by Cleo Coyle
“It’s very relaxing,” Matt promised.
“I’ll try it tomorrow,” I said.
Tonight, I didn’t want to be on my own. I wanted to shower quickly and learn more about my life. That was why I’d left the lonely hospital, to find connections—and coffee, which Matt went downstairs to make.
After my steamy “simulated rain” shower, I wrapped a bath sheet around me and blew my hair dry.
“I have something for you!”
Matt’s voice came from the next room—the bedroom. I tensed. What is he doing back up here in the bedroom?!
After a few minutes of silence, I peeked out of the master bath. Matt was gone. But he had left a few things behind. Laid out on the bed were a fluffy white terry-cloth robe; a pair of his sweatpants; one of his T-shirts; and a pair of his boot socks. He had also left a mug of freshly brewed coffee on the dresser. I picked up the mug and inhaled the rich, earthy warmth.
Ahhh . . . It smelled like ambrosia. I drank deeply and immediately felt more grounded.
A few minutes later, I was dressed in Matt’s comfy clothes, including the oversized tee, the thick socks on my feet, and the robe, which I’d wrapped tightly to keep me warm in this big, chilly house.
“Hey!” he called enthusiastically from the kitchen. “Feel any better?”
“Yeah. But the house is still cold.”
“I know. The great room is great for summer. Not so much in fall and winter. Give it time. You’ll warm up.”
“Are you cooking?” I asked, even though it was obvious. Matt’s hoodie was off, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and there were pots and pans on the stove.
He shrugged. “You said you were hungry.”
“Yes, but what could you possibly be making? Stone soup? Your fridge was bare.”
“But not the cupboards.”
Walking into the kitchen, I peered into the deep pot. A full pound of dried spaghetti was boiling in a small sea of salt water.
On the burner next to it, Matt was warming a skillet. Sipping my coffee, I leaned against the center island and watched him pour in generous glugs of olive oil, then use his cupped palm to add spices to the pan: garlic powder, rosemary, basil, oregano, and freshly ground black pepper.
“I know what you’re making,” I said.
“You remember?”
“Cacio e Matteo, right?”
It was Matt’s version of Cacio e Pepe, a popular Roman pasta dish. Literally it translates to “cheese and pepper,” and the ingredients were just that: Pecorino Romano cheese and ground or crushed black pepper, along with the pasta, of course.
When doing it the Roman way, I’d use the hot, starchy water from the pasta pot to help melt the grated cheese. Together they magically conjured a kind of quick sauce, right in the bowl.
My grandmother taught me the tricky maneuver, but Matt could never manage it. After we split, he tried to make the dish on his own, but instead of a smooth sauce adhering to the pasta strands, he only created a gloppy mess. His solution was to throw out the traditional version and improvise his own. This included a number of other ingredients that, once I tasted them, I happily approved of—and Joy announced she preferred.
“Wasn’t it Joy who christened the dish Cacio e Matteo?” I asked.
“Yes, she did—about a year after our fried chicken peace talks. You still remember that, right?”
“Yes, Chef Sherlock remembers.”
“Then you’re retaining the recovered memories. Good, Clare. We have to keep it up.”
“Fine. But first, let’s eat.”
FORTY-FIVE
MATT told me where to grab the plates and silverware, and I set up everything on the marble-topped bar dividing the kitchen from the great room. Then I settled myself into a cushioned bar chair, propped my elbows, and became slightly hypnotized watching Matt finish his Cacio.
“I’m impressed,” I told him after my first bite.
After stirring in the flavor-infused olive oil, he’d tossed the spaghetti with a patience that surprised me. Then he added the cheese, taking the time to coat all the strands.
“Where did you get the Pecorino? Your fridge was empty.”
“After Bree cleared out her things, I found a huge hunk of it left in there. I couldn’t bear to toss it, so I grated and froze it.”
“You really perfected this dish.”
“Red pepper flakes are my new add-in.” He sprinkled some over his serving.
“I’m game.” I reached for the jar.
He pulled it back. “I’d rather you eat the version I used to make for you and Joy. It might help with your memories.”
I didn’t argue; the food was too good to waste time doing that. Then we both tucked in, putting conversation on hold as we entered a bilateral food trance.
“I really miss her,” I said when my trance finally lifted.
“I know how you feel.”
“No, you don’t. It’s a disturbing state of mind, not to know your own daughter.”
“So nothing more is coming back to you? Nothing at all?”
“Like what?”
“Close your eyes,” Matt suggested. “Tell me—I don’t know—about the last strong memory you see of Joy.”
“You and I shared fried chicken with her at a park near my New Jersey home. Then we took her to the shore.”
“What’s Joy’s age in your mind’s eye?”
“Thirteen.” I opened my real eyes. “Why can’t I remember more?”
Matt appeared confounded. “In the van, we were able to progress your memories forward with guided sensory stimulation. Then, when you drank the Hampton Company coffee, you remembered a conversation with Annette Brewster—but nothing else about your life.”
“Why don’t you just tell me more about Joy? Despite whatever I apparently know about this crime I witnessed, it’s my own daughter I’m desperate to learn more about. Do you have any pictures of her?”
“Of course I do, but I think it would be better if we tried to coax your own memories to come back naturally, like we did with the fried chicken.”
“What do you suggest? A Big Mac? How about a Dunkin’ Donut?”
“Calm down.”
“Just show me one picture! What can it hurt?”
He scratched his dark beard. “I don’t know.”
“You won’t be shocking me, Matt. She rushed into my hospital room, remember? I’ve already seen her as she is now, all grown-up. Just show me a photo of a happy memory. Maybe it will jar mine. Please?”
With a resigned sigh, Matt brought out his prepaid smartphone.
“I transferred some stuff from my regular phone. I should have something for you . . . Okay, here’s one . . .”
He turned the phone screen toward me. Joy’s pretty face was beaming into the camera, her chestnut hair pulled into a neat ponytail. She was holding a half-sheet pan of freshly baked croissants and wearing a chef’s jacket.
“Matt, why is she in chef’s whites?”
“This is a picture of Joy when she was in culinary school.”
“In Manhattan?”
He nodded, naming the prestigious school.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so happy for her! Did she graduate with honors?”
Matt looked away. “I’d rather not tell you. I’d prefer you remember what happened during those years.”
“Oh, no. Was it something bad?”
“Focus on the photo. Try to remember.”
“Nothing’s coming.”
“All right. I have another idea. I’d like you to trust me on this, okay? I want to give you some physical stimulation.”
“Physical?” I blinked. “What are you proposing?”
“I want to make love to you.”
FORTY-SIX
I stared blankly at my ex-husband.
When we were parked in Queens, he had said something about sleeping together, but I didn’t think he was serious! Now he leaned closer.
“You know how good it is with me, Clare. Think of it as a kind of medicine.”
“Let me get this straight. You want to have sex with me for medicinal purposes?”
“Me? No. I want to make love to you because I miss you. Because I want to be close to you. Because I want to hear you cry out with pleasure, like you used to with me, all night long.”
“Matt—”
“You, however, should let me make love to you because you’ll enjoy it. It’s the ultimate sensory stimulation, and it may bring back more of your memories.”
“You mean, all the years I missed seeing my daughter grow up?”
“You didn’t miss them, Clare. You simply can’t remember them. You were there for Joy, every step of her journey to adulthood. You were a wonderful mother, and your daughter loves you like crazy.”
“She does?”
“Of course she does!”
I wanted to cry. “You don’t know what a relief that is to hear.”
I rubbed my eyes and then my neck. It had been a very long day and my back was still sore from that nap in the van.
“Here, let me—”
Matt gently swiveled my bar chair around and placed his warm hands on my shoulders.
“Your muscles are tight. Try to relax. Close your eyes . . .”
At this point, my knots had knots, but Matt’s strong fingers were as patient in massaging me as they were in tossing his Cacio. Slowly, tenderly, he worked on releasing the stress in my molecules. There could be no objecting; it was too delicious—and I felt my resistance weakening.
“Just answer me this,” I murmured, letting my head loll from side to side. “How would sleeping with you help me remember the lost years with my daughter?”
“The last time we made love wasn’t that long ago. It happened when Joy was still in culinary school in Manhattan.”
“Go on.”
“You and I were alone together in the duplex, above the Village Blend. You called her mobile phone for some reason and a drunk boy answered—total asshole. He was at some club and implied that Joy had gone off with her girlfriends to a restroom to do drugs—”
“Drugs!”
“Take it easy. Before the night was over, our daughter was back in her apartment, safe and sound, and she called you to assure us that everything was fine. But until that call, you and I were pretty upset.”
“And after she called?”
“To say we were relieved is an understatement. We were together in a foxhole that night, terrified and tense—and then everything was fine again. It was late; our guards were down. You said something that made me laugh, and before we knew it, we were . . .”
Matt’s mouth kept moving but he was no longer talking. Sweeping my hair aside, he pressed his warm lips against my neck. Then he was caressing my jawline, my cheek. Finally, he turned the chair.
The kiss was deep and sweet. I did my best to relax into it. When I lifted my arms to embrace his hard shoulders, he whispered—
“Let’s go upstairs.”
My body was certainly amenable to Matt’s suggestion. My limbs and lips would have followed the man to any bedroom in this ridiculous house. But something deep inside me resisted.
“What is it?” he asked as I broke away.
“I don’t think we should be doing this. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Okay . . .” He pressed his forehead against mine. “You’ve had a long day. I understand.”
“I do want my memories back,” I assured him. “And your sensory approach did work before. But making love is a big step. Maybe we can try again tomorrow?”
“Whenever you’re ready. We have total privacy up here, and all the time in the world.”
I sat back. “But that’s not really true, is it?”
“What part?”
“The time part. You said I was there for Joy when she was growing up, and I hope to God I was. But I need to keep being there for her. How can I let her go through a wedding without her mother?”
“What?”
“How must she feel? Getting ready to celebrate one of the most memorable days of her life and having a mother who doesn’t remember her aging beyond Girl Scouts and middle school.”
“Clare, you’re mistaken.”
“No, I’m not. Everyone is trying to keep me from knowing, but it’s obvious she’s getting married.”
“Married? To that shaved-headed mook she’s seeing? Oh, hell no. Over my dead body. You’re wrong. They are not engaged.”
“I don’t know about any mook. I know that I was tasting wedding cakes at the Parkview. No one seems to want me to know the truth. But it had to be for Joy’s wedding. Nothing else makes sense.”
“Listen to me. The cake tasting wasn’t for Joy. It was for—”
Matt stopped so short, I thought he had choked on his own tongue.
I waited for him to finish, but his incomplete sentence stayed that way. Even after his strangled words echoed through all three stories of this great room’s ceiling.
“Well?” I said at last. “Who was the tasting for? Who is getting married?”
Matt’s abrupt silence continued, but his expression was communicating plenty. He looked more than disturbed. He looked downright guilty. And I made the obvious assumption—
“Are you telling me, before the print was dry on your second divorce, you and I were planning to get remarried?!”
“God, no. It wasn’t me you were planning to marry.”
I blinked. “So you’re saying I was tasting cakes for my wedding? My own wedding?” Matt’s deep frown seemed to confirm it, but I had to hear the words. “Answer me!”
“Okay, yes!” He put his hands up, as if he’d been unfairly backed into a corner. “You were selecting a cake for your own wedding because you’re the one who’s engaged to be married. And the man you’re engaged to isn’t me.”
My jaw went slack. Then my mind began to (for lack of a better word) race. Like me and Matt on the scary roads that led to this hollow Hamptons hideaway, my thoughts couldn’t see a place to turn. Or maybe they simply didn’t want to arrive at a disturbingly inevitable address.
Finally, after what felt like hours, though it was more like seconds, I gathered the courage to ask what had to be answered—
“If you’re not my impending groom, then who is he? And where is he?”
FORTY-SEVEN
MIKE
“FILL the thermos, would you?”
“Of course, sir.”
After years of drinking Clare’s blissful brews, Mike never thought he’d find a coffee shop as good as the Village Blend, but he’d been driving for nearly ninety minutes since his last stop, and he needed a break.
Like a caffeinated beacon, the bright glass windows of the Hampton Coffee Company beckoned him off Montauk Highway. Skeptical of the quality, he ordered a small take-out cup of their Water Mill blend. Why not? It was the name of this location. After a few beautiful sips, he went right back to his car to retrieve the empty Village Blend thermos.
After paying the bill, Mike hit the restroom, and headed back out to the parking lot. It felt good to stretch his legs. The cold air felt good, too, bracing him awake. Frigid and fresh, it smelled faintly of salt water. No surprise, given the roiling Atlantic was less than ten minutes south, the placid bay nearly as close in the other direction.
Nice address, Allegro . . .
Mike knew many of the residential properties around the South Fork were worth millions. Clare’s ex-husband had done well for himself with his coffee importing and trading, but not this well. Sure, the guy had recently inherited some money, but it was his talent with the ladies that got him this address.
As Mike
drank the coffee, he mused about the punch in the nose Allegro would give him if he recited that truth to his face—
“What you did, Allegro, was remarry and divorce well.”
With a resigned sigh, Mike checked his mobile.
No texts, no messages. Thank goodness.
The DC badges weren’t likely to follow up with Joy until business hours tomorrow. In the meantime, he would locate Clare tonight, and try to make some sense of this bizarre situation.
Mike had great affection for Clare’s Village Blend family, especially Madame Dubois, but he couldn’t stop mentally smacking himself in the forehead over their conduct.
What the hell were they thinking? Breaking her out of that hospital, like the Scooby-Doo gang. And here I am, playing right into it . . .
What else could he do? He couldn’t let Soles and Bass apprehend her like some criminal. They’d just drag her back to Lorca. He’d rather take his chances on keeping her free. With a little luck, they could dodge the badges long enough to crack her blocked memories—and the Annette Brewster case.
Mike drained the paper cup and headed for his car. The streets around here were darker than an MTA subbasement. Most of these houses wouldn’t be marked or even visible from the road. He’d have to rely on his GPS to locate Allegro’s lair—and that’s exactly what it was.
For years, Clare’s ex-husband had tried to get her back. It was no secret how much he wanted her. How could he resist this attempt to manipulate her back into his bed—or, God forbid, his life?
Well, buddy, not without a fight.
Mike slammed the car door and started the engine. He might make some wrong turns and U-turns, but he was determined to take his own turn at fixing this mess and winning Clare back.
FORTY-EIGHT
CLARE
DAYS ago, I woke up on a cold park bench, asking myself how I’d gotten there. Tonight, I was asking myself the same question. Only this time I was sitting in a great white room with a ceiling as high as a wedding chapel and an ex-husband as sullenly silent as a corpse staring at his own grave.
