TWENTY-NINE

FIFTEEN minutes later, I was behind the wheel of the Village Blend’s delivery van, giving Madame a ride home. The night was crisp and clear, the arch in Washington Square Park glowing whitely against the Lower Manhattan skyline as we rolled up to her Fifth Avenue apartment building.

“Perhaps I should go with you,” Madame said. “At times like this, men’s fragile egos need mothering . . .”

I assured her the trip wasn’t worth her time. “What if I’m wrong and Matt’s not there? It’s close to midnight now. You wouldn’t be back here until two AM.”

“Well, if you think it’s best. But please, Clare, if you do find my son, remind him that my door is always open.”

I squeezed her hand. “I will.”

*   *   *

MATT’S warehouse sat near the Red Hook piers, where the briny smell of the churning sea permeated the air. As I exited the van to open the security gate, a salty wind blew in from the dark, cold deep.

It chilled me to the bone—and so did my surroundings.

This industrial area of Brooklyn spooked me at night. The black silhouette of the warehouse looked more like an ominous prison than a state-of-the-art holding facility for green coffee beans.

Shaking off my shivers, I locked the gate behind me, parked the van outside, and entered the building through the office door.

As soon as I stepped inside, I detected signs of recent habitation.

An empty pizza box sat on the desk beside the remains of Italian seafood salad in a plastic tray. The French press pot was still warm, and there were wine bottles scattered about (way too many and all of them empty).

The big office couch was made up like a bed, and a brand-new flat-screen TV, sound muted, was playing an HD version of Kramer vs. Kramer. On a folding table I found a half bottle of tepid Chianti beside a wine-stained water glass.

This isn’t good.

Leaving the office, I moved to the coffee storage chamber.

The door was hermetically sealed, the climate control system pinging happily. I peeked through the window at hundreds of agricultural sacks filled with green gold—freshly picked and processed beans from around the planet, waiting to be roasted.

Yet still no sign of Matt.

That’s when I noticed the door to the warehouse garage stood open, the lights inside blazing. As I approached, I heard noises—a water hose gushing, followed by a loud and continuous burst of angry expletives.

“Matt! What’s wrong?! Are you okay?!”

On the loading dock in back of the building, I found my ex-husband dripping wet, wearing nothing more than the briefest of briefs.

“Oh, God!” I turned away. “Where are your clothes? What are you doing?”

“Rinsing off from my shower,” Matt replied, turning off the spigot. “A very, v-very cold shower.”

“You’re right. It’s freezing in here.”

“The central heating doesn’t extend to the garage. Anyway, I was working late and I got sweaty. Sometimes the bathroom sink just won’t do—”

“Stop telling tales. I’ve had my fill of them tonight.”

“Huh?”

“You’re not working late. I know about your breakup with Breanne, and I’ve seen your setup in the office. You’ve moved in. You’re living here.” I faced my ex and turned away again.

“Put some clothes on, will you? We need to talk.”

Matt snorted. “What’s with the prudery? There’s nothing here you haven’t seen before.”

“And I shouldn’t be seeing it now!”