by Cleo Coyle
I added a few tweaks for smoother texture; adapted the layer cake ratios for a sheet pan; and slathered the frosting on wickedly thick.
Quinn was silent as he ate, inhaling the final blissful bite with closed eyes, then licking the last bit of sweet, creamy frosting off his fork.
“Marry me.”
“Already said yes.”
As I got up to clear our plates, he gently captured my wrist and pulled me close.
“So when are we going to set a date?”
Twenty-four
IT sounded simple enough.
Find a place for the ceremony and reception. Look for a weekend in the future that wasn’t booked—and didn’t conflict with major commitments in our busy lives. Oh, yes, and be sure the cost of the whole thing didn’t send us to debtors’ prison.
“Believe me, I’m trying.”
“Everyone’s asking at work. You sure you don’t want my help?”
“Food and beverage service are my expertise, not yours. I want to take care of this. Madame offered to help, too. She’s as excited as anyone, even started experimenting with dating apps just so she could line up an escort for our big day . . .”
The question remained: When would it be?
I’d been looking for a place that was large enough, affordable, and in our hemisphere. With the population density of New York, popular spaces were booked far in advance, some for close to a year.
Quinn thought a moment. “How about a venue along the Hudson River?”
“That’s an idea. There are lots of new event spaces and restaurants on the waterfront now . . .”
“Picture it. We could get married in late afternoon, have the reception as the sun goes down over the river. Sounds pretty, right?”
“Yes, and romantic, and memorable . . . and expensive.”
“I know . . .” Quinn got up to refill his coffee cup. He noticed the rosebud in the glass latte mug sitting next to the coffeemaker. “Where did this flower come from? One of your customers?”
“Oh, that’s Matt’s.”
“Allegro won’t ever give up, will he?”
“What are you talking about? That rose wasn’t for me. He bought it for a Cinder date then forgot it on the counter.” The poor forgotten bud perked up nicely after its little drink. The petals were even starting to open.
“I was happy to give it a little TLC . . .”
“And Allegro was happy to leave it behind for you to find.”
“That’s crazy.”
Quinn didn’t think so. “He’s always on the make, that guy. And he’s still in love with you.”
“Oh, please. Matt’s in love with any woman who smiles at him. I can’t believe you’re bothered by a little rosebud!”
Quinn sat down heavily. “It’s not Allegro. Not really . . .” He shook his head. “You deserve roses, Clare. Dozens of them. And you deserve more attention than I’ve been giving you lately.”
“Don’t start that again. I know very well what your job demands, and I’m proud of the work you do. I’m not your ex-wife. Please try to remember that . . .”
Like me, Mike Quinn had married young and quickly—too quickly—with the disintegration of the union happening slowly, over many years. He’d tried to make it work, again and again, but his wife had been too unhappy.
When she’d first moved to Manhattan, Leila Carver had been a beautiful young woman, excited by the prospect of life in a big city. She’d dabbled in modeling, but didn’t have to work. Her wealthy parents had footed her bills. Mostly, she’d partied, shopped, and courted male attention. Eventually, she attracted the wrong kind.
Mike had been in uniform back then, a handsome cop who’d saved Leila from an attempted rape. She’d been beaten and terrorized in the attack. In fear and gratitude, she’d clung to Mike. Her doe-eyed adoration had bowled him over. She was gorgeous, classy, and viewed him as her savior knight. He bought a ring, and she said yes.
Too late, she realized what she’d done: anchored herself to a quiet life in an unglamorous part of town with a “square-jawed bore” of a husband and two crying babies. She asked him to quit his job, but Mike was the Job, and she quickly grew to hate it.
Police work in New York was gritty, stressful, and often heartbreaking. She didn’t want him bringing those burdens home, so he stopped talking about work and the vocation that absolutely defined him.
In time, Leila missed her old life: the parties, the shopping, the lavish vacations, the trendy bars and male attention. She began to cheat to get it back. By then, Mike had made detective, and knew exactly what she was doing—and when and where she was doing it.
Mike never thought much of himself compared to her. He figured she deserved better. When she’d cheat and return, he always took her back. (I knew how he felt.)
Divorce was never something Mike thought of as an option, especially with two kids. But he had to face reality. Leila was unhappy to the point of irrational and erratic behavior. It wasn’t good for their two kids, let alone her well-being—or his. Things had to change. And they did.
After his divorce, our friendship blossomed into something more, though it took time. I still remember the guardedness in his eyes whenever I asked about his police work—and the flash of happy relief when he remembered I was genuinely interested. At last, he was with someone who wouldn’t throw a fit or tantrum. Who actually wanted him to open up and talk.
To me, it was much more than talk.
I wanted to be a supportive partner to him. Not abstractly, but in the day-to-day ups and downs he faced. I understood his dedication, not just to the ideals of justice, but also to the real-world work of keeping people safe and trying to make their lives better.
Maybe I understood a little too much . . .
Sometimes I was compelled to right a few wrongs myself, which (I got the feeling) astonished, even amused him. Our “walk in the park” tonight, for example, was something his ex-wife would never have considered, not in a thousand lifetimes . . .
Now, sitting in my kitchen, Mike gazed at me with disarming tenderness as he said—
“I can’t wait to marry you.”
“We could speed things up, you know, go to City Hall.”
“No.” The tone was firm. “That’s what you did with Allegro. We’re doing it right. I want all our friends and family there—”
“And half the NYPD?”
“Of course! And don’t forget my kids.”
“They could come to City Hall with us.”
He shook his head. “Jeremy expects to be an usher, tuxedo and all. And Molly’s got her heart set on the flower girl role. You promised both of them, remember?”
“Of course I do. I’m thrilled they’re excited about being involved.”
“So am I. Our wedding will be a great céilí—a happy, dancing celebration of life and love. The world needs more of those, don’t you think?”
“I do.”
“Remember that line. I’ll want to hear it again soon.”
“Good.” I traced his lips then tasted them. “Hold that thought . . .”
He did more than that. He pulled me close, moved his mouth over mine, and engaged that tantalizing tongue in a deep, soulful kiss, until—
Bzzzzzz. His smartphone vibrated.
Reluctantly, almost painfully, we parted.
“Work?” I assumed.
He nodded as he read the text. “Franco’s confirming receipt of a message I sent about our mugger. I asked him to follow up with the case.”
“I knew you would make good on your promise.”
“If the guy’s record is clean, no violent crimes, we can help him. We’ll see.”
As Mike typed a reply, I checked my watch.
“I better get downstairs. Bakery delivery.”
His face fell. “You aren’t coming upst
airs with me?”
“I’ll be there soon. I promise . . .”
Twenty-five
TWO hours later, I was finally headed for bed.
My ex-husband had agreed to take over downstairs. Thank heaven for small favors. Matt really was a good guy—especially after he’d had great sex—and his night at the “uh-hem ball” with his Cinder-swiped Millennial Marilyn had given him enough take-on-the-world energy to cover my entire shift.
Lucky for me, my lieutenant was off the NYPD clock until the second tour (3:00 PM). Before he hit the sack, he said he’d set my alarm for early afternoon, so we could both get some rest.
Now I was freshly showered and ready for shut-eye. Shuffling my slippers across the bedroom rug, I was glad to see Mike had already closed the drapes against the dawning sun. He’d also set a fire in the hearth. But by now it had burned down to embers and a creeping chill filled the darkened room.
I noticed his sports jacket hanging on the chair by the closet. The straps of his leather holster were wrapped around his weapon, which he’d placed on the nightstand next to his wallet and Catholic medal—St. Michael, patron saint of police officers.
Mike had carried that silver charm since his early years, when he kept it tucked into his uniform hat. These days he kept it in his breast pocket, next to his heart.
My own heart was aching to be near him again. When I’d left to open the shop, the disappointment in his expression had been almost painful. Like me, he was sorry we’d missed a chance to make love.
Now, as I approached the bed, I could hardly wait to cuddle up to his big, warm body. Unfortunately, my feline friends had beaten me to it. The purring pair had curled up beside the man. As I slipped beneath the covers, I gently nudged Java and Frothy to the bottom of the four-poster. They mildly complained, but I wasn’t buying it.
Shoo, girls, he’s mine!
Mike had showered before sacking out, his bare skin betraying faint aromas of clean soap and citrusy aftershave. Inhaling deeply, I closed my eyes, still grateful to him for staying by my side through the night, helping me find the evidence that (I prayed) would stop the dangerous game of a monstrous young man who’d made a sport of hurting and humiliating women—and possibly even murdered one.
“How can I thank you?” I quietly asked Mike’s sleeping form.
I could still see the disappointment on his face as he’d headed up to bed. After all he’d done, he didn’t deserve to end his day that way. But what could I do?
Inspiration struck when I recalled the words he’d used to subdue that mugger in Hudson River Park . . .
With renewed purpose, my hands and lips gently roused my fiancé. His sleepy blue eyes came slowly awake, then quickly gleamed with hungry interest.
As he pulled off my nightshirt, delicious sounds rumbled from his throat. Then his mouth and hands began to roam, exploring new ways to make me melt . . .
But this was my collar!
I didn’t have handcuffs, but I did have strong hands, so I captured his wrists the old-fashioned way before moving my body over his. A thrilling gasp escaped him when he realized my intentions. Then a slow smile spread across his face as I put my lips to his ear and whispered his favorite order—
“Stay down. Stop moving.”
Twenty-six
“BOOM! Boom! Boom!”
My eyes were closed, everything was dark, and a little girl was laughing. It sounded like Joy! I felt the light weight of her body in my arms . . .
Where are we?
I open my eyes. The sun is shining. The weather is lovely. Looking up, I see a soaring archway of Tuckahoe marble—Stanford White’s arch.
I’m in Washington Square Park!
A band is playing. The crowd around me is young and beautiful. Women are barefoot, wearing flowing summer dresses, proud of the flowers in their hair. Men are peacocks in expensive suits and polished black shoes. They’re dancing together, but in the strangest way.
Couples pair off. They bow with formality. Then they swing each other with wild abandon. Suddenly, they stop and switch partners.
Switch, switch, switch . . . again and again and again!
It’s an ugly dance, jerky and graceless.
“Mommy, I want to dance, too!”
“I don’t know, honey—”
“Pleeease!”
I have so much love for my baby. I want her to be happy. So I put her down, watch her twirl in front of me. Her dark hair lifts. Her little yellow dress billows on the breeze.
As she spins, she begins to grow taller and older. Before my eyes, she turns six, then eight, and twelve. A few more turns and she’s a gangly teen. At last, she’s a fully bloomed woman, spinning away . . .
“Wait! Where are you going?”
I try to stop her, but she disappears into the crowd. Pushing bodies aside, I finally see her across the park. A man approaches. He has a scraggly goatee and a black denim jacket. The face of this man looks familiar to me. He’s been in my coffeehouse.
It’s Richard Crest!
“No!” I shout. “Not him! Get away from him!”
But the sounds of the crowd swallow my words.
I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder. Madame is behind me, shaking her head. “You’re too late, Clare. Linda is gone. You can’t save her.”
“I have to try!”
As the young pair leaves, I follow, hurrying out of the park and into the streets. I pass dear little shops and quaint cafés; historic town houses and landmark buildings with Italianate flourishes and Federal lines. This is the Village of Henry James, the only one Linda’s family knew.
But there is another Village, one with a basement and boiler room, a dark place, haunted by a brick and bloody fingerprints.
In this Village, the streets are dingier. Cement cracks open, paint peels, weeds sprout from broken sidewalks. I reach the very edge of Manhattan, but it doesn’t look right.
This isn’t the East River!
Suddenly, I’m on the West Side, in Hudson River Park . . .
A young woman is crying. I hurry toward the sound. It’s my daughter! Joy is sobbing at the Bronze Age table in Habitat Garden. Her yellow dress is gone, replaced by a pink flowered skirt and virginal white silk blouse.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!” she shouts, pretending to fire a gun at the sky. She rants and rages, yelling at thin air. Then she runs toward the river and jumps in!
Horrified, I scream and race after her. A foot trips me. I fall to the concrete. Looking up, I see Richard Crest. He’s back in his designer skinny suit—and laughing at me.
As I try to rise, he grabs my arm, pulls me to the railing. I punch and kick, but he’s too strong. Like a bag of refuse, I am picked up and thrown away. I drop forever, then splash into the water.
The waves are choppy, but I swim and swim, desperate to save my daughter. Barges float by like silent giants, indifferent to me. I thrash and try, but the harder I swim, the more I sink, and as the surface recedes, darkness swallows me . . .
Twenty-seven
“CLARE, wake up!”
“What is it?!”
“You were thrashing around, calling out.”
My heart was still racing. “I was swimming, getting nowhere, starting to sink.”
“Yeah . . .” Mike rubbed his eyes. “I’ve had dreams like that. Your mind’s processing all the stress, trying to work things out.”
“I guess.”
He touched my cheek, his blue eyes looking worried. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m glad you’re here. What time is it?”
He stretched and smiled, leaned in close. “Time for breakfast.”
Clearly, the man was hungry, but not for food. His kisses were sweet at first, trailing along my jawline and shoulder. Then his hands got busy and both our passions
quickly rose. I was relieved when he pulled me beneath him. After the awful things in that nightmare, I needed to feel something good.
* * *
• • •
EVENTUALLY, we made it to the kitchen.
Wanting to spoil Mike, I brewed a fresh pot of Tanzanian peaberry. Full-bodied with sweet notes of fruit and a finish of bright citrus, it was a heavenly cup, like having dessert for breakfast.
Unfortunately, I was all out of actual dessert—and much of everything else. The coffeehouse had been so busy lately, I’d been working extra hours, and my kitchen cupboards were nearly bare.
I let Mike know.
“You don’t have to cook. I’ll treat you,” he said, renewing his Veselka offer, but I wanted to stick close to home.
Frankly, I was worried. The Village Blend’s early-morning opening had gone well. I even served a new customer: Sergeant (not Davy) Jones from the Harbor Patrol. “You described your coffee so nicely last night,” he said, “I decided to try some myself.”
The sergeant downed a free sample and left with our largest refillable travel mug.
Many of our regulars stopped by, too, none of whom mentioned the viral video. Then Matt had arrived, and I went to bed. Now I couldn’t stop hoping: Is the Gun Girl story over already? Is our business safe from repercussions?
I was anxious to find out.
“You shower and get dressed,” I told Mike. “I’ll fix us something to eat.”
“I thought you said your cupboards were bare.”
“Nearly bare. Trust me . . .”
A little scrounging produced one red pepper, the heel of a breakfast sausage, four eggs, and a hunk of mild cheddar—all I needed to make my big, beautiful sausage-and-pepper-stuffed omelet for two.
When the omelet was done, I brought the pan to the table, cut my fluffy, cheesy, overstuffed handiwork in half, and plated it with the last slices of my Amish Cinnamon-Apple Bread (toasted and slathered with Irish butter).