Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  “I want to talk to this gentleman.” I tilted my head in the direction of the stranger. “And I’d like to do it without you butting in. So move it, please.”

  Folding my arms, I waited for my ex-husband to leave. When he finally clomped away, mumbling in what sounded like Haitian Creole, I turned to the stranger.

  “Let’s sit down . . .”

  By now the detective had removed his rumpled trench coat. I suggested he take off his suit jacket, too, and make himself comfortable beside me on the sofa. When he did, I couldn’t hide my surprise at the sight of the leather shoulder holster strapped across his dress shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, seeing my startled reaction. “I’d take this off, too, but I honestly don’t trust your ex-husband. I’d rather stay strapped for a while, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind . . . It’s just that . . . I had a dream about a man wearing a gun like that.”

  “I hope it was me.”

  “I couldn’t see the man’s face, but he was looking for me.”

  “That’s what I’m doing here, sweethear— I mean, Clare.”

  “If you’re going to call me sweetheart, I should at least know your name.”

  “You don’t remember? I did tell you when I first arrived.”

  “I’m sorry, but things got a little fuzzy before I . . . you know—”

  “It’s Michael Quinn . . . Mike.”

  “Mike,” I said, trying it out. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’d say the same, but the last time I did, you went down like a sack of rocks.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Stop apologizing. You have nothing to be sorry for. This situation would feel overwhelming for anyone.”

  “So you took care of me after I blacked out? You carried me upstairs?” When he nodded, I asked about the emergency medical gear I saw in the bedroom. “I thought you were a police detective. What are you doing with an EMT kit?”

  “Before I joined the PD, I was a New York firefighter. I’ve got the skills, so I carry the jump bag. You never know.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “On top of that, the sort of work I do for the department sometimes requires acute response.”

  “What do you do exactly?”

  “I’m the head of a special unit tasked with investigating criminality behind overdose cases. I also carry a naloxone kit. All my people do—” At my questioning look, he explained, “It’s a countermeasure for opioid overdose, that is . . . when we reach them in time.”

  “I see . . .” I said those words because I did see, or at least I was beginning to. There was more to this rumpled detective than ice-blue eyes and a morose demeanor. “I have more questions. Is that okay?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Not with that, I hope—” I pointed to his gun.

  “Still the same Clare.”

  “Well, that’s good to know. I mean, who wants to find out that life beat the sense of humor out of you?”

  “That’s how most of us feel on the job. Gallows humor is pretty common at crime scenes.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re a laugh riot.”

  “Let’s just say I appreciate a joke. Telling them is another animal.”

  “Then the whole stand-up-comedian thing is a pipe dream?”

  “Funny,” he said, though he didn’t laugh. He was too tense for that, but he did loosen his tie and quip: “I particularly appreciate the drug reference.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “Any other questions for me, Clare?”

  “Seriously? How did someone like you meet someone like me? Wait. Let me guess. Matt overdosed and you came to the rescue with your supercop kit?”

  “No, although the first time I met your ex-husband, circumstances were—let’s just say, less than convivial.”

  “Then how did you and I meet?”

  “At the time, I was newly assigned to your local precinct. Your Village Blend was the scene of an accident that turned out to be a crime. I was the detective on the case.”

  “Did you solve it?”

  “Actually, Clare, you did.”

  “Really? How?”

  “It’s a long story. Maybe you’ll remember it.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  As we continued to talk, I studied the man’s weary face. I thought his sandy brown hair was cut too short, but I liked the solidity of his jaw, shadowed with bark-colored stubble. I could see he was tired, yet his glacial eyes were still admirably sharp. And I liked his creases: the crow’s-feet and frown lines. He’d obviously been through hard times, and I liked that, too.

  I didn’t like that he was so stiff. Even when we joked around, he remained guarded. Maybe it was occupational habit. Maybe he didn’t trust me enough to reveal his feelings. Either that or he didn’t trust himself.

  After a few more questions, I finally asked the big one, at least in my mind—

  “Are we sleeping together, Mike?”

  His eyebrows lifted. I had surprised him with the question. His answer was a quiet nod.

  “And I’m supposed to be in love with you?”

  “Yes. Madly.”

  “Is that so?” I made a show of looking him over. “Must be your inner qualities.”

  He smiled, the first time tonight. I liked it. My own smile, in response, must have encouraged him because he shifted uneasily before asking—

  “Do you think you could . . . I mean, is it possible you might fall for those ‘inner qualities’ again?”

  “Let’s put it this way. From what I’ve learned so far, I’d like to remember you.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  Now it was my turn to shift. “Honestly, Mike, you seem like a nice guy, but you’re still a stranger to me.”

  His disappointment was palpable.

  “Don’t be discouraged,” I told him. An impulse to touch his hand flowed through my body, but my mind pulled back. Instead of reaching out, I made a fist. “Can we give it more time?”

  “Of course,” he said, forcing a weak smile. “That’s why I’m here.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  “ARE you two about finished getting acquainted?”

  Matt was done putting away the groceries and (apparently) maintaining his patience. Like a centurion defending his fort, he strode across the room and planted himself in front of us, hands on hips.

  “It’s late, Quinn. Time for you to go.”

  I stood up. “Is that necessary? You have enough bedrooms in this colossus to open a B and B.”

  “He’s not staying here, Clare. He’s got a phone on him that could lead the police to you.”

  “I overheard that discussion, and he told you he has a plan.”

  “I don’t believe him.”

  “Well, I do, and I’ve made up my mind.”

  Unfortunately, Matt had made up his. He wasn’t backing off, and I’d have to think fast. So I did—

  “Do you want me to leave with him?”

  “What?!”

  “If he goes, so do I.”

  (Honestly, I wasn’t going to leave this house at this hour with an effective stranger, but I was out of ideas.)

  Turning my head, I sneaked a wink at Mike, just so he knew I was bluffing. The detective’s response was a raised eyebrow, which I took as some kind of Spock-like code for fascinated amusement.

  Matt didn’t see my wink and—thank goodness—believed my con. Grumbling again, this time in Spanish, he acquiesced.

  A small victory, but a victory.

  In deference to my ex-husband (who was, after all, our host), I suppressed my smile, though I couldn’t quell the joke—

  “Looks like you’ll be staying with us, Detective Quinn. Welcome to La Casa Allegro.”

  * * *

  • • •

&
nbsp; A short time later, I was back in the big corner bedroom. Astonishingly, the detective was sleeping right next door. That had taken some angling.

  “I have EMT training,” he told Matt. “I should be closer to her in case she needs help. And, Clare, you should leave your door open. I’ll do the same.”

  “Then I’m keeping my door open, too,” Matt proclaimed. “Don’t try anything cute, Quinn. Remember, you’re no better than a stranger to her.”

  “Yes, I know.” He turned to me. “Don’t worry, Clare. I won’t touch you unless you need medical help—or you ask me to.” This time Mike Quinn slipped me the wink. “Okay, Allegro?”

  Matt’s grunt was his version of approval. (Clearly, he hadn’t seen Quinn’s wink.) Then we all retired to our assigned bedrooms.

  Before long, I was burrowing under the covers, trying to keep warm. The house was still chilly, and I was restless. Turning over, I faced the gas hearth, though it didn’t offer much heat.

  Like the rest of this place, it was set up for show more than substance, which, come to think of it, sounded like my ex-husband’s second marriage.

  Staring into the dancing flames, I tried to imagine what a relationship with a man like Detective Quinn would be like. I could see he was intelligent, mature—and he even got my jokes. He also clearly cared for me; or, at least, the “me” I used to be. But he was so obviously repressed, so stiff.

  He seemed surprised when I asked about our sex life. His quiet nod was unreadable—and he certainly didn’t want to prolong the discussion. Then again, my hostile ex-husband wasn’t far away. Who could blame the guy for wanting to prevent World War Three?

  Still, this match seemed odd.

  Detective Quinn was so different from what I was used to. Where Matt was hotheaded and passionate, the detective seemed calm and deliberate. Was he like that in the bedroom, too? Was there any heat under that cool blue exterior? Or was he just a big human version of this McMansion fireplace?

  I couldn’t deny I was curious to find out. Certainly not tonight, and not in this house, but Matt did say physical stimulation might help my memories, and who was I to stand in the way of a neurological experiment?

  Turning over again, I stared in the direction of the open bedroom door. The woods outside were dark and quiet, the house like a tomb, save for a distant, rhythmic rumbling. It was Matt. He was already asleep, snoring up a storm.

  Well, I’m glad someone is getting some shut-eye.

  With our host unconscious, an imp in me considered tiptoeing into the next bedroom. I had more questions for Detective Quinn—and I couldn’t help wondering what the man looked like out of his bureaucratic blue suit.

  With a sigh of frustration, I grabbed a pillow to hug. I didn’t have the nerve. What would I say to the man? “Hi, Mike, just passing through.” Even worse, what if he misinterpreted my arrival in his bedroom in the dead of night—and my ex-husband woke up?

  For heaven’s sake, I told myself, don’t make things worse. Shut your mind and get some rest. Detective Quinn was obviously exhausted. He’s probably fast asleep, just like Matt. He’s certainly not lying in bed thinking of you!

  FIFTY-FOUR

  MIKE

  SHE’S still Clare.

  Lying awake in the dark, Mike smiled, marveling at that outstanding discovery. He hadn’t known her all those years ago, raw from the pain of her broken marriage, but the circumstances didn’t matter. She was still the woman he loved. When she had quickly flipped the tables on Allegro, then flashed him that secret wink, he wanted to grab her and kiss her.

  Her memories might be blocked, but her quick, curious mind and dry sense of humor were still there. Her lively green eyes were as beautiful as ever, and still noticing the littlest things.

  Sitting next to her downstairs, he’d used every ounce of control not to touch her or scare her with his racing thoughts and emotions.

  Earlier in the evening, when she’d passed out on him, and he’d taken care of her, making sure her vitals were strong, he imagined her waking up and remembering him, inviting him to join her in bed. He fantasized pulling her to him, enjoying a deep, long kiss, tugging off her clothes, and—

  Punching the pillows, Mike propped himself up, clasped his hands behind his head, and exhaled hard. He’d never get to sleep if he didn’t stop thinking of her, right there in the next room.

  With the house so quiet, he held his breath, listening for any sign of her stirring or calling out. All he heard was Allegro snoring.

  At least someone is getting some shut-eye.

  For the third time, Mike checked his mobile. There was nothing new from anyone, including Franco or the Fish Squad. This weekend would be a challenge—on many fronts—but he was grateful for one thing. Tonight, Clare had stood up for him. She was back on his side. That was progress, though not enough.

  Outside the window, tree branches swayed in the moonlight, casting odd reflections on the walls and ceiling. That was what he was to Clare now, a vague impression, a mental shadow. It was devastating the way she looked at him, a real gut punch to be treated as a stranger.

  Mike had years of experience responding to human traumas—from tragic to absurd. He was familiar with the effects of dementia and brain damage. But this bizarre form of amnesia was something he’d never encountered.

  Lorca said he’d tried hypnosis, with no result. If more therapies failed, Mike knew what task was ahead of him, but—

  How do you make a woman who once loved you fall in love again?

  Thinking back on his years getting to know Clare, he could remember things they’d said and done, but he couldn’t say exactly when or why her feelings for him went from platonic “like” to something more.

  He needed to discover that place again. He had to, because he couldn’t take losing her. Life would go on, but not the way he wanted, not the way it could have been.

  “Don’t be discouraged.”

  Hearing her voice in his head, Mike closed his eyes.

  Back when he was a young cop, he had played the field a bit, but he’d been far from a playboy. When a gorgeous young model became enamored with him after he’d arrested her stalker, he thought he was the luckiest guy in the world. But she’d glamorized his job, and he’d romanticized their relationship. His buddies on the force had, too, slapping his back with envy.

  Once he married Leila, reality set in. Mike went from being her knight in blue to a “square-jawed bore.” There were too many long hours and sad stories for her liking, too many tough guys from hard walks in his world.

  Eventually, Leila left him for a new husband, after a series of affairs with the class of men who had less baggage and more bank. The whole marriage had scorched his soul, left him feeling less of a man, dead and buried.

  It was Clare who’d resurrected him. From the beginning, she admired his vocation instead of shunning it. She was always happy to lend an ear or a piece of advice. She genuinely loved the city and her job serving its people, the ones he also served—and swore to protect.

  There were bad days. Lots of them. New York had a sunny side, but most of what Mike saw was an ocean of urban despair. These past few years, whenever cynicism sank his spirit, Clare’s faith showed him a way back to the surface. How could he lose that light?

  “Don’t be discouraged.”

  Were Clare’s words a sign that her memories of him were still intact? Still reachable? He hoped so. As sleep finally overtook him, he let that hope become his dream.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  MIKE Quinn slept in.

  After his endless, stress-filled Friday, it felt good to saw away half of Saturday morning. When he finally stirred (10:47 AM, according to his mobile), he showered, threw on an NYPD T-shirt and sweatpants, and headed downstairs. That was where he found her, yawning in the mansion’s large kitchen, head bent over some appliance on the counter.

  “
Good morning, Clare.”

  “Oh, hi! Hello . . . I mean, good morning . . . Mike.”

  She was blushing.

  He tried not to smile too wide at her reddening cheeks. Or bend down for a kiss. Or tell her how good she looked in her favorite blue jeans and how that sweater always brought out the deep green of her eyes. All those things, which came naturally to him, were now sadly wrong. Instead, he approached the woman he loved like he was an aloof professor with hands behind his back.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Trying to figure out this odd coffeemaker of Matt’s.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s a model I’ve never seen before—”

  Curling a lock of chestnut hair around an ear, she described the machine as appearing to be an autodrip, but with features that made no sense to her, including a lidless filter on an open Chemex-type carafe.

  “I think it’s an electric pour-over machine. But the whole point of pour-over coffee is the manual control of the pour. I don’t get it.”

  Mike scratched the rough stubble on his chin. (He’d been so eager to see her again that he’d skipped his morning shave.) “It’s hard to believe any coffee contraption could stump you. I’ve seen you work the most complicated espresso machines.”

  “You have?”

  “Something called a Slayer?”

  “I don’t remember that one, but espresso machines in general I understand. And I’ve deduced how to operate this thing. What I don’t understand is the brewing philosophy behind it.”

  “Every problem has a solution.”

  “And the most obvious one is to wake up our host.”

  “Naw, let Allegro get his beauty sleep. I have a better idea. How about you and I investigate alternatives?”

  “Such as?”

  Mike began opening cupboards. It took a minute, but he found what he was looking for on a high shelf. “Here we go. A French press.”

  Clare tilted her head. “You know what a French press is?”

  “That surprises you?”