FIFTY-FOUR

THE next day’s dawn was frosty, and I dressed swiftly after my shower in comfortable jeans, a warm sweater, and (thank goodness) a happily worn pair of flats.

With Mike still in slumberland, I quietly opened the bedroom drapes. Soft light trailed in from the sleepy West Village streets. As I cracked the window, a salt breeze from the chilly Hudson refreshed the air and rustled the branches of a nearby elm, its yellow-gold leaves a primary contrast with the red brick of the low town houses and lightening blue of the coastal sky.

I breathed them in, these little beauties of the new day when all was quiet and peaceful and good.

Like most things in life, the moment wouldn’t last, but the calm center was worth finding, something to hang on to before life’s grind began with all its stresses and stumbles, mistakes and regrets.

Below me, a loud motor rumbled, and our baker’s van arrived, bringing me back to the duties of the day.

Texting my opening team of baristas, I asked if everything was on track downstairs. They assured me all was well. That’s when I noticed a familiar unmarked police car pulling up across the street.

In the front seat were Detectives Lori Soles and her partner, Sue Ellen Bass. The Fish Squad came by every morning for their caffeine fix, but today was an unusually early start for this pair. We wouldn’t be open for another fifteen minutes.

And since Mike and I were already engaged, I knew they weren’t here for another false arrest.

Texting down to Tucker, I asked him to have complimentary drinks taken out to their car: a cappuccino for Lori, and for Sue Ellen a triple espresso.

Tuck texted back, no prob, and asked if he could use our second floor for a morning read-through of his new superhero script.

As I typed OK, I noticed an unread message from Sophia. She’d sent it late last night . . .

Dad no better. Praying for improvement in AM . . . Thank you for sending Hunter to me. We are talking. Really talking. Finally!

They’re talking. Really talking? I thought. About what? Their rocky relationship? Gus’s condition and how he got that way? The mysterious man in Rome? Hunter’s deal with that creep De Santis? Or all of the above?

I knew a list of questions like that couldn’t be sent in a text message or over voice mail. So I tossed Sophia’s designer shoes and handbag into my canvas tote, carefully wrapped up her jewelry in a silk scarf, and went down to the kitchen.

My list of concerns continued mounting (and agitating me) as I fed my demanding felines. While Java and Frothy chowed down on cat chow, I preheated my oven, pulled out six loaf pans, and assembled ingredients.

By now, Hunter would have heard about Sophia’s share of that priceless inheritance. My worries increased at the thought—and I took it out on the eggs in my mixing bowl.

Certainly, I could see why Sophia had been drawn to her husband. Hunter was a sophisticated world traveler; a big, blond Viking who spoke her language when it came to her passion for those shiny, precious stones of the ancient earth.

But what were Hunter’s true intentions? Did he really love her? Or was he using her?

With renewed vigor, I whisked maple syrup and brown sugar into the beaten eggs. Next came vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Finally, I whisked in the pumpkin puree, stirred in the flour, divided the lumpy batter among my pans, banged my frustrations out on the counter (which also nicely removed air bubbles), and slid the quick bread into the oven.

After cleaning the mixing bowl and whisk, I got to work on the bacon. Not just any bacon—not for my new fiancé. Quinn would be getting my special Coffee Bacon with Maple-Espresso Glaze and my mustard and brown sugar variation, which drenched the tongue in a smoky-sweet tang of bliss.

The process for glazing complex flavors into plain old thick-cut bacon was incredibly easy. To start, however, I had to brew a pot of coffee. It would be the first of many this morning as I continued preparations for the upcoming Andrea Doria blend competition.

Ninety minutes later, with my pumpkin bread baked, my glazed bacon sizzling, and my thoughts about Sophia and Hunter still in knots, I heard Mike’s deep voice ask—

“What smells so good?”

“Your breakfast,” I replied, my short tone revealing my anxieties. “Sit down. We need to talk . . .”