THIRTY

“WE were at a picnic in a park. You and I were there together . . .”

I saw Matt in my memory as clearly as my nonna on those mornings we baked together in her kitchen. He had cleaned himself up for the visit with me and Joy: close shave, trim haircut, new shirt, a subtle cologne. He was deeply tanned from a sourcing trip, looking muscular and attractive.

“Joy was there, too, a young teenager—thirteen. Oh, my God, Matt, that picnic was a few years after we divorced! Part of the years I can’t remember!”

“You’re doing great. Do you know how we got to the park?”

“You showed up at my Jersey house, unexpected. You got back early from a finca in Central America and you had some time on your hands. So you drove out to see us and bought a bucket of chicken on the way. You wanted to have a picnic with Joy and me. I remember how you finally persuaded me.”

“How?”

“You said something funny about fried chicken as a peace offering in one of the countries where you source coffee. That sounds crazy. Can that be right?”

“It’s right. I made a friend in El Salvador who served as a gang mediator. He told me that before they start their peace talks, the rival leaders always sit down to a meal of fried chicken from Pollo Campero. I figured, Hey, why not bring the tradition north?”

He laughed softly, and I felt something inside me soften.

“Of course, back then,” he went on, “there were no Pollo Campero restaurants in Jersey, let alone the tristate area. But KFC was close enough.”

“Close enough to pacify a hostile ex-wife, you mean?”

“Like I said, you tell me. What else do you remember, after I showed up with the bucket?”

I closed my eyes and concentrated.

“You drove us out to a nearby park, and I spread a blanket. I brought a cooler with homemade lemonade . . .” The images were rolling out quickly now.

“As we ate, you challenged me to name the eleven herbs and spices in the chicken. Joy thought that would be a great game, and she joined you in egging me on. I had fun doing it. For the next year or so, she called me Chef Sherlock and kept asking me to guess the ingredients whenever we ate out.”

“What happened after the picnic? Do you remember?”

“Joy begged you to drive us to the shore, and we went. We spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out at the beach, and when Joy was off shopping for souvenir T-shirts and seashell jewelry, you and I got ice-cream cones and talked. It was the first time, since we’d split, that we had a really long talk about Joy and our lives, and our little daily problems, and we watched the clouds change colors over the ocean as the sun set and . . .”

When my voice trailed off, Matt knew why. “You remember the kiss?”

“Kissing, you mean. Once we started, we didn’t stop. I’m surprised I let it happen.”

“Why? At that point in our relationship—our divorce relationship—things were going well. I was doing everything you asked to help you and Joy, and you appreciated it. Not that you wanted to get back together, but you were starting to forgive me, and you admitted you were missing . . . you know.”

“No. Missing what?”

“The good things we had. Our friendship. Our love of the coffee business. Our chemistry.”

“You mean our physical chemistry?”

“You can’t deny history, Clare. We were good together, especially in bed.”

“And? Did we ever . . . you know, make love again, after the divorce?”

“Oh, yeah. We did that night, and several more times in the years that followed.”

I shook my head (in lieu of smacking it). “I can’t believe I slept with you after we split. Why would I do that?!”

“Why not? You might have hated me, but you still loved me.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Of course it does. Down deep, you know it does.”

“Sorry, but sitting here now, I don’t feel it.”

“Maybe not now. But you did . . .”

He sat back, studying me in the shadowy van, his big brown bedroom eyes doing their best to remind me of a double ristretto—warm, sweet, and hard to resist.

“You know what might help?” he asked.

“What?”

“Since your memory responds well to sensory stimuli, what if we played out what happened that night?”

I stared at him in disbelief. “You want me to go to bed with you?”

“We could start with a kiss?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Just think about it. We have a long drive ahead. The house where we’re going is peaceful and secluded. We can take our time getting to know each other again—”

A flashing red light cut Matt short. The pair of us sat in tense stillness, until the NYPD patrol car flew by our van, silent as the grave.

“No siren,” I said absently. “Probably a 10-31, crime in progress . . .”

I marveled at my own words, confused by this sharp, sure knowledge. I looked at Matt.

“Where did I learn that?”

“No idea,” he said.

But I could tell he had some idea. His whole demeanor had changed. He was frosty now, less friendly.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Then the engine turned over, and we were on our way.