FIFTY-NINE

EACH pretty blue box held a mini layer cake made with six-inch pans. Matt took over serving the sample slices, one cake at a time, and he started with the basics.

Chef Fong’s simple, elegant Vanilla Bean Cake was delightfully delicate, though we all thought the fondant was too thick and sweet. The Deep Chocolate was rich with a bittersweet sophistication, and its icing tasted just right.

The Luscious Lemon was too tart for my taste, even with the buttercream, which the chef had peppered generously with zest.

Babka agreed. “Ah, it’s making me pucker like an octopus!”

Matt tried each cake with us, giving his opinion, rather loudly. Quinn sampled them, too, but didn’t say a word. His mood appeared to have soured worse than the lemon cake, and his stone-faced mask was cemented back in place. Was it because I’d shyly put air between us again? Or was Matt annoying him? Or was it something else . . . ?

Cheer up, Detective, I wanted to tell him. I don’t like seeing you this way. But I was reluctant to say something so personal in front of Babka. Instead, I refocused on the food.

Savoring each forkful of cake, I tried to detect some memory associated with the tasting. I noticed Quinn pensively watching my reactions. Once again I disappointed him. Nothing came to mind.

Babka, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying the exercise. “What’s next?” she asked.

“Bananas Foster,” Matt said. Babka made a skeptical face but took a sample anyway.

I was wary, too, but pleasantly surprised. The vanilla filling, as rich as ice cream, lifted the banana cake to another level. So did the frosting, a spreadable version of the buttery sauce poured over an actual Bananas Foster with notes of dark brown sugar, cinnamon, and dark rum.

“Do you like it?” I asked Quinn.

He nodded. “It’s good—”

“Next is the Carrot Cake,” Matt interrupted.

“I know plenty who love it,” Babka said. “Personally, I prefer my vegetables in a salad or a side, not dessert.”

The Red Velvet was excellent, but like the Carrot Cake, I thought the cream cheese frosting would be too heavy after appetizers and dinner.

The Grand Marnier Cake was grand but overpowering while the Royal Elderflower Cake, a copy of the one served at Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s famous wedding, was a delicate beauty.

The Ginger Spice was layered with flavor and the sweet molasses nicely offset the peppery spices, but I agreed with Babka when she proclaimed it “not right for a wedding.”

Then came the rustic Italian-style Chocolate Hazelnut Cake with its chocolate-hazelnut frosting. I swooned a little. Quinn stayed quiet, but I could see him nodding with approval after each bite.

“You like it, too, don’t you?” I quietly asked the detective as Matt busied himself getting another sample.

Quinn nodded, appearing pleased that I cared what he thought, and I finally, stupidly realized: This was supposed to be our wedding cake. How awful must he feel that I’m not remembering that?

I was about to apologize to Quinn for the sad situation when Matt broadly announced—

“This one looks promising!”

Chef Fong’s Prosecco Cake was indeed the best yet. He’d filled the tender layers with white chocolate and raspberry mousse, and covered the cake with a silky champagne frosting. I had to have a second forkful, and so did Babka. Matt went crazy, as well, and even the stoic Quinn had seconds.

Despite all the sensory stimulation, not one flavor evoked a buried memory. By the time Matt opened the final box, everyone had pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that the tasting was a bust.

Matt didn’t even announce the last flavor. He just plunked the cake on a plate and dropped it in front of me. Everyone had eaten enough by now, and I was the only one who sliced off a chunk with my fork and stuck it in my mouth.

Pure bliss followed.

This was Chef Fong’s famous Coffee and Cream Cake! As I savored the delicate layers of coffee-laced chiffon, filled with sweetened whipped cream, and finished with an amazing mocha buttercream, I felt the tiny hairs on my arms begin to tingle.

Suddenly, I was jolted by the memory of Chef Fong’s proud expression as he described the creation of this cake to me. The coffee he used was not from Driftwood, the Parkview’s less-than-inspiring vendor. Instead, the chef had sourced a fruity East African bean, sold by a cooperative under the name Ladha Nzuri (“Good Taste” in Swahili). He home-roasted the beans himself, especially for the cake.

Frowning at my long silence, Babka misconstrued the reason.

“Bupkes, eh, kiddo?” She patted my arm. “My sympathies.”

I couldn’t reply because I was experiencing the most intense rush of memories yet. They flooded my head, drowning my consciousness, until I feared I was going to black out again.

Meanwhile, the men resumed their bickering.

“Of course the tasting was a bust,” Matt said accusingly. “Because Quinn was here.”

“Me?” the detective blurted. “I hardly said two words—”

“That’s what I meant. You were here, but you weren’t any help at all. Why didn’t you say something? Help guide her?”

“Because you were doing enough talking for the three of us!”

“What’s your problem, flatfoot? Feeling threatened?”

Quinn stepped up to Matt and poked his finger into my ex-husband’s chest. “Why don’t you do me a favor, Allegro, and—”

“A favor!”

I cried out the words and everyone went silent.

Quinn turned to me. “Clare? What is it?”

“That’s why Annette staged the cake tasting for me. She invited me to the Parkview because she wanted to ask me for a favor!”