FIFTY-SIX

AS Mike Quinn shared coffee with Clare, the rhythm of their relationship resumed so beautifully, it almost felt like a normal morning, until—

“Hey, you two, what’s going on?” Matt strode into the kitchen in jeans and a T-shirt, bluntly asking, “Is she cured?”

“No,” Clare returned without blinking an eye, “but that slab of bacon you bought is. Why don’t you tactlessly ask it?”

As Quinn suppressed a laugh, Matt put up defensive hands. “I just thought with the pair of you playing footsie down here, something might have, you know, been kicked loose.”

Quinn wanted to kick him. “Dial it down, Allegro. We’re getting to know each other again.”

With a shrug, Matt retreated to the kitchen counter, where he began futzing with one of his high-end appliances. “Just tell me the truth,” he said. “Was there any funny business last night, after I fell asleep?”

Quinn risked a peek at Clare to find her already peeking at him. When they awkwardly glanced away, Matt cackled.

“You two look like a couple of teenagers in your parents’ house.”

“Only you would think that,” Clare said, “given your maturity level. But it isn’t that simple.”

“It was until he showed up.”

Quinn was about to respond (and not politely) when Clare cut in—

“Are you making coffee over there? I was wondering about that thing on your counter—”

The eye roll she shot Quinn, before jumping off the bar chair, made it clear she didn’t care all that much about Matt’s mystery machine, but acting like she did might defuse the mounting tension.

She was right. Like a neglected kid, Allegro appeared pleased to have his ex-wife’s focus back on him. As the coffee talk ensued, Quinn felt his pocket buzzing. He pulled out his mobile and read the screen.

The text was from Franco:

My friends arrived. With papers.

They didn’t see my cousin.

No worries. Already gone.

That was fast, Quinn thought. Too fast. He weighed whether or not to tell Clare and Allegro the bad news. At the moment, they were in the weeds over the particulars of automated pour-over.

“. . . and the copper-coil heating system maintains the temperature throughout the brew cycle,” Matt droned on. “Not only that, the showerhead evenly saturates the grinds like the manual method.”

Clare shook her head. “Won’t it flood the bed?”

“No, that’s the beauty of it. The showerhead pulses, allowing perfect blooming.”

“I still don’t get the rationale.”

“Because your memory loss doesn’t take into account the latest trend in the coffee business. Manual pour-over became so popular with high-end-coffee consumers that shops began to feature slow bars.”

“Slow bars!” Clare gawked at her ex. “I’m sorry, but on what planet do coffee drinkers wait for pour-over? New Yorkers can’t wait three minutes in line without complaining.”

Reluctantly, Matt confessed that she had announced these same reservations when he insisted they try a slow bar at the Village Blend.

“And?” she asked. “How did it go?”

“Ultimately, nobody had the patience for it.”

“I was right? You admit it?”

Matt shrugged. “Even I lost patience with my manual pour-over. That’s why I bought this automatic.”

“Espresso bars were created so customers wouldn’t have to wait for their coffee—you know that. The machine itself was invented to speed up service.” She glanced around. “Why don’t you have an espresso machine here?”

“I moved it to the warehouse in Red Hook. That’s where I spend most of my time when I’m in New York.”

“I see, well . . .” Clare patted his shoulder. “I’m sure slow bars work in resort areas. Waiting for water to gradually seep through ground beans is probably a Zen experience—in the land of hot tubs and pool parties.”

“Don’t knock the pleasures of anticipation.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You always enjoyed it in foreplay.”

Hearing the change in subject, Quinn cleared his throat, loudly.

“Excuse me. I thought you two might like to know. I received a text message from my second-in-command.”

“Who’s that?” Clare asked.

“You met him at the hospital, Sergeant Franco.”

Clare’s face froze. “You mean the young cop with the shaved head and leather jacket?”

Quinn could tell she wasn’t a fan—and decided not to mention his relationship with her grown daughter. Unfortunately, Allegro couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. He immediately started ranting about Franco being a “mook” and how he was looking forward to the day Joy came to her senses and gave the poor sergeant the heave-ho.

“Are you finished?” Quinn asked.

Allegro folded his arms, and Quinn turned to Clare, who looked scared out of her wits.

“Don’t listen to your ex-husband. He has his own history with Franco and reasons for disliking the guy. But Franco is a good man. He’s been a real friend to you, and you’ve been one to him. Despite your ex-husband’s objections, Joy has great affection for Franco and the feeling is mutual.”

“Really?” Clare sounded skeptical. “And I’ve had no objections to their relationship?”

“Joy’s history has been rocky. She’s had negative experiences with men, but never with Franco. You were thrilled to know she chose to be with a good guy like him. You’ve been holding out hope they’ll make a commitment one day.”

“As in marriage?”

“Not long ago, you told me you were having mother-of-the-bride fantasies.”

Allegro’s groan was highly audible. Quinn ignored it. Thankfully, so did Clare. Still a little wary, she nevertheless nodded, apparently willing to accept the situation—at least for now.

“What about this message from your sergeant?” Clare asked. “What’s his news?”

“The DC police paid a visit to Joy this morning with a warrant to search her home and business. They were searching for you.”

“What!” Clare and her ex cried together.

Matt looked ready to kill. “You’d better explain, Quinn.”

“Calm down, and I will . . .”