EIGHTY-SEVEN
“OH, my dear, welcome home!” Madame’s hug wasn’t as tight as Esther’s, but her enthusiastic affection was just as touching.
I had so much to tell my former mother-in-law, and yet . . . I decided to keep the details of my crazy weekend to myself, including its awful, violent end in Long Island City. There would be plenty of time to fill her in. But not tonight.
Meanwhile, Madame informed me that she was going to help me make things right with the authorities. She said she knew about Detective Quinn’s Monday meeting with a top law firm.
“And now that you’re back, I’ll be arranging for you to see a reputable psychiatrist. I have several recommendations from a professor I trust. Of course, the law firm Detective Quinn is hiring may want you to see their own doctors, as well, before they take you to the police.”
I cringed at the thought of going through a grilling—and more physical and mental tests and diagnoses. But, given the way I’d left the hospital, I knew I’d have to endure the ordeal, sooner or later.
“May I see Joy now? Or at least talk to her by phone?”
“No, dear. Not yet. The police are watching her. She and I have been in touch with careful conversations, but I don’t think it’s wise for you two to talk just yet. You don’t want to give yourself away. Not when we’re so close to resolving your legal tangle.”
“All right,” I said—but reluctantly.
“Don’t be disappointed. You and Joy will be reunited soon. For tonight, try to relax, and see if anything comes back to you. I see your cats have no problem with their feline memories!”
Purring and brushing my legs with excited affection, Java and Frothy hadn’t left my heels since I walked in the door. Their little paws suddenly reminded me of my ex-husband’s words—pussyfooting around—and I couldn’t help wondering what the next step would be for me and Mike Quinn.
“I assume Detective Quinn will stop by later,” I said. “In the meantime, would you mind if I roasted some coffee in the basement this week?”
“Oh, my goodness, I would be delighted! And so would your baristas and all your customers. Guess who filled in for you while you were gone.”
“Esther?”
“Esther?! Bah!” She waved her hand. “I filled in for you.”
“You?”
“Of course! I asked Dante to help. That young man’s arms are good for more than displaying body art. He did the heavy lifting, but I was the one roasting the coffee. Just like the old days.”
“You’re the one who taught me.”
“Make a note, Clare. Dante’s your boy if you want an apprentice roaster. He’s quite interested in the process.”
“That’s good to know. What’s his first name, by the way?”
“Whose?”
“Mr. Dante?”
“Oh, dear. I think it’s time I tell you. The boy’s full name is Dante Silva. There is no need to use Mister. To us, he’s simply Dante.”
“And nobody corrected me until now?! Did you think I was that far gone?”
“Let’s just say that we were very worried about you. We still are.”
With a frustrated sigh, I collapsed on the sofa—and my two feline roommates jumped all over me.
A short time later, Madame bade me good night, and I found myself puttering around the apartment’s rooms, looking at the life I had been living. It was a peculiar way to spend an evening.
I riffled through unfamiliar clothes, examined curious collectibles, and admired pieces of jewelry that (apparently) I’d had the good taste to purchase. That was when I saw the pristine white ring box. I could guess what was inside. With anticipation, I opened the lid—
But the box was empty.
Hmmm, I thought. Another mystery.
In the kitchen, I found binders with recipes. In the living room, photo albums. I paged through the images, but they weren’t anything I hadn’t seen before. These were old photos of the life I remembered well—as a child and young woman. And then my time with Matt: our wedding day; our honeymoon; and plenty of photos when Joy was born.
Still too keyed up to sleep, I decided to cook something. I noticed a recipe on the counter and assumed I’d left it there.
“Chocolate Chip Coffee Cake,” I read aloud, “brown sugar, white sugar, flour, egg, oil, vanilla, salt, leavening, chips . . .”
The cake recipe looked easy and tasty—and after what I’d just witnessed, I was in need of some home-baked comfort. So I mixed the simple batter and poured it into the pan. When I slid the cake into the oven, I noticed a broad-shouldered shadow leaning against the kitchen doorway.
It was Mike.
He’d entered the apartment so stealthily, I hadn’t heard a footstep. By now I had changed into clothes I’d found upstairs, a soft T-shirt and warm leggings. It must have reminded him of something good because his typical icy expression had melted into a puddle of sweet affection.
“Hi, Clare.”
“Hi, Mike. Would you like some coffee?”