by Cleo Coyle
“Why do we even have to tell Joy?”
“She’ll find out. The Fish Squad has been led to believe that Joy’s father is driving Clare to Washington. Soles and Bass won’t take the time to travel down there. They’ll reach out to locals to search the Village Blend’s DC shop and Joy’s residence. Tell Joy to demand a warrant. That will stall them. Then get out of their way. They’re obviously going to come up empty.”
“Okay,” Franco replied. “And you don’t have to worry about Joy coming back to Manhattan. She’s up to her neck in work. Plus she’s got me here to keep her warm—”
“Not anymore. Sorry, pal. That’s my second favor. I have comp time coming to me, and I may need to take it. That means I want you back on the job on Monday to run the shop.”
“Will do, jefe. No worries.” Despite his words, Franco sounded worried. “I assume you can’t tell me where you are, or where you’re going?”
“The less you know, the better. I don’t want you giving false statements to the DC badges. Avoid the situation completely, if you can, and leave Washington before they get to Joy.”
“I’d rather stick around to make sure things go smoothly.”
“That’s your call.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep my lips zipped.”
“And I’ll be back at the Sixth as soon as I can.” Quinn popped the thermos sitting on the hood of his car and poured the last dregs of the Village Blend coffee into his travel cup. The parting gift came from Madame. Now he wished he had more.
“Any instructions for the team?”
“No, we’re good. Next week should be a quiet one. And you know the job well enough. But if you—or any of our people—need me, then text or call. I’ll get right back to you.”
“You mean you’re keeping your mobile with you?”
“Yes.”
“They can track you, you know?”
“Of course. I have a plan.”
“Fine. Just tell me what to do next week if other people start looking for you,” Franco said. “And by other people, you know I mean the Fish Squad.”
“Soles and Bass can contact me anytime. I’ll be happy to talk with them. But this is the last time you and I will speak openly about Clare. I’m at a pay phone. In the future, I’ll be using my mobile—and any discussions will have to be strictly work related. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“One last thing. Once you know the DC badges have come and gone—empty-handed—I want you to text me.”
“In code, I assume.”
“That’s right. Tell me your friends have left. And if you need to refer to Clare, she’s your cousin, okay?”
“Okay, and, Mike—”
“Yeah, Manny?”
“I really hope you win her back. I was just warming to the idea that we might be in-laws someday.”
Quinn nearly dropped his cup. “It ain’t over till it’s over.”
Franco laughed. “I never really understood that saying.”
“It means I’m not giving up on the woman I love. If her memories of me don’t come back, I’ll be doing whatever I can to get history to repeat.”
“Good luck with that, brother. I don’t envy you.”
“I don’t, either. But thanks, just the same. Right now the odds aren’t in my favor, and I can use all the luck I can get.”
FORTY-ONE
CLARE
THE road was dark, and Matt had gone quiet. I almost nodded off again until he slapped the steering wheel and cursed in a foreign language. I think it was Portuguese.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I went too far.” He pointed at a lighted sign, dead ahead.
“Deerfield Farm?”
“That’s my landmark. When I see the farm’s sign, I know I’ve missed the turn.”
He swung the van around again. This time his U-turn wasn’t as deft as before. He nearly smashed the front bumper into a tree. Cursing again, he straightened us out and hit the gas.
Ever since I told him my dream, about the man with the gun, his mood had gone south.
“Is something bothering you?”
“No.”
“Are you hangry?”
“Change the subject.”
“Okay, then, what do they grow at Deerfield Farm? Do they have a farm stand? I could eat.”
“It’s a horse farm, Clare—stables, training, riding lessons. It’s one reason why my ex-wife bought the house at this location.”
“She was an equestrian?”
“No. I don’t think she even liked animals. The CEO where she worked played polo out here, and she wanted to fit in with his horsey set.”
“By learning to play polo?”
“Learning enough to talk the talk. You know, understand what the hell the boss and his trophy wife were babbling about at cocktail parties when dressage and forelocks entered the conversation.”
Matt slowed the van to make the correct turn. As he did, the headlights flashed across a dark green street sign: Edge of Woods Road was aptly named. Other than the pitch-black path in front of us, I saw nothing but trees and more trees.
“Aren’t there any houses around here?”
“Are you kidding? These woods are filled with them. Expensive ones with pools, Jacuzzis, and tennis courts.”
“Where are they?”
“Behind the timber. You don’t think wealthy people want the unwashed general public gawking at their properties, do you?”
“Some do.”
“These don’t.”
I drained the last of my coffee and studied Matt’s profile, trying to reconcile my memories of the man I’d married with this Hamptons dweller.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Get what?”
“The Matteo Allegro I remember was more at home in a tent or a tribal village than in a tax shelter. What are you doing with the horsey and Lambo set? It must have been this new wife of yours—”
“Ex-wife.”
“You must have fallen hard for her.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it, then?”
He shrugged. “Bree liked to travel as much as I do. The money made things nice, and she had a lot of it.”
“Was this Bree person an heiress? Or a fashion model or something? Would I recognize her name?”
Matt hesitated. “Breanne Summour is her name, and she was—”
“The famous magazine editor?!”
Matt nodded. “We weren’t married very long.”
I shook my head. “I’m glad I wasn’t there.”
“But you were. You catered our wedding at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. You did an amazing job, too. You don’t remember anything about that?”
“Not a thing.”
“The truth is, Clare, if it wasn’t for you, Bree and I might not have gotten married at all.”
Once again, I doubted my sanity. Only this time I was wondering about my state of mind before I had lost my memory. Had I been completely mad, catering Matt’s high-society wedding? Was this amnesia an improvement?
“All I remember about Breanne Summour is that I was freelance writing in New Jersey, to make ends meet. Most of my work was for trade magazines and local papers. At one point, I decided to take a chance on myself and submit a piece to a national publication. The first place I pitched was Breanne’s magazine. Did I ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“It was a great little article on trends in U.S. coffee consumption. The New York Times Magazine ended up publishing it. But she rejected it, and she was pretty nasty about it.”
“Join the club. Breanne rejected me, too, and she was pretty nasty about it.”
“Why in the world did you think marrying her was a good idea?”
“At the time, I figured I could use the support. Not just financially.” He slowed the van and made another turn. “Do you really want to know?”
“I’m listening.”
FORTY-TWO
“AFTER you and I split, Clare, I thought I’d feel free, unburdened.”
“That’s certainly the way you acted, relieved to be rid of us.”
“That’s not true! I always loved you and Joy, and I never stopped. It was the obligation of being a husband and parent—all those expectations put on me—that I was relieved to be free of.”
“Matt, that’s what it means to be in a relationship! You have to be willing to compromise. Accept expectations from people who love you—”
“Stop. I know that now. Listen. Will you just listen? It didn’t take long before I realized what I’d done. I no longer had you and Joy to come home to. Whenever I came back from my sourcing trips, I started to feel lost. And, well, lonely. The kind of lonely that no amount of partying or traveling can fix . . .”
He glanced at me. “I tried, many times, to rekindle what you felt for me, but—” He looked away. “It was ruined. I ruined it. And I’ve been living with that regret ever since.”
My ex-husband’s quiet words were moving. I knew he was sincere, but he wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. In many ways, Matteo Allegro was a good man. He just wasn’t the kind of man who should be married. That was why I was shocked to hear he’d tried it again, and I told him so.
“Like I said, Clare, I wanted someone to come back to, a place to hang my Akubra. You made it clear that you wanted to move on. And when I met Bree, she and I worked as a couple. For a while, anyway.”
“Were you unfaithful to her? Like you were with me?”
“She agreed to an open marriage.”
“I see. And how did that work exactly?”
“We had an understanding. My . . . uh . . . extracurricular activities could only take place outside of the country—and never close to anyone she knew. As long as I was back in New York when she needed me as an escort to parties or formal functions or whatever, she was happy. The way she put it to me was that she’d reached an age where having a spouse was an asset in her social and professional circles. It looked good for her stability and squelched unwanted gossip.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
“You were a trophy husband!”
“You know, Clare, that is incredibly insulting, and I’d argue the point, but—” He shrugged. “I guess I was.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to insult you.”
“I know you’re not. In all honesty, I did complete Bree’s checklist: good in bed; expert travel companion; dressed up nice for parties; cool profession—even if it didn’t earn me the kind of bank the top dogs here throw around. That fact never did sit well with her.”
“So you served a purpose for each other.”
“We did.”
“Then what went wrong?”
“We had fun. And then we didn’t.”
“Deep.”
Matt smirked. “Are you mocking me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s more like the old you than the older you—if you know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“And?” He gave me a sidelong look. “Are you feeling any differently toward me?”
“Yes. I admit I am. But only because of your honesty. You really have matured, Matt. I can see that. Unfortunately, I still feel like I belong in New Jersey, that Joy is waiting for me to cook her dinner, and I’m behind schedule on writing my column.”
“Your column? Oh, you mean the In the Kitchen with Clare thing?”
“That’s right.”
“You actually haven’t written that in years. And the paper you wrote for went out of business.”
Great. I glanced out the window, but there was nothing to distract me from my own anxious feelings of disappointment and displacement. Not in this dismal darkness.
“Should I find another oldies station?” I asked.
“No need.”
After making one last turn, Matt slowed the van.
The tree line was so dense here that I couldn’t see beyond it. Finally, a narrow gap appeared between two thick trunks. Matt hit the brakes, and steered us into that dark gap.
“Is this it?” I asked. “Are we there?”
He answered me with an enigmatic smile. “Almost.”
FORTY-THREE
THICK woods crowded us on either side as we rolled down a long black driveway. Then the van’s high beams illuminated a clearing. The bright light unattractively blanched the manicured grounds. Finally I saw the house.
On this cloud-covered night, the moonlight was muted, shrouding the three-story structure in shadow. Looming large, its dark silhouette looked less than inviting. I said as much.
“It’s a beautiful property,” Matt assured me. “With the landscape lighting off, you can’t tell. But when no one’s here, the darkness makes it invisible from the road.”
“Do you have a security system in place?”
“Of course.” He pointed to his prepaid phone on the dashboard. “I control it through an app.” At my obvious confusion, he added, “An application on the smartphone.”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t worry, Clare. You’ll be comfortable here—once we get the lights and the coffee on.” His white grin flashed in the dark. “Let’s go.”
* * *
• • •
AFTER parking the van, he tossed me the two bags of whole-bean coffee and unlocked the house. The night air was cold. Shivering on the porch, I couldn’t wait to hurry inside.
When the interior lights came up, I stepped back, surprised by the main room. Matt called it a “great room,” which was an accurate description—if only in sheer size.
The open layout boasted a three-story ceiling, soaring up to reveal gallery-style floors at the second and third levels. Their open hallways were guarded with polished wooden railings.
“Impressive, right? You’ll love it in the morning. There’s so much light . . .”
He strode across the great room’s floor, skirting the cream-colored sofa to activate the sleek gas fireplace. Flames leaped up, adding a sudden burst of color to the otherwise stark white space—but almost no warmth. And, man, was it cold in here!
“Your walls are so naked,” I said, looking up.
“Bree took the artwork. I’ll find other stuff. Maybe you can help with that?”
“I don’t know . . .” I shook my head, considering the emptiness. There certainly was a lot of it.
“The kitchen is at the other end.” He pointed to where a freestanding marble bar served as a divider. “You’ve got Viking appliances in there and a breakfast nook farther back.”
He turned again and swept his hand across the line of French doors. “As you can see, there’s a large deck that extends this living area, and a heated pool farther out in the yard. It’s closed for the winter, but feel free to make use of the sunken hot tub. It’s right there on the deck.”
I nodded and looked up again, straining my neck to find the top of the cathedral ceiling. “How many bedrooms are up there?”
“Six, along with a study, and a master bedroom suite with its own luxury bath, fireplace, and private deck.”
“Nice.”
“You take the master suite on the second floor. I’ll sack out in the room next to it.”
“No, you should have the master bedroom.”
“You’re my guest. I insist. I want you to be comfortable.”
“In this place, I don’t see how I can’t be.” I brought the two bags of coffee into the kitchen, checked the giant fridge, and revised my statement.
“Matt, there’s nothing inside
!”
“I know—” Leaning one jean-clad hip against the counter, he studied my face. “It’s been empty a long time, Clare. And I’m hungry, too.”
I got the impression my ex-husband was talking about more than food. When he spoke again, I heard hope in his voice.
“Now that you’re here, maybe we can fix that. What do you think?”
I took a moment to choose my words carefully. “I think I don’t know you. Not the you that gives tours of his Hamptons McMansion. I also think I’m not myself, and we should give this—whatever this is—some time.” I pointed to the bags of Hampton beans on the counter. “I’m willing to start with coffee.”
“For you and me, that was always a good place to start.” He smiled. “Okay.”
“And a shower. I could really use a nice, hot shower.”
“Alone, right? Just kidding.”
FORTY-FOUR
IF I were going to sketch a picture of my mind, I decided it would look like the walls in this pretentious summer house. Stark white paint covered with frame lines, faint markings where pictures once hung.
My memories were haunted by ghosted works, too, frames with nothing inside. Something had been there once. I knew it. But I couldn’t see it.
With resolve, I counted my blessings instead. People in my life sincerely cared about me, including (as hard as it was to believe) my ex-husband. He seemed to have faith that my memories would return.
I had to admit, if my memory block was a waiting game, this house—even as vacant and hollow as it felt—made a vast improvement over that hospital room.
After my shower request, Matt took me up to the second floor, and showed me the master bedroom suite. The walls were as bare as the great room, but the king bed looked comfortable.
He turned on the bedroom’s gas fireplace, which made the large space seem a little cozier, and the bathroom was practically a mini spa with a teak floor, a walk-in shower/steam bath, and an odd, bucket-shaped bathtub made of hammered copper that Matt called a “Japanese soaking tub”—the name was to be taken literally. You weren’t supposed to bathe in it. You entered after showering yourself clean, and then you simply soaked.