it from a fourth-generation family-owned finca called La Providencia (providence). Clare had roasted it right before she disappeared; and since Blanche considered her return an act of providence, she prayed for just a little bit more as she gently pressed the pot’s plunger and poured two generous cups. Quinn downed half of his before he declared—

“There’s not a damn thing I can do.”

“But you’ve been out of touch for hours.”

“Believe me, I tried. I forced that face-to-face with the chief of detectives. He sent two female detectives to interview Clare. The questioning was done in front of Lorca, who refused to allow me in the room. The official line is that Clare remembers nothing about the night Annette Brewster was abducted, and Lorca is signing off on her memory impairment, which makes her useless as a witness.”

Quinn shook his head. “I tried to circumvent the chief, insist we challenge Lorca’s assessment and influence on Clare. The commissioner refused to consider it. After pointing out my obvious conflict of interest, he threw me out of his office. Then I went to the district attorney’s office and got stonewalled. An assistant DA who works closely with my OD Squad tried to help. He confided the backroom reality. Lorca’s been a valuable party fund-raiser through his celebrity connections, and there’s no way the DA, the mayor, or his appointed police commissioner will cross the man. So that’s it.”

“What do you mean?”

“From my end of the puppet show, it’s over. I’m out of strings to pull. In order to challenge Lorca, I’ll have to hire an outside legal firm and take it through the courts.”

“Won’t that take forever? Weeks or even months? Meanwhile, Clare will be upstate, alienated from all of us, a drugged ‘subject’ of Lorca’s next bestseller.”

Quinn’s body sagged. “Maybe it’s been too long a day, but I can’t help wondering . . .”

“What? Tell me.”

He stared into his empty cup. “What if this ‘treatment’ is what’s best for Clare? What if it’s what she really wants?”

“Oh, please!” Blanche waved her hand. “That’s your exhaustion talking.” She picked up the pot and poured him a refill. “I know you, Michael. You won’t give up.”

“It’s not a matter of giving up. We have to face reality.” Quinn glanced away, his bloodshot eyes reflecting the rain-streaked windows.

“When I first saw Clare in that hospital room, and she didn’t remember me, I told myself it would be okay. That even if her memories never came back, I would still have a chance to get her back, make her fall in love with me again. I mean, she’s still Clare, right?”

He sampled his second cup. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. You’re probably hoping Clare will get back together with your son—”

“That’s not true,” Blanche assured him, but he looked so skeptical, she had to admit—

“All right, perhaps it was true once, but not anymore.”

“And why would that be?”

“Because I was the cause of Clare’s marital misery.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“No, it’s true.”

Never in her life had Blanche thought she’d reveal this secret to another soul, least of all Michael Quinn. But these were extraordinary circumstances, and he not only deserved to know; he needed to.

“When I first met Clare, she was nineteen and pregnant with my son’s child. She was also on her own. Her mother had abandoned her years before. Her grandmother, who raised her, had just passed away. My son wasn’t much older than Clare, and far less mature, yet I insisted he propose marriage.”

“You mean it wasn’t his idea?”

“Matteo said he didn’t want to be saddled with a wife and child, but I told him to marry Clare anyway. I suggested that if he truly needed time to sow more wild oats before settling down to a faithful union, then he should do so on his travels. ‘If you must have flings, have them while you’re out of the country, sourcing coffee,’ I said. ‘But marry Clare now, support your daughter, and you will always have a solid home to come back to. You may not appreciate that as a young man, but I promise you will one day.’ I told him, as long as he never let Clare know about his ‘global affairs,’ I would look the other way.”

Blanche reluctantly lifted her gaze. Quinn’s expression remained unreadable.

“I convinced him for Clare,” she said, “and for my granddaughter. I wanted the chance to take care of her and baby Joy. After the wedding, I happily taught Clare my business. Matt had no interest in staying put to run the Village Blend. This coffeehouse has become a landmark in the community, a legacy, a part of Village history. Too many New York businesses have gone the way of the dodo. I didn’t want to see that happen to my beloved coffeehouse. I needed to pass it on to someone who would want—as much as I did—to keep the lights on, the fire burning, and the coffee brewing. Clare became that someone. So, I suppose, the unvarnished truth is that I pushed my son into marriage for my own sake, as much as Clare’s and Joy’s.”

Quinn could no longer hide his disapproval. “You gave your son permission to cheat?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds shameful. And I suppose it was, if you look at my decision from a cool, judgmental distance. But you must understand, all those years ago, I was beside myself with worry. The situation felt dire, and it was the best solution I could muster for us all.”

She paused to meet Quinn’s gaze. “You know, Clare was as stubborn and headstrong then as she is now. She was determined to have her baby. If Matt didn’t marry her, she was going back to Pennsylvania, and I couldn’t bear to see her leave like that, pregnant and alone. Honestly, I held out hope that my son would grow into his roles as father and husband, that he would mature over time and eventually want to be faithful to Clare.”

Blanche sighed. “Unfortunately, my son’s nature is what it is. He’s not content to stay in one place—or share himself with only one woman. Clare, on the other hand, will always want an anchored home and a faithful partner.”

To Quinn’s obvious surprise, Blanche took his hand in both of hers.

“Michael, you are that partner for Clare. Your steadiness gives her strength. And her goodness lifts your spirit. I’ve seen the understanding, admiration—and passion—in the silent glances between you. It reminds me of the love I once felt for Matt’s late father. I’ve never come across two people more right for each other.”

Quinn swallowed hard. “I can’t bear the thought of losing her. But it seems so hopeless.”

Blanche patted his hand and released it. “Go home and get some rest. It’s my turn to take over.”

“What are you going to do?”

She threw him a wink. “This old woman may not live in a shoe, but she knows how to pull strings, too.”