THIRTY-THREE

SIXTEEN hours later, I was back in Manhattan, riding uptown in a yellow cab, Matt’s leg bouncing impatiently next to mine.

Thankfully, my ex was no longer half naked.

For this appointment, he’d donned a custom-tailored Italian suit. His longish hair was trimmed and brushed back, his jaw freshly shaved—so freshly that I could still smell the faint scent of jasmine from his imported après-rasage.

I’d cleaned up, too, but hadn’t fussed as much as he had. A simple skirt, sweater, and low-heeled utility pumps were the extent of my primping. I hadn’t bothered with jewelry, except my exquisite cat’s-eye engagement ring, at which I couldn’t stop staring.

“At least you quit looking at your phone,” Matt cracked halfway to Midtown.

“It’s in my skirt pocket, on vibrate. And the second it does vibrate, I’ll be riveted . . .”

I didn’t bother adding that I was still upset about what happened with Quinn. After leaving Matt the night before, I got back to my duplex to find a red rose on my pillow next to a hastily written note.

Quinn said he was sorry he’d missed me, but he felt funny staying in my apartment without me there, and since he had to get up early and didn’t know where I could possibly be at this time of night, he returned to his place.

I put the beautiful rose on the pillow beside me and fell asleep fantasizing what Mike had in mind with its soft petals, silently cursing my decision to drive to Brooklyn.

In the morning, when I failed to reach him by voice, I texted—

So sorry I missed you!

Thirty minutes later I received this reply . . .

Mike: Where were U?

Me: Urgent business. I went to see Matt in Brooklyn.

Mike: Till 2 AM?

Me: Will explain tonight. Dinner?

Mike: Can’t promise.

Me: Call me, ok? I love you.

Mike: U2.

And that sad excuse for twenty-first-century communication—an echoed love declaration that looked more like the name of an ’80s rock band—was the last I’d heard from him.

I (stupidly) showed the exchange to Matt, who said—

“Aw, how sweet. Not even married yet and he’s already neglecting you . . .”

I bit my tongue on a caustic reply, only because I knew he was still smarting from Breanne’s putting him out like trash. And, I hated to admit, he wasn’t wrong.

Quinn’s chilly silence grew louder as the day stretched on. I only hoped this Allegro-Campana “legacy letter” would be worth all the trouble.

Yes, I could have let Matt go to this unveiling alone. But whatever this inheritance turned out to be, it would involve my daughter, and it was seriously upsetting my former mother-in-law, which was why I wasn’t about to learn the details secondhand.

“Pull up right here,” Matt told the driver at 47th Street.

Two lampposts drew my attention as I exited the cab. They flanked 47th like Art Deco pillars to the entrance of a royal palace, each metal pole topped by a glowing lamp in a diamond shape.

That’s when I realized where we were: Manhattan’s Diamond District, one of the largest centers in the world for buying and selling gemstones and precious metals.

Well over two thousand independent jewelers, appraisers, and precious metal traders worked in this cluttered little plot of Manhattan, and (needless to say) security was tight.

I remembered joining Quinn and Franco one evening at a nearby sports bar. Officers who worked in the area shared hilarious tales of Darwin Award–worthy attempts by shoplifters who thought they could “run off” with thousands of dollars in jewelry.

Not on this block.

In addition to a constant NYPD presence, there were undercover guards in the stores, bodyguards for jewelers transporting gems, even armed patrols on the street by retired police officers. And then there were the cameras—high-tech, untouchable cameras everywhere, rumored to be partly funded by the Department of Homeland Security.

Tourists and casual buyers would notice none of this. But after hearing those cop stories, I glanced around self-consciously as we walked to our destination, wondering who on the street was packing . . . and who was watching.