FIFTEEN

A short time later, my state of mind was the same, though the actual state had changed.

After inching through the Lincoln Tunnel, we were back in New York, and (immediately) stuck in standstill traffic. That was when the argument began. From the sound of it, this discussion had started before I’d entered the picture.

“Okay, Mother,” Matt said, “let’s get this over with. Have you finally decided where we’re going to stash Clare? And please don’t dismiss my idea.”

Madame let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t want Clare staying in a strange place. Remember what our Stanford professor said about finding keys to unlocking her memories? Don’t you think we’re better off finding them if she stays in a familiar place?”

“With familiar people,” Matt added.

“Precisely.”

“And that is precisely where the police will look for her,” Matt said. “I didn’t drive all the way to New Jersey to switch vehicles just to get caught now. My plan is better.”

Madame pursed her lips. “I don’t know—”

“Well, I do. The Hamptons house is perfect. Far from the city, but not too far. The summer people are long gone, so things will be quiet out there. And the address is untraceable to Clare. Even though Breanne left me the place as part of our divorce settlement, her name is still on the books as the owner.”

“Wait a minute!” I cried. “Are you telling me that since we split, you managed to get married to someone named Breanne, break the poor woman’s heart, get a second divorce, and end up with a place in the Hamptons?”

“It’s not like that,” he said.

“What’s it like, then? Does Joy have any half sisters or brothers you’re neglecting to tell me about? And likely neglecting!”

Gaze straight ahead, Matt remained stoically silent.

“Just forget about stashing me in your latest ex-wife’s former love nest,” I declared. “That is just twelve degrees of creepy.”

“Everybody, please calm down,” Madame insisted.

Suddenly, I realized that I was the only one who wasn’t calm. Matteo refused to argue—the natural-born hothead wasn’t even putting up a defense or blaming someone else for his misfortunes.

Hmmm . . . maybe he has changed. But that thought was immediately countered by another. Not if he broke his marriage vows again, he didn’t!

As the crosstown traffic began to move, Madame picked up the discussion where it left off.

“You still think DC is a bad idea?” she asked. “I’m sure Clare would love to be reunited with her daughter—”

“And the Feds would love to grab her there,” Matt returned. “Georgetown is practically the DOJ’s rumpus room.”

“I want to see my daughter,” I said.

“You will,” Madame assured me, patting my hand. “But you’ll have to be patient for your own good.”

“And Joy’s,” Matt added. “Helping you escape the way we did is bound to stir up trouble.”

“So Joy is in Washington?” I asked. “Why? Does she work for the government?”

“No, she works for us,” Madame said, “managing our second shop, the Village Blend, DC.”

“There’s a second shop? Really?”

“It was your idea,” Matt said.

I turned to Madame. “I’m surprised you agreed, given your long-standing aversion to franchises.”

“Yes, well . . .” Madame raised an eyebrow. “Let’s just say there were extenuating circumstances. Anyway, you’ll see Joy as soon as we have you settled somewhere safe. The question is where—”

“Clare can stay with me,” Esther offered.

“Or me,” Mr. Dante said. “I have two rooms I use for studio space, both with views of the High Line. I can move my paints and canvases out of one of them, easy.”

I was genuinely touched. “Thank you both for the offers, but I can’t accept—”

“Clare’s right,” Matt said. “She can’t stay with any of you for the same reason she can’t stay above the coffeehouse, or at my warehouse in Brooklyn, or in my mother’s Fifth Avenue apartment. The NYPD and you-know-who will surely sniff her out. I say the Hamptons, but I’m outvoted by a committee of one—”

As Matt paused to blow the horn at a driver about to cut him off, I asked who you-know-who was. Everyone fell silent. Matt glanced into the rearview mirror, but not at me. He made eye contact with his mother.

“You don’t need to know that right now, dear,” Madame said carefully.

“Fine.” I sat back and sighed. My life was a puzzle with far too many pieces missing.

Matt’s focus returned to the road. “Okay, then, Mother, while you’re making a decision about where we should hide Clare, where am I supposed to take us?”

“To the Parkview Palace, please.”

It was a good thing the traffic ahead of us came to a halt again, because Matt’s head snapped in Madame’s direction, his expression incredulous.

“Are you crazy? You’re going to book Clare a hotel room?”

“No. We’ll decide where to hide Clare later. Right now I’m taking her to the Gotham Suite. It’s imperative that I retrieve something, and while I’m there, I want Clare to see the suite, too.”

Matt’s face remained baffled—an expression I was getting used to.

“It’s the last place she visited before she disappeared,” Madame explained. “Seeing it again might jar her memory.”

“Can’t it wait for a day or two?” Matt countered. “Someone might identify her.”

“She’s wearing a very good disguise,” Madame argued. “And this is the best time to do it, before the police really start looking for her.”

“And is there another reason we’re returning to the scene of the crime,” Matt asked suspiciously, “besides jarring Clare’s memory, that is?”

“Let’s just say I know something about that suite the police may not.”

“How are you going to get in?” Matt pressed.

“I have a key to the private elevator. And because it’s my year to chair the Gotham Ladies’ Charity Committee, I also have a key to the Gotham Suite.”

“You’ll be spotted. Hotels have security cameras, you know.”

“Cameras won’t be an issue.”

Madame’s absolute certainty drew a puzzled glance from Matt.

“Why wouldn’t there be cameras?” he pressed.

“There were cameras once at the Parkview. But not any longer.”

“I don’t know . . .” Matt drummed the steering wheel. “Are you sure bringing Clare is wise . . . I mean, going up to that suite in that elevator, after that thing happened with Annette?”

“Quit talking around me,” I said. “Between the headlines I saw on the street and the police detectives’ questions, I know everything that happened.”

“I doubt that,” Matt said.

“Yes, perhaps not everything,” Madame agreed.

I sat back, silently admitting they were right. This trauma I supposedly experienced—whatever it was—remained buried in the same black hole as my other memories.

“All right, then,” I said, facing Madame. “What happened that night? What am I missing, other than the last fifteen years of my life?”

With a deep breath, Madame began to tell me.