Sixty

BY the time I arrived at the coffeehouse, Joy was downstairs helping with the outdoor tables and heat lamps. I hugged her hello and went up to my apartment to change.

After my shower, I entered my kitchen for a quick bite to eat—and found all the evidence I needed of my daughter’s distress.

Joy had shopped for fresh ingredients and made us sandwiches for lunch. But not just any sandwich. She’d made le jambon-beurre (literally, “the ham-butter”), a deceptively simple French classic, consisting of a baguette sliced in half, generously buttered, and layered with thinly sliced ham.

During Joy’s first stressful months of her culinary apprenticeship in Montmartre, she had lived on these sandwiches, not just because they were one of the most popular in Paris, but because they reminded her of the sandwiches I’d made for her as a little girl—just as my grandmother had made for me.

My nonna had used salami instead of jambon and spread her butter on slices of crusty Italian bread, instead of French-style baguettes. But the culinary concept was the same: a simple sandwich that brought crunchy, salty, unctuous comfort.

And, yes, I inhaled mine in record time.

After assuring me everything was on track downstairs, Joy fell silent as she chewed her own sandwich. I filled the awkward quiet by bringing her up to speed on Sydney’s (and Esther’s) plans to give our customer base a boost.

“So . . .” I said at the end of my update. “You came here to talk?”

She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure how to say it . . .”

I glanced at the kitchen clock. “Joy, you’re not a teenager anymore. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. Then her face contorted, as if she were choking on something, and she spit out the words like a piece of spoiled fruit—

“I think Manny is cheating on me!”

Oh, God.

As distressing as it was to see my daughter in pain, my instant reaction was to assume she was overreacting. I could not believe Emmanuel Franco would do such a thing.

“Joy, did you actually see Manny with another woman?”

“No.”

“Did anyone tell you Manny was cheating?”

“No.”

“Then what makes you believe—”

“He was supposed to come down to DC for the weekend. We had firm plans. Then he canceled at the last minute. He said he had to work, but I think he was lying . . .”

I held my breath, remembering what Mike had said about Franco’s schedule. He was off this weekend, which meant he did lie to Joy. I told her what I knew, but quickly added—

“It could have been a simple white lie. Maybe Franco was tired and needed rest, but he didn’t want to hurt your feelings—”

“There’s more.”

“More?”

“Mom, I heard something at the end of our phone call. That stupid Tinker-Tinker alert. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Unfortunately, I did.

“I think Manny has a second phone, one he keeps away from me. He’s obviously installed that Cinder dating app on it. I’m sure he’s using it to cheat on me!”

“Slow down, Joy. You can’t be sure of anything yet. That Cinder alert may not have come from Manny’s phone. It could have been a colleague’s phone nearby.”

“He was at his apartment when he called—I mean, I think he was.”

“You see? You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“That’s why I came up to New York. To surprise him, and set my mind at ease. But he’s not at his apartment. I used my key to let myself in. And when I phoned him, he didn’t pick up or respond.”

“Okay, so we have ourselves a little mystery here. We just need to clear up what’s going on with him. Then I’m sure you two will laugh over these simple misunderstandings—”

“It’s not just the phone call. I know Manny. He’s more comfortable in a Kevlar vest than a suit and tie, but he was wearing a really expensive suit when he came down to visit last weekend. He said he did it to impress me, but then he pulls a Louis Vuitton man-bag full of rich-guy stuff out of his duffel.”

“Define ‘rich-guy’ stuff.”

“The kind of cologne Dad used to get from his ex-wife’s fashion clients, emollients and lotions I’d never seen him use.”

“Maybe he’s trying to spruce himself up, you know, now that he’s been promoted.”

“Mom, I caught him slathering Crème de la Mer on his shaved head like it was Vaseline. It’s like a thousand dollars for an eight-ounce jar! Where did he get the money for that? I’d like to know.”

Me too, I thought, leaning back in my chair. If it were anyone else in the NYPD, I’d think corruption—but Franco?

“There must be some explanation,” I continued to insist.

“Yeah, there is one. I was cleaning up the bathroom after he left, and I found a note crumpled in the trash bin.”

“What kind of note?”

“Handwritten, in big bold capital letters, it said: ‘FOR MANNY’ and it was signed, ‘—JOAN.’”

“Joan?” I sat forward again. “Who is Joan?”

“I don’t know! I was planning to ask him when we were together again this weekend, and then he canceled, pretended he had to work, when it’s clear he lied to me. Now I don’t know what to do. Mom, you’ve got to help me find out what’s going on with him.”

“Me?!”