THREE

I stared in confusion at the young woman named Esther. “I’ve been missing?”

She nodded emphatically. “We were sick with worry about you. We looked everywhere but there was no trace. We feared the worst. Now here you are, perfectly okay, talking about a joke. Are you saying your disappearance was some kind of prank?”

Before I could answer, another barista—this one male and wiry—emerged from behind the marble counter and threw his tattooed arms around me.

“Stop!” I cried, pulling away from the young man’s apron. “I don’t recognize you. Who are you?”

“See, Dante!” Esther smirked at him like a mocking sister. “I told you not to grow that beard. He’s just trying to look cool for his big art competition next week.”

“Sorry, Boss Lady. I should have waited and asked you,” the young man said, sheepishly scratching his facial hair. “I wasn’t sure you’d approve with all the catering we do. But Mr. Boss okayed it, since you weren’t around.”

I blinked. “Of course I wasn’t around, Mr. Dante. I don’t work here anymore.”

Esther scowled. “You mean you’re quitting? Is that what the disappearing act was all about? So it had nothing to do with the Parkview Palace murder—?”

“Murder?”

“Or maybe just an abduction,” she said. “You would know better than any of us—”

“Clare! You’re back!”

Finally, the sound of a familiar voice.

Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois, the elegant owner of this legendary coffeehouse, enveloped me in her arms. “Thank God my prayers have been answered.” Tears choked her voice. “Oh, my dear child, I was beginning to fear I’d never see you again. But I never gave up hope. Nobody did.”

“It’s good to see you, too . . .” I was buoyed by this reunion with my former mother-in-law, my mentor, and my dearest friend. But I was completely confused by her overblown emotions. After all, we’d just seen each other a few weeks ago.

“What are you doing back?” I asked her. “I thought you were in Europe with Pierre.”

Madame pulled away; her violet gaze, damp with tears, began to study my face. As she did, I took in hers.

Matt’s mother occasionally indulged in makeovers with updates to her wardrobe, hairstyle, and cosmetics. Her taste was impeccable, and the new looks always took years off her age.

But not this time.

Yes, her tailored pin-striped pantsuit was chic, cut from the finest cloth, and her blunt pageboy flattered her high cheekbones. This time, however, she’d let her hair color go completely silver. And whatever she’d done with the change to her makeup had left her looking more wrinkled than I remembered. Searching for reasons, I tensed.

Had some health issue reared its ugly head? Was that why she’d come back to the States before the holidays?

“Madame, how are you feeling?”

“I was about to ask you that very question.”

“She’s lost her mind!” Esther declared. “She told me she’s quitting the Village Blend. That’s like quitting her family!”

“You can’t quit,” Madame said. “I’ve made this coffeehouse your legacy.”

“You have? When?” I shook my head. “I don’t understand. I already quit. Months ago. The same day I left Matt . . .”

Legend has it that if you speak of the devil, he will appear. In this case, the legend was right. The bell over the front door jangled, heralding the arrival of one of the world’s most talented coffee hunters, Madame’s son, and my ex-husband.

Like mother, like child, I decided at the sight of him. It appeared that Matteo Allegro had remade himself, too. His usual shaggy hair was close-cropped now, and he’d grown a beard—full and dark around his straight white grin. With Matt, however, some things never changed. That deep tan, no doubt from some intrepid expedition in the tropical belt, was still in place, along with his obnoxious swagger.

“Damn, Clare, where have you been? I was afraid the next time I’d see you was on the side of a milk carton!”

It took every bit of my willpower not to lash out and slap him as he attempted to embrace me. I didn’t want to resort to violence, but I did push free of his despicable grip.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, trying to put your hands on me. And to answer your ridiculous question, I’ve been living in New Jersey, with an eleven-year-old daughter who adores you—and you’ve been neglecting!”

“What—?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t heard this before. You’ve only visited Joy twice since we split. She’s just a little girl, Matt. What is wrong with you?”

There it was again! That expression of confusion.

“What is wrong with you, Clare?” His tone wasn’t angry at all, just concerned. “We’ve been divorced for over fifteen years—”

Fifteen years? Matt kept talking, but he made no sense. Then that surreal feeling returned. The displacement I’d experienced, after opening my eyes on that park bench, flowed over me with disturbing force.

I took in the anxious looks around me: the worry on Esther’s face; the confusion on Mr. Dante’s; the absurdity of Matt’s dopey stare. Even Madame appeared upset, almost frightened, and I realized I was as unnerved as they were.

That’s when something went haywire, like a delayed reaction from a bar-crawl bender. The coffeehouse began to spin, and my knees went weak.

“I don’t feel so good,” I mumbled.

“Look at her face!” Esther cried. “She’s gone white as milk foam!”

“Dante, call 911!” Madame ordered. “Clare needs medical attention.”

“Good idea,” I murmured as Mr. Dante pulled out one of those fancy devices everyone in the Village seemed to possess. Then I tried to grip the back of an empty café chair to keep from falling—and failed.

“Clare!” Matt cried, lurching toward me.

Before I hit the polished plank floor, he opened his arms to catch me. This time, I let him.