Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  “Okay,” I whispered to myself. “Enough wallowing. Time to get out of this frigid room.”

  Moving to the attached bath, I ran the shower until steam fogged the mirrors. Then I stripped down and washed up. Toweling off, I spied the Japanese soaking tub, and remembered Matt had encouraged me to try it.

  What the heck? I thought. It’s my last night here.

  After filling the oversized copper bucket, I slipped into the warm water, closed my eyes, and uttered one word—

  “Nice.”

  A state of deep, natural relaxation overtook my muscles, mind, and spirit for the first time in . . . I wasn’t sure how long.

  I had started the week on a park bench, moved to a hapless hospital bed, a getaway car, and a strange house in the Hamptons. Was it any wonder high anxiety was my constant companion?

  Now I let it all go and just . . . drifted . . .

  As I listened to the rain beating on the window, that stormy Paris street of Mazur’s Unexpected Kindness came back to me, but not from the small cards.

  I remembered admiring the original canvas of the work, and it was glorious. Annette was with me. She was talking with great affection about James Mazur. She loved James. All her life she’d loved him. And she loved him still.

  We were standing in a warehouse, Annette and I, looking at all six of Mazur’s paintings. This was Tessa’s warehouse, I realized. Tessa Simmons, Annette’s niece!

  Suddenly, I felt woozy and the rest of the memory flowed over me with the force of an Atlantic windstorm.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  MIKE

  HE heard her voice, calling him.

  “Mike! Mike!”

  “Clare?”

  At first he thought he was dreaming. Rubbing his eyes, he realized this was no dream. She was here, in his bedroom, excitedly telling him—

  “I remembered. I remembered!”

  In the shadowy darkness, he felt the mattress sink a little as she sat down beside him. The storm was churning outside. Suddenly, lightning flashed. In the heaven-sent light that streamed through the window, Mike saw her and his breath caught.

  Her chestnut hair was loose and damp, her lips slightly parted. She leaned over, smelling fresh as the rain, and—turned on the lamp.

  Her terry-cloth robe had been hastily tied. As she moved, he caught glimpses of her bare curves. His physical reaction was automatic. He tried to fight it, but it was only natural, given the situation, and he hoped it wouldn’t matter, because if her memories of him were finally restored, then he’d gladly pull that robe off completely.

  “What do you remember?” he rasped expectantly.

  “Jersey City.”

  Mike swallowed hard. It took him a moment to control his almost painful disappointment. She wasn’t here to make love. She was trying to tell him about a memory—one that didn’t include him.

  “Jersey City?” he repeated, as he began propping himself up.

  “Yes, that’s where Annette Brewster took me last week, before the wedding cake tasting . . .”

  Clare’s excitement about her recovered memory had cured her shyness with him. When he sat up completely, bare chested, he thought that would change. He expected her to blush again and put distance between them. But she didn’t. Her expression was more curious than embarrassed. He could almost feel her gaze running over his shoulders and chest before returning to his eyes.

  Now her own voice sounded a little unsteady. “It was the night Annette asked me to look into her husband’s death. Before we went to her hotel near Central Park, she drove me to a warehouse in New Jersey rented by Tessa Simmons.”

  Quinn rubbed his stubbled jaw. “And who is Tessa Simmons?”

  “The young CEO of a boutique-hotel chain. Tessa is also Annette Brewster’s niece, the daughter of her late brother . . .”

  As Clare focused on the memory, her robe opened a little more, revealing a glimpse of bare thigh. Quinn shifted on the bed, trying not to be distracted—and failing miserably.

  “Annette took me to the warehouse to show me six very special paintings by an artist named James Mazur.”

  “Paintings? Why is that important?”

  “Annette told me she knew the artist when they were young. She said James was the only man she ever really loved, and that soon they would be reunited . . .”

  According to Clare’s memory, Annette had lost touch with James Mazur decades ago, when he moved to Paris without her. She first met him during her daily walks in Central Park. He was always there, painting beautiful canvases. They fell in love quickly, but her father had other plans for Annette. The eldest Holbrook child—Annette’s brother—was supposed to take over running the Parkview, but he and his wife died tragically young in a small-plane accident, leaving their only child Tessa an orphan. Annette’s mother passed away soon after, and Annette’s father heavily pressured her to break off her relationship with James and do what was expected for the good of her family—learn the business she was now destined to inherit.

  “Annette said she always regretted letting James go. When her father died of a stroke a few years later, Harlan was suddenly there to seduce and romance her. After they were married, she discovered he wasn’t the man she thought he was.

  “As the years went by, she found her joy in running her family’s landmark hotel and taking care of Tessa. Then, two years ago, Annette had a breast cancer scare. She beat the disease, but while she was fighting, she told Tessa about her great love, about James, and how she always regretted not moving to Paris with him. That’s when Tessa secretly undertook the task of searching for the mysterious painter.”

  “Did she find him?”

  “Yes, a few months ago. Tessa was organizing an art show for the opening of her first Gypsy hotel in France when she located him. James never married. And he never forgot Annette. When he learned of her lifelong torch for him, he invited her to stay at his home in the French countryside. With Harlan dead, Annette was finally going to live the life she wanted. She said her niece, Tessa, was helping her heal her wounds and remake her world, and she would soon be reunited with the man she loved.

  “Don’t you see, Mike? It’s possible the whole abduction was an elaborate hoax. A trick designed to get Annette out from under the ugly legal tangles that Harlan left her with. To set her free!”

  Clare laid her hand on Mike’s arm, oblivious to the devastating effect that her lightest touch was having on him. Another flash of lightning came before a rolling boom of thunder. Startled, Clare realized how far her robe had parted and quickly pulled the terry cloth more tightly around her. As she retied the robe’s belt, Mike made a valiant effort not to notice. Expression steeled, he pretended he was too busy contemplating her theory to be fighting the powerful impulse to pull her close. Glancing away, he focused instead on the rain beating against the glass.

  “I don’t know, Clare . . .” Massaging the back of his neck, he struggled to clear his head. “The official diagnosis on your state is emotional trauma. The assumption is . . . you witnessed something so upsetting that your mind blotted it out, along with years of memories. That doesn’t sound like a hoax to me—”

  “Dr. Lorca was the one who claimed I suffered an emotional trauma, but I don’t trust Lorca anymore. And neither should you.”

  Mike didn’t disagree with her, so he remained silent.

  Misreading his doubtful expression, she frowned. “You don’t believe me, do you? You don’t think Annette arranged her own disappearance?”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s certainly a possibility. It just seems so outlandish.”

  Her green eyes flashed. “Why don’t we simply ask Tessa Simmons? If we pressure her, I’ll bet we can tell if she’s lying.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And while we’re on the subject of Tessa,” Clare continued, “there’s something else you
should know . . .”

  “What?”

  “Annette’s sister, Victoria, claimed Tessa and Annette had a bitter argument. But I don’t remember Annette mentioning anything negative about her niece. Do you think Victoria is trying to cause trouble for Tessa?”

  “Why would she want to do that?”

  “Most likely reason? Because Tessa was set to inherit the Parkview. With Harlan dead and Annette missing, maybe Victoria wants her family’s hotel for herself. Casting doubt on Tessa might give her a way to challenge the will.”

  Mike considered the angles. “Do you think Annette’s sister could be behind the abduction?”

  “I don’t know. Victoria seemed genuinely upset when Madame spoke to her, almost desperate to find her sister. It could have been an act. Or maybe Tessa was the one acting—to gain Annette’s trust. Really, anything is possible at this point, including my theory that Annette herself arranged her own abduction to escape her legal troubles.”

  “Which means Tessa Simmons is either a savior or a villain.” Mike paused to deliver his next words as gently as he could. “I’m sorry to say this, Clare, but you have to consider the possibility that your own memories could be faulty.”

  “That’s why I want to meet Tessa. I need to decide for myself.”

  “And where do we find her? Europe?”

  “If what I just remembered isn’t a false memory, then she’s here in New York right now, staying at the brand-new Gypsy hotel in Long Island City, Queens. That’s what Annette told me because she invited me to meet Tessa at the art show.”

  “Let’s check it out . . .” Quinn reached for his phone. He navigated to the Gypsy website.

  “You’re right. There is an art event at the Queens hotel this weekend. According to the site, twenty local artists are represented in a competition to help decorate the new hotel—and one of them is your tattooed barista.”

  “Mr. Dante?”

  When Mike nodded, Clare conveyed another memory, one that came after she woke up on that park bench. Apparently, Esther had teased “Mr. Dante” about growing a beard to look more hip for an upcoming art competition.

  “Lend me your phone,” Clare demanded. “I’ll call him and find out if he knows Tessa. He can introduce us.”

  “It’s late,” Mike countered. “This can wait until morning.”

  But Clare was a bundle of energy now. Mike figured the rush of memories had given her hope that more would come. He just wished she would try to recover more memories about their own history.

  She seemed to read his thoughts.

  Without warning, she leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. It was little more than a peck, but it was the first physical sign of affection she’d shown him all weekend.

  “Annette could be just fine,” she said, eyes bright, “and Tessa might know where she is. The whole mystery of Annette’s disappearance could be solved tomorrow with a simple happy ending. And then you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I can concentrate on getting the memories of our life back.”

  Mike lifted an eyebrow. “Did you just say our life?”

  With a short laugh, she reached out and touched his rough cheek. “Yes, Mike. I did.”

  Closing his eyes, he kissed her palm. When he opened them again, he was relieved to see her smiling.

  “Looks like you were right, after all,” she said softly, before bidding him good night and slipping out the door.

  “Right about what?”

  “I really can trust you.”

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CLARE

  BY the next afternoon, we were packed up and driving back to the city. The stormy weather continued to plague us through the rural South Fork, all the way across the suburban sprawl that composed the rest of Long Island.

  As twilight descended, we hit the Queens Borough boundary and were soon approaching the densely populated urban neighborhoods near New York’s East River. Despite the gloomy weather, once I saw the Manhattan skyline, shining through the murky shadows, I was filled with a sense of well-being. It felt like a homecoming, even if I couldn’t recall every memory about this particular home.

  I was also feeling good about Mike Quinn—in more ways than one.

  During the long drive, we agreed to set our personal issues aside and simply enjoy each other’s company. As Quinn’s wiper blades continued their steady beating, we reviewed the facts of the Annette Brewster case.

  I knew Quinn was dubious of my “hoax” theory. But he’d gamely agreed to join me in speaking with Annette’s niece. Earlier today, he’d arranged a meeting with Mr. Dante, using some cagey text messaging.

  I need your help. I want to meet the woman running your art show, Tessa Simmons. Can you introduce me and our mutual friend?

  Mr. Dante texted back that he didn’t know Tessa personally, but he would find out what he could and text back again soon with a plan to meet, which he did.

  Once we got there, I was prepared to take the initiative, shake the woman’s hand, and ask her point blank if Annette Brewster was with her old flame, James Mazur, in Paris.

  Of course, if I was wrong, and Tessa had something to do with Annette’s disappearance, then seeing her again might trigger some of my buried memories.

  This could be dangerous, I had to admit.

  If Tessa was guilty of masterminding her aunt’s abduction to speed up her inheritance of the Parkview Palace (or the fortune it would create upon its sale), she would likely recognize me, even in disguise.

  But a certain NYPD detective would be there, too. He was my backup. And I trusted him. Now all I had to do was get to the Gypsy hotel, a destination that seemed in doubt.

  “Mike, did you miss the turn to Long Island City?”

  “What makes you think I’m lost?”

  “The skyscrapers. They’re suddenly everywhere. Did we cross the bridge? Are we already in Manhattan?”

  “Look at the signs.”

  We were still in Queens, but this part of the borough, near the river, looked very different from what I remembered. A few days ago, driving with Matt, I had noticed the rising skyline as we crossed the bridge. But here at street level, the visual impact was much greater, almost overwhelming.

  In a little more than a decade, this ignored industrial waterfront neighborhood had become a sleek, bustling extension of Manhattan’s Midtown—with a short subway ride in between.

  I was awed by the ultramodern structures around me, some branded with the names and logos of corporations I recognized (and others I didn’t). Tall, needle-thin apartment buildings rose up among them, like stalagmites with windows.

  “I can’t believe the transformation. Did I wake up in some kind of Blade Runner future?”

  “Depends on which Blade Runner you’re talking about.”

  “There’s another one? I’ll have to rent it.”

  “You mean stream it.”

  “Eesh. Change the subject.”

  SEVENTY-NINE

  TEN rainy minutes later, we arrived at Tessa’s hundred-room boutique hotel. Her latest addition to the Gypsy chain was located near the East River, but it wasn’t part of the glittering new Long Island City skyline. Instead, Tessa had converted a century-old paper factory.

  The blocky ten-story structure was dwarfed by the soaring skyscrapers around it. But I preferred this funky industrial building—a creative tribute to saving a piece of the old neighborhood’s history from the wrecking ball.

  Now that night had fallen, the brick-and-glass façade was bathed in a pretty blue glow, sparkling with laser stars. Quinn pulled into the hotel’s adjacent parking lot, and we entered the lobby.

  This vast ground-floor space was taken up by a line of trendy shops facing the street and a large ballroom that opened up onto the lobby. The hotel’s public areas were loud and crowded, filled
mostly with the under-thirty set, boisterous and casually dressed.

  As I stripped off my wet rain poncho and brushed droplets off my blond wig, I admired the décor, a combination of bohemian shabby chic and rust-belt retro with reclaimed factory equipment converted into functional furniture and eye-catching sculptures.

  The ceilings in the hotel were well over twelve feet, a preserved feature of the old paper factory’s design. It allowed plenty of room for the colorful murals on the lobby walls, including a free-spirited rendering of the Gypsy logo—a laughing barefoot girl riding a bird.

  Quinn tapped my shoulder. “It’s almost time to meet Mr. Dante.”

  “Almost,” I said, and pointed to a touch-screen display, much larger than the phone screens I’d seen everyone using.

  Creatively framed like an antique mirror, this screen was freestanding near the reception desk and displayed information about the hotel and its amenities. Curious, I scrolled through the list: room service, “hot” yoga (?), a “detox” spa, tour “guidance,” a rooftop bar with something called “artisanal cocktails,” and—

  “What the heck is a complimentary Wi-Fi?” I asked Quinn.

  He raised a Spock eyebrow. “What do you think it is?”

  “A trendy new energy drink?”

  “Nope.”

  “Japanese therapeutic massage?”

  “Three’s a charm.”

  “I’ve got it—a futuristic form of hi-fi?”

  “Close,” Quinn said when his phone buzzed. Pulling it out of his jacket, he checked the screen. His amused expression vanished.

  “It’s a text from Lori Soles.” He glanced around. “I need to find a quiet spot to call her back, or the Fish Squad may get suspicious.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be okay.”

  Before parting, he bent down and almost gave me a peck on the cheek—habit, I guess. But he quickly thought better of it and backed off. Then he gestured to the wide-open double doors across the lobby.