French Pressed

tomorrow.”

After trudging back up to the duplex, I found Matt in the kitchen, fixing himself a fresh pot of coffee—or at least trying to. With his right arm in that cast, he was making a royal mess of it.

“Clare, this Brita pitcher needs refilling. And the filter needs to be changed.” He shook his head at the spilled water on the counter. “How could you not notice?”

“I’ll give you something not to notice!” I took off my shoe and hurled it at him.

“Hey!” Matt lifted his cast to fend off my flying pump. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Matt, why are you here? Four weeks ago, you moved in with Breanne!”

Breanne Summour to be exact, editor-in-chief of Trend magazine, aka Snarks ’r’ Us, as the blogging chef of one snidely reviewed restaurant famously tagged it.

Breanne and Matt had been dating for about a year now. Given my ex’s desire for publicity and Breanne’s need for a hunky escort to fashionable events, they were a match made in Manhattan, or at the very least the New York tabloids. Every so often, I’d notice their picture in the Post’s Page Six or one of the tony glossies at my hair salon: “Trend’s top editor is looking especially perky tonight on the arm of international coffee broker Matteo Allegro.”

Matt continually claimed his “friendship” with Breanne was just “casual,” which in Matt-speak naturally included casual sex. But then Matt broke his arm, and Breanne turned into Florence Nightingale. This was perfectly fine with me, since the trashionista’s new desire to nest with my ex got him the heck out of my hair for almost a month. So why was he back now?

“You can’t tell me you got tired of five-hundred-dollar Egyptian cotton sheets and a penthouse view!”

Matt shrugged. “Breanne flew to Milan a few days ago for a trade show. I got lonely.”

“You did not. I know when you’re lying, Matt. Your eyes go wide, like a begging puppy dog, and you forget how to blink.”

“Okay, okay…” Matt held up the hand of his good arm. “The truth is…ever since Breanne left for Europe, her housekeeper has been hitting on me.”

“What?!”

“It was subtle at first, but tonight it got weird. And the housekeeper’s a live-in, so there’s no escaping it.”

“Since when can’t you handle a woman making a pass at you?”

“The housekeeper’s not a woman, Clare. His name’s Maurice.”

“Of course!” I threw up my hands. “If it was a woman, it wouldn’t have been a problem. You simply would have slept with her until Breanne came back. Problem solved.”

Matt’s face fell into an “I’m wounded” pout. “That’s just not true, Clare. And it’s not fair.”

“The person it wouldn’t have been fair to is Breanne!”

“Let’s drop it, okay?” he said and pointed to the half-spilled pitcher we used to filter our coffee-making water. “Are you going to help me with this or not?”

“Not!”

I wheeled and limped angrily out of the kitchen, one foot now shoeless, the other clomping loudly along, since I was unwilling to give up a second possible projectile.

Matt followed, his tone more contrite. “I didn’t mean to butt in on you, but a decent hotel room in this town is four hundred a night. Breanne’s not coming back for a few more days, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been footing the tuition bills for Joy’s culinary school. I don’t have much extra cash to throw around. Do you?”

“What are you implying? That I should pay for your hotel room because you can’t tell Maurice the housekeeper to keep his hands to himself?”

“There’s no lock on Breanne’s bedroom door. It was creeping me out. You have to believe me.”

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation!” I checked my watch. “And at nearly one in the morning!”

Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “You mind giving me a massage? My muscles are really stiff.”

“You really want the other shoe, don’t you?”

“What did I do now?”

“God, Matt, you haven’t acted like this much of a jerk since we were married. What’s happened to you anyway? Did a month of having your every whim fulfilled regress you back to a spoiled childhood?”

“My childhood was anything but spoiled, Clare, and why are you so bent out of shape? Because I walked in on your big good-bye scene with the flatfoot? Well, big deal! So what? He was leaving anyway!”

“He was supposed to come back. Now he’s not.”

“You’re better off. You can’t trust cops. Especially that one.”

“Oh, is that right? And who am I supposed to trust? You?”

“I’m not your problem. He is.”

“The problem is you, Matt. He won’t come back with you here.”

“Then he’s gay.”

“Mike Quinn is not gay.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why didn’t he just take you with him back to his place?”

“Because he’s not going back to his place. He’s going back on duty!” I threw up my hands. “I can’t expect you to understand. And I shouldn’t have to explain myself, either. We’re divorced, Matt. We share a daughter and a business; and because of Madame’s bizarre sense of humor—not to mention her delusion that one day we’re going to reconcile—we both have a legal right to use this apartment. But we’re never again sharing the matrimonial bed, and I’d like to find someone who will.”

“Oh? So now the flatfoot is more than a passing law enforcement fetish? He’s potential husband material? And this happened after a month of his not sleeping with you?”

I threw the second shoe.

“Hey!” Matt lifted his cast again, and it bounced off. Then he actually had the nerve to grin at me. “Looks like you’re out of ammo!”

“Arrrrrggggh!”

“Come on, Clare. Truce? How about we for call for pizza? Sal’s delivers all night.”

“I’d rather reload with a closet full of shoes!”

I wheeled and stormed out of the living room. My adrenaline had been pumping, and I had no interest in going to bed, but I had to get away from Matt. Unfortunately, he didn’t get the hint. Matt’s footsteps followed mine right up the duplex’s short staircase and into the master bedroom.

Madame had decorated this duplex years ago, when she’d lived here with Matt’s father. Not only had she filled the place with amazing antiques, she’d lined the walls—bedroom and marble bath included—with lovingly framed sketches, doodles, watercolors, and oils that had been created over the decades by artists who’d frequented the Village Blend, from Edward Hopper and Jackson Pollack to Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat.

The four-poster bed of carved mahogany was one of my favorite pieces in the master bedroom, and it didn’t even completely dominate the space. Commanding just as much attention on the opposite wall was a carved hearth of ivory-colored marble. A century-old, gilt-edged French mirror hung above the fireplace, and a chandelier of pale rose Venetian glass hung from a fleur-de-lis medallion in the center of the ceiling.

The walls had been painted the same pale rose as the imported chandelier, while the door and window frames echoed the same shade of ivory as the marble fireplace and silk sheers covering the floor-to-ceiling casement windows.

It was a stunning room in a spectacular apartment, which was unbelievably convenient for me, since the Blend was just two flights down. And, until this evening, I hadn’t seriously considered giving up the use of it. Affordable apartments were scarce in Manhattan and rent-free, fully furnished duplexes in the West Village weren’t just unheard of, they were a fairy tale come true.

Unfortunately for me, this fairy tale came with a troll—one who seemed to take delight in popping up at the worst possible times. Matt’s constant world traveling usually kept him out of the picture. A few days a month, tops,