EIGHTEEN

AFTER Matt departed, I checked in with my staff, and all was well, apart from more rabid Panther Man fans lining up to take selfies.

At least they’re lining up for lattes, too, I thought. Matt’s “silver lining.” But then business was business, as Gus said, even when your customers gave you the willies.

With Tucker overseeing the shop, I went to the basement to roast a few batches of green coffee. Then I finally knocked off for the day, climbing the back staircase to my apartment.

*   *   *

THE furnished duplex above the coffeehouse was part of my compensation. I resided here rent free for as long as I managed the shop below.

Madame had lived here for years while running the place, and when her business finally took off, she splurged on her living quarters, decorating with a romantic’s eye.

The main floor’s cream marble fireplace, tall French doors, balcony with flower boxes, and fleur-de-lis ceiling molding had more in common with her Parisian roots than the building’s Federal-style exterior. But I loved her choices nonetheless—the muted peach walls, ivory silk draperies, gleaming parquet floors with lush area rugs that perfectly complemented the carved rosewood and silk furnishings.

Off the parlor, the small dining room’s décor was more in line with the Colonial history of the neighborhood. But upstairs, it was right back to the romantic with two lavishly furnished bedrooms and a luxurious marble bath, which is where I was heading.

With no time for bubbles, I stripped down and turned on the spa-quality showerhead, praying the pulsing stream of hot water would beat the stress out of my tense muscles and wash away the awful visions I couldn’t shake since yesterday morning—

Sully bleeding on the cold concrete and Mike dodging deadly bullets aimed at his head . . .

Missing Quinn more than ever, I wrapped a bath sheet around me and checked my phone again. I’d invited him to dinner at seven and his terse OK, texted hours ago, was the last I’d heard from him.

With hope that he wouldn’t cancel, I attempted to make myself presentable by crunch-drying my shoulder-length chestnut hair into (hopefully) attractive waves, and putting on light makeup—with the exception of my under-eye concealer, which (after my near-sleepless night) I applied with the gusto of a house painter spreading spackle over the Grand Canyon.

In the master bedroom, the coming evening had chilled the air, and I started a fire in the hearth before pulling on a clingy but comfortable jersey knit sheath with three-quarter sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. (I remembered Mike saying the color brought out the green of my eyes, although his eyes appeared more interested in the short length of the skirt. Well, we both could use a distraction, so . . . on went the dress.)

Downstairs in the kitchen, apron in place, I was ready to roll.

The first order of business, however, was feeding my overactive kitties: coffee bean–colored Java, and Frothy—a fluffy feline version of latte milk.

Long ago these furry ladies had decided that every time I entered the kitchen it was mealtime, and I had absolutely no say in the matter.

With the little beasties happily smacking their lips, I began putting together a human dinner of old-fashioned comfort food for my soul as well as Quinn’s.

The first ingredient of tonight’s feast was the foundation of most Italian American soul food—tomato sauce.

My nonna would have made it fresh with the ripe fruit from my father’s garden; peeling the skins after flash-dips in boiling water; then de-seeding the insides; and finally cooking the mash down into a pot of sweet red bliss.

The smell alone of homemade sauce is like nothing else on earth. Tonight, however, I had no time for that particular joy.

While jarred sauce was convenient, it was nowhere near the quality I wanted for this dinner, so I began my 1, 2, 3 Magic Sauce, a handy little piece of alchemy that transformed canned tomatoes and three humble ingredients into a delicious pot of nearly nonna-worthy gold.

With the sauce simmering, I started the meatballs, mixing them by hand with just the right seasonings and binders. Thanks to my grandmother’s “secret ingredient,” they were fluffy perfection—as opposed to unappealingly dense.

Finally, I cooked the ziti, mixed it with three different Italian cheeses, and layered it into the casserole with my quickie sauce. After sliding the dish into the oven, I uncorked a bottle of wine, poured a few fingers, and sipped it slowly as I sat down to close my eyes for a minute or two . . .

*   *   *

THIRTY minutes later, the oven timer woke me from a nightmare of violent gunfire so vivid, I fell off my chair.

Two sleepy cats spied my backside’s connection with the kitchen floor and rushed over for what they assumed was playtime—or, even better, an encore of mealtime.

That’s when I realized someone was entering my apartment.