THIRTY-SEVEN
QUINN followed Madame up the carpeted staircase and into the master bedroom. It was Clare’s favorite room in the duplex.
Back when Madame managed the Village Blend, she lived in this apartment. Then she married importer Pierre Dubois and moved out, but kept this duplex as a guest residence. Using a bit of Pierre’s money, she redecorated the place with (in Clare’s words) her “romantic setting” on high.
“It’s like a little piece of Paris tucked into a West Village Federal-style walk-up . . .” What Clare loved even more than the French doors, window boxes, marble bath, and antiques were the treasures on the walls.
Throughout the duplex, priceless original paintings, large and small, covered every inch of free space. There were sketches, too, including framed doodles on napkins and scraps of paper—all from artists who’d frequented this landmark coffeehouse.
Most were unknown to Quinn, but a few were names he recognized: Andy Warhol, Basquiat, even Edward Hopper (one of Quinn’s favorites), who’d sketched the Village Blend at a café table three floors below.
Given her fine-arts studies, Clare was the perfect curator of this eclectic collection. She not only chose older works to rotate into the public shop, but invited new artists to display—and, like Dante, if they wanted to sell their art to admiring customers, right off the Village Blend’s walls, even better.
“I’ll just be a moment,” Madame promised, moving toward the dresser.
“That’s fine,” Quinn said, lingering in the doorway.
The hearth was dark tonight, the room drafty. The cold emptiness seemed appropriate without Clare here.
He could almost see her stretched out between her cats on the four-poster bed. She always looked so beautiful sleeping in the firelight. As that haunting image came back to him, so did the memory of the last time they’d made love . . .
“DON’T panic,” Quinn whispered into her soft chestnut hair. “It’s only your fiancé—”
He’d been on the job downtown until the wee hours, supervising a coordinated sting operation with the DEA. Using the keys she gave him, he let himself into her apartment. Then he slipped into bed, as he often did when he worked this late.
Brushing aside her hair, he planted kisses on her neck while his strong hands gently caressed her body. She moaned, still groggy, then turned, surprising him by hungrily fastening her mouth to his, uncaring that his five-o’clock stubble sanded her cheeks and chin.
She once said of all the tastes she’d savored and defined in her life, his was still the most powerfully unique. Words failed her in describing the “mysterious sensory chemistry” of his kiss—
“There is nothing like the taste of you, Mike Quinn.”
UNLIKE Clare, he couldn’t stop remembering their time together. If her condition didn’t change, those sweet memories would become a bitter curse. He’d feel more alone than ever.
“Here it is . . .” Madame moved toward him with a familiar white box.
He knew what was inside. Opening the lid, he lifted out the perfect ice-blue diamond. “I love the color,” Clare had told him. “It reminds me of your eyes, and all the goodness I see there.”
Around the center, a circle of smaller coffee diamonds glowed with warmth, despite the shadowy chill in the room. These little gems, she said, were like all the special people in her life. She said she loved Quinn all the more because he understood and honored the relationships she treasured. They’re part of who I am.
“The ring is hers, of course,” Madame said. “But I don’t think you should give it back until she’s ready.”
Quinn forced the question. “Do you think she’ll ever be ready?”
Lifting her wrinkled hand, she touched his cheek. “We have to think so, don’t we, Michael? Now, go find the woman you love, and do all you can to bring our Clare back to us.”