Murder by Mocha

Twenty-Nine

The sound of an ambulance siren woke me from a light sleep. A soft glow lit the master bedroom. The fireplace had burned down to cinders, but a small lamp next to the four-poster was still burning. I glanced at my alarm clock—3:45 AM. Beside me, Mike was breathing in the steady rhythms of deep sleep, his arms curled possessively around me.

Mike’s lovemaking tonight had been languorous and dreamy; his touches tender; his words caring; and the way he drank in my less than perfect curves made me feel as desired as Titian’s Venus.

I kissed his head when we finished, told him to get some rest. Then I cracked a book along with the front window, determined to listen for Franco’s car pulling up, my daughter coming safely home.

Nice plan. But Mike’s sweet, regular exhales soon lulled me into oblivion. Now I was worried. Had Joy come home or was she still out clubbing? Had Franco heeded Mike’s warning to stay on our side of the Hudson?

I’d already thrown on my oversized T-shirt, now I tied a bathrobe around me and shoved my feet into slippers. Down the hall, I quietly pushed open the guest-room door.

Joy was tucked cozily under the bedcovers. A rush of relief washed over me when I saw her long, dark hair spilled over the white pillow, a little smile on her angel face.

I smiled, too, recalling my sleeping beauty at sixteen, at twelve, at six, at two, and just born. The years... They went by so slowly and so fast. Feeling tears well, I turned to descend the steps.

As I headed for the kitchen, a flash of pink caught my eye. A small paper gift bag sat on an end table in the dimly lit living room, right next to the sofa where Joy had thrown her red jacket.

Looking at that glossy little bag, I felt my heart stop. Slowly, I walked toward it, dreading what I’d discover inside. Oh, please, I prayed, for Matteo’s sake, please don’t let me find an empty ring box in here!

I peeked inside. “What the . . . ?”

“Clare . . . what are you doing?”

I turned. Mike had trailed me. He’d thrown on a pair of sweatpants. His sandy hair had boyish cowlicks; his powerful chest and arms were bare. My body’s reaction to a half-naked Quinn was practically autonomic. I ignored it (or tried to) and held up what I’d found.

“Is that women’s lingerie?”

“Baby-doll pajamas—a gift to Joy from Franco.”

“How do you know?”

“They’re Hello Kitty pj’s.”

He scratched his head. “Isn’t that a little girl thing?”

“It was Joy’s thing when she was a little girl. Franco knows it.” I sighed and put the pajamas back in the little pink bag. “This is major.”

“How do you figure?”

“Mike, this isn’t a bustier or a thong—something a young woman would wear with a lover. It’s the kind of cutesy thing a girl would sleep in when she’s alone.”

“So?”

“So don’t you get the message? Franco wants Joy to wear these when she’s back in Paris. He wants her to remember him when she goes to bed every night.”

“That’s kind of sweet. Don’t you think?”

“Matt can’t know about this.”

“What? The pajamas?”

“No! That they’re in love!”

“In love?”

“Didn’t you notice how they acted at dinner? How they finished each other sentences?”

“Now that you mention it. I did. And the salt thing . . .”

“Oh God, the salt . . .”

When Franco had reached for the saltshaker, Joy laid her delicate hand on his big arm. Like a magic wand, her light touch was all it took to paralyze him.

“Remember what I told you?” she said quietly. He instantly put the shaker down again, tasted his food, and whispered, “You’re right. Doesn’t need it.”

One end of Mike’s mouth quirked up. “Yeah, Franco is into Joy. That’s clear.”

I wrung my hands. “Don’t you think it will pass with him? I mean . . . when Joy’s away, back in Paris. He has a roving eye, right?”

Mike shrugged. “Up to now, Franco’s had nothing but hit-and-run bedmates. Joy’s the first young women he’s maintained a friendship with.”

“That’s what Joy told me when I asked: ‘Franco is just a friend.’ Well, I didn’t want to admit this, but when she asked about us getting married, I wondered whether she was thinking about that question for herself. But she’s way too young to consider it—and Matt would strangle Franco before he’d let his little girl walk down an aisle with him.”

“Let’s table the discussion on your ex-husband, okay? I want to talk about something else. Something important—at least to me.”

“You mean those cold-case files? The ones that involve the Village Blend and Matt’s mother? Did you read them yet?”

“No. I’m still waiting on archived files.”

“Then what do you want to talk about?”

“Joy’s question—the one you don’t want to talk about.”

“You want some hot cocoa? Because I do . . .”

“Clare . . .”

I led Mike into the kitchen and stopped in shock. I’d expected to find a sink overflowing with dirty dishes, pans, and cutlery. But the place was spotless, not even a crusted fork sat in the sink.

“It’s all cleaned up,” I whispered.

“Must have been a good fairy,” Mike said, behind me.

“A fairy named Joy.”

Grateful, happy, proud (and still worried she was in for massive heartbreak with Franco), I reached for a saucepan and put some whole milk on the burner to warm.

“Okay,” I said, pulling out the squeeze bottle of dark chocolate syrup I’d made from Voss’s bittersweet. “What do you want to talk about?”

Mike sat down, ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Clare, answer me straight, okay? Why do you have reservations about making a commitment?”

“That’s not a fair way to characterize it.”

“Then what is?”

“I just have reservations . . .”

“About me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because most of my days are spent digging the truth out of a steaming pile of equivocations, and it certainly sounds to me like you’re trying to break it to me gently.”

“Break what?”

“The fact that your feelings for me . . . that they have limits.”

“Mike, I love you. I love you with all my heart.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“It’s not my problem. It’s yours. I’m sorry Joy brought this question up, because whether or not you want to admit it, you don’t want a wife—”

“Hold it right there—”

“Look, maybe want is the wrong word. Need is a better one—what you need and what you don’t need.”

He folded his arms.

“You need your freedom, Mike, a pass to come and go, to put your work first. And that’s okay with me. You don’t need the burden of a wife waiting for you to show for dinner every night, expecting you to hold up your end of a conventional relationship.”

“I don’t follow your argument. I’m very happy in a relationship with you. And I thought you were, too. I don’t see how you can argue that what we have now isn’t working, because it is.”

“You’re not hearing me. I’m saying the opposite. What we have now is working. And that’s why I want to keep things the way they are. I love my life, too . . . and I’m not about to change on you, but if our relationship changes, our lives change, and I’m not ready for that . . .”

“Clare, please . . .” He massaged his forehead. “Explain to me exactly: Why would our lives have to change?”

“Why?” I threw up my hands. “You’re the one who nearly resigned his position this week! You don’t think that would change everything? If they reassigned you to a precinct in southern Brooklyn or eastern Queens, I would never see you.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Okay, I would hardly see you.”

“I would simply commute to a new precinct.”

“With the hours you keep? The commitment you have? I’d have to move with you to keep our relationship going. Uproot from this place, this life . . .”

“You do realize this is a theoretical argument?”

“So? Most of your days are spent finding and proving some theory of a case, aren’t they?”

“That’s work. Law and procedure; cold, concrete crime solving. What I’m talking about is practically the metaphysical opposite—and I know you know that.”

Did I? I looked away, not sure what to say . . .

Mike spoke again, his voice quiet. “You’re a worrier, Clare, but worrying isn’t going to solve anything. You have to learn to trust.”

“Trust you?”

“Trust yourself. Your decision. Your choice. Trust that things will work out . . . and if they go off track, you’ll find a way to get them back on again.”

“I just . . .” With a deep breath, I turned off the burner under the milk, moved to sit with him at the table. “I want things to stay the way they are. Is that so bad?”

Mike fell silent. He met my eyes. “You’re telling me it’s my turn to wait?”

Another man might have said those words with brittleness, with sarcasm. Mike said them with calm, quiet comprehension. I loved him all the more for it.

Leaning closer, I took his hands in mine. “I just need time, Mike.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know. Enough to be sure we’re on the same path, enough to make certain that a wedding ring won’t end up feeling like a locked handcuff, on either of us.”

He took a breath. “I guess we both know waiting is a state I’m acquainted with.”

“Thank you. I mean it.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Clare. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I said. “And I’m here for you. That I promise you.”

“A promise is all I’m after.”