FIFTY-SEVEN
QUINN quickly recounted the Fish Squad’s visit to the Village Blend, and Madame’s bright idea to send them on a wild Allegro chase to Washington, DC.
“Great! Just great!” Matt began to pace.
“She had no choice,” Quinn told him. “Soles and Bass added up the obvious. They came to your coffeehouse, expecting a lead, and your mother gave them a credible one. She bought us time.”
“Well, the clock is ticking now,” Matt said. “We need to get her memory back.”
“I’m right here,” Clare said.
“Okay.” Matt faced her. “We need to get your memory back. Or the NYPD is going to deliver you right back to the hospital.”
“Take it easy,” Quinn stepped in. “Piling on stress isn’t going to help. You’ve got coffee on. Let’s all sit down and have some.”
THE three of them moved from the marble bar to a sunny corner of the large kitchen, where a breakfast nook with a cushioned banquette was tucked against the mansion’s tall windows.
Matt filled their mugs with coffee. Quinn sampled the excellent brew and nodded. He had to give it to Allegro; the man knew his trade.
“We have to find more keys for Clare,” Matt began.
“Keys?” Quinn said.
“Sensory stimulation to unlock her memories.”
“Like the chicken?” Clare said.
“What chicken?” Quinn asked.
Taking a seat, Matt recounted the KFC experiment. He also reminded Clare of her breakthrough after her first taste of the Hampton Coffee in the van ride. She responded by reminding him that it all started with her visit to the Parkview hotel’s Gotham Suite.
“So we need to find more memory aids for her,” Quinn said, summing up, “preferably ones that highly stimulate her senses.”
The table went quiet as they all began to ponder a next step. Quinn caught Clare peeking at him several times and blushing. That intrigued him. Before he could pursue what was on her mind, Matt spoke up.
“Why don’t you try baking something?”
Clare arched an eyebrow. “Is that because you’re hungry?”
“I could eat. But the truth is, you love it. You do a lot of it, and it could bring you back to yourself.”
“You’re not wrong,” Clare admitted. “I grew up baking with my grandmother, and it always relaxes me.”
“That’s good,” Quinn agreed. “Anything that makes you feel safe and comfortable will help. So what do you feel like baking?”
“I don’t know . . .” Clare gazed out the window in thought. “At this point, my memories of baking are all about my grandmother—and my daughter, of course, teaching her recipes in our Jersey kitchen. Can either of you remember what I baked, say, in the last few weeks?”
“Your Apple Cobbler Cake,” Matt immediately suggested. “You made that for a staff meeting before you disappeared. I had a piece, and it was great. You mentioned you wrote about it in one of your old columns. A few ingredients, magically whipped together into a breakfast cake, something like that—”
“I have a better idea,” Quinn cut in. “Since that recipe goes back years, it’s not a good anchor in Clare’s mind. But the morning before she disappeared, she baked something special for the two of us.”
“I did?” Clare leaned closer. “What was it?”
“Your shop’s pastry case recently added glazed Blueberry Cream Cheese Scones. They were so melt-in-your-mouth tender and such a big hit, you wanted to try a version using strawberries. You baked a sample batch for the two of us. They were amazing, Clare.”
“Strawberry Cream Cheese Scones?” She licked her lips. “Mmmm. Were they glazed, too?”
Quinn nodded. “I remember you used sweet juices from the macerated strawberries to help flavor the glaze and color it pale pink.”
Clare’s eyebrows lifted. “You know what macerated means?”
“I learned it from you. You used vanilla and sugar for the process.”
“Then you watched me make the scones?”
“Of course. Watching you cook is a beautiful thing. I feel guilty sometimes, because you make us meals so often. When you let me, I treat you to restaurants, but you usually prefer to stay ‘Cosi at home’—that’s how you put it.”
He smiled and she returned it.
“That sounds nice. Just the two of us?”
“And Java and Frothy. Those are your cats. I start a fire in the living room, and you start dinner in the kitchen. I enjoy talking with you at the end of the day, so I mix us drinks, or pour glasses of wine, and we decompress together. I even help, when you let me. The truth is, Clare, whatever lights you up lifts me, too . . .”
As she listened to Quinn, Clare leaned closer and closer. “Strawberry Cream Cheese Scones,” she repeated, her expression growing softer. Then her lips parted, and Quinn almost thought she was going to kiss him, until Matt peevishly pointed out—
“Strawberries are out of season.”
“So what?” Quinn said, unable to unglue his gaze from his fiancée. “I’ve seen Clare use frozen blueberries in muffins. Can’t you get frozen strawberries around here?”
“I’m sure we can find fresh,” Clare said almost dreamily. “Just like Matt’s coffee beans, berries are shipped here from farms in other countries so we cold-weather dwellers can enjoy some variety in our produce year-round.”
Matt folded his arms. “Clearly, you have no memory of the locavore movement.”
“The what?”
Matt appeared to relish breaking the mood completely with a mini lecture on the California origin of the movement, along with its philosophy, and the general attitude it reinforced among those who thought of themselves as foodie elite.
“And what attitude is that?” Clare asked.
“Eating produce out of season is frowned upon.”
“I get that, and I like using seasonal produce, too. You get the best pricing that way. It’s also commendable to encourage people to use farmers’ markets and support local producers. But”—her eyes narrowed into a look Quinn knew well—“until I move to California and have a citrus tree in my backyard, I’m not giving up oranges, lemons, limes, bananas, avocados, coffee, and all the other fresh fruits and veg that don’t happen to grow anywhere near this region. I’d rather not give up their health benefits, either. My guess is that most families in this country, including low-income families in urban areas—not to mention the hardworking people in the grocery industry, who’ve labored to develop trade practices that provide year-round variety for our diets—are of the same opinion.”
Quinn almost felt sorry for Allegro. He didn’t know what hit him.
Swallowing his smile, Quinn addressed Clare. “Why don’t you and I take a drive to find some berries, fresh or frozen? We can get some air, stretch our legs—”
“You think that’s wise?” Matt asked. “I think she should stay hidden.”
“I have a good disguise,” Clare said. “And I’d like to get out.”
“She’ll be fine,” Quinn agreed.
“How do you know?” Matt challenged. “With that mobile phone on you, your flatfoot pals can trace you to this area.”
“That won’t happen. I have a plan.”
“So you’ve said, but I haven’t heard it.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right!”
“We’ll see about that!”