The full membership of the Women’s Murder Club planned to have dinner at Susie’s tonight.
It had been a week or two since Yuki had sung “Margaritaville” in the front room, since Cindy and I had broken bread together, since Claire had given up half a lung, since Yuki’s trial had gone backward, which was what she had wanted.
And I had yet to tell how I survived the shootout at the Thornton Avenue corral and, with a lot of help from my friends, brought in the baddest gunman in the West.
We were all excited to catch up, listen, talk, eat with our fingers. Plus I was having a predinner meet-up with Claire. I missed her so much. I had to hear what Dr. Terk had told her, and she felt this wasn’t a conversation to be had on the phone or in email.
I said to Joe at breakfast, “Please have dinner without me. This is a major girl catch-up night. Urgent. Vital. Long overdue.”
My husband had never looked more handsome. His stay with Dave Channing had given him a glow. He’d told me all about it, and I admired his ingenuity and his commitment. And that his faith in his friend, and himself, had been renewed.
We’d had a wonderful welcome-home night together, and now he was sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island. I moved in close and stood between his legs, combed his hair with my fingers.
He wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me, so that I felt a charge down to my toes. He looked at me and said, “You want to go out with your friends, how could I possibly say no? But before you decide to go to Susie’s, you have to see this.”
“See what?”
Joe got up from the table and opened the freezer, took out a large white paper bag that he’d squeezed in behind the ice cube trays. He brought it back to the counter and said, “Take a look.”
I pulled open the bag and peered in at a big, round container, the type commercial ice cream is packed in. This container’s lid bore a logo that I remembered well. It was from the French Laundry.
“What is this, Joe? Ice cream?”
“What was your favorite dish?”
“You were my favorite, remember? Don’t make me guess. This is so mean.”
He laughed.
“I was planning to defrost this for dinner, Linds. Lobster macaroni and cheese. Three Michelin stars. That’s the most stars you can get.”
I kissed him.
I hugged him. I made sure he knew exactly how crazy I was about him for remembering that, and for scoring a quart of it, too. And then I had to say it.
“How about a rain check, Joe? I need a night out with my girls. We’ll always have Napa.”