Twenty-four

IT sounded simple enough.

Find a place for the ceremony and reception. Look for a weekend in the future that wasn’t booked—and didn’t conflict with major commitments in our busy lives. Oh, yes, and be sure the cost of the whole thing didn’t send us to debtors’ prison.

“Believe me, I’m trying.”

“Everyone’s asking at work. You sure you don’t want my help?”

“Food and beverage service are my expertise, not yours. I want to take care of this. Madame offered to help, too. She’s as excited as anyone, even started experimenting with dating apps just so she could line up an escort for our big day . . .”

The question remained: When would it be?

I’d been looking for a place that was large enough, affordable, and in our hemisphere. With the population density of New York, popular spaces were booked far in advance, some for close to a year.

Quinn thought a moment. “How about a venue along the Hudson River?”

“That’s an idea. There are lots of new event spaces and restaurants on the waterfront now . . .”

“Picture it. We could get married in late afternoon, have the reception as the sun goes down over the river. Sounds pretty, right?”

“Yes, and romantic, and memorable . . . and expensive.”

“I know . . .” Quinn got up to refill his coffee cup. He noticed the rosebud in the glass latte mug sitting next to the coffeemaker. “Where did this flower come from? One of your customers?”

“Oh, that’s Matt’s.”

“Allegro won’t ever give up, will he?”

“What are you talking about? That rose wasn’t for me. He bought it for a Cinder date then forgot it on the counter.” The poor forgotten bud perked up nicely after its little drink. The petals were even starting to open.

“I was happy to give it a little TLC . . .”

“And Allegro was happy to leave it behind for you to find.”

“That’s crazy.”

Quinn didn’t think so. “He’s always on the make, that guy. And he’s still in love with you.”

“Oh, please. Matt’s in love with any woman who smiles at him. I can’t believe you’re bothered by a little rosebud!”

Quinn sat down heavily. “It’s not Allegro. Not really . . .” He shook his head. “You deserve roses, Clare. Dozens of them. And you deserve more attention than I’ve been giving you lately.”

“Don’t start that again. I know very well what your job demands, and I’m proud of the work you do. I’m not your ex-wife. Please try to remember that . . .”

Like me, Mike Quinn had married young and quickly—too quickly—with the disintegration of the union happening slowly, over many years. He’d tried to make it work, again and again, but his wife had been too unhappy.

When she’d first moved to Manhattan, Leila Carver had been a beautiful young woman, excited by the prospect of life in a big city. She’d dabbled in modeling, but didn’t have to work. Her wealthy parents had footed her bills. Mostly, she’d partied, shopped, and courted male attention. Eventually, she attracted the wrong kind.

Mike had been in uniform back then, a handsome cop who’d saved Leila from an attempted rape. She’d been beaten and terrorized in the attack. In fear and gratitude, she’d clung to Mike. Her doe-eyed adoration had bowled him over. She was gorgeous, classy, and viewed him as her savior knight. He bought a ring, and she said yes.

Too late, she realized what she’d done: anchored herself to a quiet life in an unglamorous part of town with a “square-jawed bore” of a husband and two crying babies. She asked him to quit his job, but Mike was the Job, and she quickly grew to hate it.

Police work in New York was gritty, stressful, and often heartbreaking. She didn’t want him bringing those burdens home, so he stopped talking about work and the vocation that absolutely defined him.

In time, Leila missed her old life: the parties, the shopping, the lavish vacations, the trendy bars and male attention. She began to cheat to get it back. By then, Mike had made detective, and knew exactly what she was doing—and when and where she was doing it.

Mike never thought much of himself compared to her. He figured she deserved better. When she’d cheat and return, he always took her back. (I knew how he felt.)

Divorce was never something Mike thought of as an option, especially with two kids. But he had to face reality. Leila was unhappy to the point of irrational and erratic behavior. It wasn’t good for their two kids, let alone her well-being—or his. Things had to change. And they did.

After his divorce, our friendship blossomed into something more, though it took time. I still remember the guardedness in his eyes whenever I asked about his police work—and the flash of happy relief when he remembered I was genuinely interested. At last, he was with someone who wouldn’t throw a fit or tantrum. Who actually wanted him to open up and talk.

To me, it was much more than talk.

I wanted to be a supportive partner to him. Not abstractly, but in the day-to-day ups and downs he faced. I understood his dedication, not just to the ideals of justice, but also to the real-world work of keeping people safe and trying to make their lives better.

Maybe I understood a little too much . . .

Sometimes I was compelled to right a few wrongs myself, which (I got the feeling) astonished, even amused him. Our “walk in the park” tonight, for example, was something his ex-wife would never have considered, not in a thousand lifetimes . . .

Now, sitting in my kitchen, Mike gazed at me with disarming tenderness as he said—

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

“We could speed things up, you know, go to City Hall.”

“No.” The tone was firm. “That’s what you did with Allegro. We’re doing it right. I want all our friends and family there—”

“And half the NYPD?”

“Of course! And don’t forget my kids.”

“They could come to City Hall with us.”

He shook his head. “Jeremy expects to be an usher, tuxedo and all. And Molly’s got her heart set on the flower girl role. You promised both of them, remember?”

“Of course I do. I’m thrilled they’re excited about being involved.”

“So am I. Our wedding will be a great céilí—a happy, dancing celebration of life and love. The world needs more of those, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“Remember that line. I’ll want to hear it again soon.”

“Good.” I traced his lips then tasted them. “Hold that thought . . .”

He did more than that. He pulled me close, moved his mouth over mine, and engaged that tantalizing tongue in a deep, soulful kiss, until—

Bzzzzzz. His smartphone vibrated.

Reluctantly, almost painfully, we parted.

“Work?” I assumed.

He nodded as he read the text. “Franco’s confirming receipt of a message I sent about our mugger. I asked him to follow up with the case.”

“I knew you would make good on your promise.”

“If the guy’s record is clean, no violent crimes, we can help him. We’ll see.”

As Mike typed a reply, I checked my watch.

“I better get downstairs. Bakery delivery.”

His face fell. “You aren’t coming upstairs with me?”

“I’ll be there soon. I promise . . .”