EPILOGUE

“THAT man is the most persistent, pigheaded Irish cop I ever met . . .”

Upstairs in the duplex kitchen, Mike Quinn and I were sharing a fresh pot of coffee and fat, decadent slices of my Chocolate Blackout Cake (based on the original Brooklyn recipe). We had a lot of catching up to do, given his past few days of blackout.

“It took him ten years,” Mike said, “but O’Neil learned everything he could about the world of finance. Once he knew how to follow money, he worked to connect Larry Hawke to the secret bank accounts where his dirty payoffs were hidden. Then he found the accounts of some of Hawke’s pals, and the rest is front page news—this week, anyway.”

I refreshed our cups and sat down again. “I wonder what Madame and O’Neil are talking about downstairs.”

“I’m sure he’s trying to explain what happened all those years ago.”

“Do you mind telling me?” I didn’t want to exploit a confidence, but I was desperate to know. “Why did he leave her like that? Without even letting her know if he was dead or alive?”

“From what I gather, O’Neil believed the less Mrs. Dubois knew, the safer she’d be. He was right, obviously. She made it through just fine.”

“But if he was worried about her safety, why didn’t he stick around to protect her?”

“You don’t understand. O’Neil couldn’t even protect himself. He went to the Feds, and they relocated him in witness protection, but two killers came for him within the first few weeks. He got lucky or he wouldn’t have survived at all. That scar”—Mike swept his hand along his own cheek and across his throat—“is from the botched hit. He knew any wife of his would have been killed, too. At that point, the man had no choice. He really disappeared, created another identity and another life in Australia.”

“That’s all there was to it?”

“Well . . .” Mike looked away, as if weighing whether to keep talking. “From what I gather . . . he loved Blanche deeply, but he also knew what was important to her . . .”

He paused, turned to meet my eyes.

“Go on...”

“This coffeehouse, Clare—it was more than a business to her. It was a legacy. She felt it was her duty to keep it thriving, to pass it down to her child. How could he ask her to leave it?”

I took a breath. Mike was talking about more than my mother-in-law, and we both knew it. Reaching for my cup, I realized my hands were shaking. I couldn’t read him. Not on this particular truth. I had no idea how he felt.

“So . . .” My voice was weak. “O’Neil really just came back to get Hawke?”

“He built a life in Australia—a wife, children, grandchildren. But he told us he’d reached an age where he couldn’t die without trying. So, yes, he came back to get Hawke, to clear his name—and to see Blanche again, try to explain what had happened all those years ago.”

I glanced out the kitchen window, thought it over. “O’Neil is such a tough guy, so brave. He came all this way—thousands of miles after three decades. Why did it take him days to face the woman he loved and tell her his story? I don’t understand that.”

“I do. It’s not easy to admit, but . . . as a man, I understand completely...” Mike’s gaze fell into the dregs of his cup. “He couldn’t find the nerve.”

QUINN couldn’t stay. The mayor’s press conference required his presence, and he had a few other “very important things” to do, but he promised to come back for dinner. As night fell, I turned on the true-blue flame of my gas stove.

According to Punch, the word mole came from the Aztec molli meaning “concoction.” Growing up in Spanish Harlem, he claimed every mama had a different combination of ingredients, a secret mix that made it her own. This particular recipe was new for me, something I came up with given this week’s crazy concoctions. I hoped Mike would like it.

I warmed the oil first, sautéed the onions, added the peppers, and the Guinness stout. Aromas rose from my pot and I inhaled deeply . . . the garlic and ginger, cumin and coriander, fennel and cinnamon.

They say a dish like this is an acquired taste—not unlike living in a crowded, competitive city, where cultures and cuisines continually clash. It certainly wasn’t for everyone. Like most things in life, the key to making it work was keeping the blend balanced. Not too spicy but not too bland, either, and always tempering the bitter with the sweet.

As I stirred in the Mexican chocolate, watched it sensuously melt, I felt an arm slip around my waist, warm lips at my neck.

“Hi, Clare.”

I smiled as Mike nibbled me. “You looked very handsome on television.”

“You could pick me out in that sea of faces?”

“I could.”

“Want to hear something funny?”

“Absolutely.”

“I saw Soles and Bass at One PP, and they are royally pissed at you.”

“Why? Because I screwed up their case against Alicia?”

“Not even close. They’re angry about the wedding gifts.”

“Excuse me?”

“Apparently, the night of the Rock Center party, your baristas served aphrodisiacs to half the detectives in Midtown.”

“That’s right. They did.”

“Within two days, three of those guys proposed to their girlfriends and two reconciled with their ex-wives. Lori and Sue Ellen will be going to weddings for the next six months.”

“Sounds to me like cupid helper isn’t always a bad thing.”

“As me sainted grandmother used to say, ‘A little bit o’ crazy flavors the stew.’ ”

“That reminds me, Detective . . .”

“What?”

“You and I never did take that loco mocha out for a test drive.”

“Oh, sweetheart . . .” Mike’s lips moved to my ear, his breath hot as he promised, “Cupid won’t need any controlled-substance help in our bedroom tonight.”

I turned in his arms, expecting a kiss—and found instead a small white box, the kind that held a ring.

“Don’t panic,” he said. “It’s not a diamond.”

I snapped opened the lid.

“It’s an Irish friendship ring. We call it a Claddagh.”

The circle was polished silver, beautifully wrought. Two small hands held a crowned heart between them. The shape of the design came to a gentle point.

“When a woman wears it on her right hand, pointed away from her body, it means she’s not romantically involved. If she wears it pointed toward her, it’s a sign that her heart is taken—in someone else’s hands.”

I waited for Mike to say more, but he didn’t. He waited, like he always did, because waiting was a state he knew so well; waiting was an act he trusted. And now he trusted me to make the choice.

Andy Warhol once said that “fantasy” love was much better than “reality” love. “The most exciting attractions,” he wrote, “are between two opposites that never meet.”

Warhol was right about a lot of things: the modern phenomenon of instant fame; the commerce of art and the art in commerce. But he was wrong about love.

At Joy’s age, Matteo Allegro had been my fantasy love, not to mention my very attractive opposite. I’d tried to make it real, tried to make us fit. But we didn’t fit. Now I was twice Joy’s age, and I knew the difference between fantasy and reality, between magical thinking and practical acceptance.

Quinn was an Irish firefighter’s son turned cop; I was an art-school dropout turned coffee pro. He was nearly six five. I was barely five two. But we were alike where it counted, in the silences, in the heart.

I took a breath, deep and long, and gazed at the crowned heart in the ring he’d given me, held aloft by clasping hands. There were no guarantees when you loved someone—especially when that someone carried a shield, a gun, and a whole lot of baggage. Maybe I should have felt anxious or afraid at seeing the ring’s hands connecting, but all I felt was love, all I wanted was here.

With deliberate care, I slipped on Mike’s circle of silver. I thought of my nightmare and those handcuffs, but there was no lock here, no force now. The fit felt good. The ring was heavy with quality, yet the burden was light.

Lifting it higher, I smiled, wanting Mike to see the direction I’d given it. Like a sterling compass, it pointed with hope toward my own heart.