.
“Hey, boss!”
“Clare Cosi, Clare Cosi, the West Village posy . . .”
I said a fast hello to Boris, then Esther and Vicki, and headed right for the back service stairs. Emotionally drained, I was about ready to burst into tears and I didn’t want them to see.
None of this was easy. I was tired and hungry, badly disappointed in Mike for not trusting me, freaked out by his conceited ex-wife’s crazy behavior, and still unbelievably frustrated that after all of my efforts I wasn’t able to bring Alf’s killer to justice.
As I hauled my tired body up the stairs, a strong sensation came over me that something familiar was cooking—heavy and savory with hints of garlic and herbs. It reminded me of the holiday aromas in my Nonna’s house, and for a minute, I thought maybe her ghost was in my kitchen now, fixing me a much-needed snack.
“Don’t be silly, Clare . . .”
It’s a hunger delusion, I decided. My stomach was so empty that some kind of foodie flashback was hijacking my senses. I slipped Mike’s key into the lock, turned it, and even imagined hearing sounds coming at me from another room of my duplex: pots and pans, laughter and voices—
“You have too many in the pan!”
“I do not.”
“You have to be patient, Daddy! Fry small batches. If the oil cools off, the shrimp will soak it up and be greasy . . .”
“I know how to fry shrimp, little girl.”
“I’m the pro here. You should let me cook for you—”
“Oh, I will, muffin. I expect a full-course French meal this Sunday!”
I rushed toward the lighted kitchen. It was true! This was real. My daughter was back from Paris!
“Joy!”
“Mom!”
She looked so beautiful, so grown up, standing there cuddling Alf’s little white kitten. Her chestnut hair was much longer now, spilling loosely over her shoulders. Her green eyes were bright, her wide mouth smiling in her fresh, heart-shaped face.
Her father was a few steps away, working at the stove, frying something with lots of garlic and oil.
“Am I dreaming?!” I murmured.
Matt grinned. “Glad you finally made it!” He was still in his tuxedo pants, his Armani jacket draped over a chair, his black tie undone and hanging around his partially unbuttoned white shirt.
I opened my arms. “My Joy to the World!”
Stepping up, she hugged me tight. “I wanted to surprise you, Mom. I tried your cell but I couldn’t reach you, so I called Daddy.”
“I had your key,” Matt said, “so I came back to let her in.”
“And he brought two pounds of this amazingly fresh shrimp!”
“I’ve been so sick and tired of sushi and raw bars and vegan fare—when I got Joy’s call, I decided what I really wanted was to cook my little girl up a nice big batch of Italian fried shrimp.”
I shook my head, still amazed Joy was home. “Where’d you get the fresh shrimp at this hour?”
“Easy, I was already at a private party in a restaurant. I just ducked into the kitchen and slipped a staff worker fifty bucks to grab me two pounds from their walk-in.”
Joy and I laughed as we sat down. Matt fried up those jumbo, bread-crumb-encrusted babies and we popped the hot, deliciously crunchy results into our mouths. Then I brewed up a big pot of our Holiday Blend, opened up my cookie jar of home-baked biscotti, and for the next two hours we were a family again. Matt and I caught up with our daughter about so many things!
Finally, Matt began to yawn.
“I better get back uptown. I told Bree I’d meet her at the apartment.” He checked his watch. “I’ll see you girls tomorrow, okay?”
Joy kissed her father’s cheek. I gave him a hug.
Then, arm in arm, she and I climbed the stairs together. As I made up the bed in the second room, I sensed there was something on her mind—and I remembered what Madame had assumed about Joy’s initial change of plan. Had the grande dame been wrong? (She hardly ever was.)
“So,” I pried, “your bosses really decided they could let you off, after all?”
“Why do you ask that way?”
“Oh, because the way you changed plans last week, your grandmother seemed to think a boy was involved.”
Joy’s expression faltered. “I didn’t want to say anything.”
Aha! “What happened?”
“I met a guy. He’s French.”
Big surprise.
“We work together on the brigade, so we’ve spent a lot of time together—”
Score two for Grandma. Man, she can really call it . . .
“He’s so cool, Mom. He and I really