Forty-two

“Now there’s a candidate for charm school.”

I turned to find Madame standing behind me in the hallway, arms crossed. “Shall we sign him up for Miss Mimi’s?” she asked. “Or the Plaza’s Finishing School?”

“Both, I think.”

Stepping up, she gave me a hug. “I knew you could do it.”

“I’m glad one of us did.”

Madame smiled. “And I understand you had quite a busy day downtown.”

“We all did. Did you stop by the shop while I was roasting in the basement?”

“No. But my date did.”

“Oh, right. The former astronaut. Did he come with his Golden Ticket?”

“Indeed, he did. But he said the Village Blend looked busier than Grand Central Station with a line out the front door, so he opted to stop by another day.”

“I’d love to meet him. Is he still here?”

“No. When the unfortunate Professor Humphrey problem arose, I sent him home with a promise to get together again.”

“Well, given his Golden Ticket, I’m sure I’ll be meeting him soon enough. I only hope the paying customers keep returning.”

“Stay positive, dear. And…” She stepped toward the opening doors of a newly arrived elevator. “Stay up on this floor for a few minutes, will you?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to speak privately with Addy about what you did to help her—by helping her nephew, of course. I believe she’ll be much more inclined to give you her time once she’s made aware of the debt she owes you.”

“Will that work?”

“It’s worth a try,” Madame said, and once again the doors closed in my face.

Suddenly exhausted, I collapsed onto the plush couch across from the elevator bank. Closing my tired eyes, I could have fallen asleep then and there, but after a few brief seconds of bliss my phone buzzed. Answering showed me a surprise: Mike Quinn’s face on my phone screen.

“You’re using FaceTime?” I was surprised because he hardly ever did.

“I don’t know where you disappeared to,” he said, “but I’m hoping to lure you back home by showing off my spread—”

“Spread?”

“We agreed to breakfast in bed tonight, remember?”

“I…didn’t forget,” I fibbed.

“I bought a basket at Murray’s Cheese. Just look at this feast.” Mike turned the camera on the food laid out on my kitchen table. “We’ve got aged Asiago, crusty Italian bread, cured olives, and all kinds of Italian delicacies that taste great but I can’t pronounce. I’ve got wine chilling, and we have chocolate-covered strawberries and imported nut candy for dessert.”

“That’s some breakfast,” I marveled, feeling the sweetness of his gesture tug at my heart.

“I could share this romantic meal with Java and Frothy, but they’ve already enjoyed their favorite cat food—and as cute as your feline friends are, I’d prefer the company of my fiancée. So, where are you?” Mike asked.

And there’s the rub, I thought.

“Madame needed me uptown. She had a problem—”

“How serious?” Mike’s buoyant expression instantly turned to iron. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You already have.”

“How?”

“By being who you are.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

“Then the problem is solved?”

“I’m heading home to you and my well-fed cats,” I assured him. “And I can’t wait to see you.” (At least that was the truth.)

Feeling much better, I grabbed the next elevator. When I reached the lobby, I found Madame waiting for me. As she promised, beside my mentor stood the writer I’d admired for years, internationally bestselling author, philanthropist, multi-award winner, and the scarlet-headed opponent in that bizarre fire-and-ice struggle that I’d witnessed in the hotel basement—

A. F. Babcock.