What a tangled web.
“I ran into a very happy little girl down the street. I take it Special Agent Greer’s investigation lets Joe Huang off the hook.”
“Not completely, not yet,” Tracy said. “But it appears to be headed that way. Seems her birthday explains the timing of his presence in the country. He’s cooperating with the feds and has implicated his boss and others in the organization. Something to do with imported goods and trade secrets—that’s about all we know at this point.”
So all suspects were present and accounted for. All was right with the world.
Or would be. Shortly.
THE fragrance of a deep simmer, of fish and stock and bay leaves, greeted me when I unlocked the front door to my building.
And a fuzzy dog and a gorgeous man greeted me at the front door of the loft. From the living room came the sounds of Diane Schuur singing Cole Porter. “So nice to come home to.”
Nate took my face in his hands and kissed me. Then he took my red, scraped hands and kissed my palms.
“Can you stand one more bowl of soup?” he asked. “All that soup talk early this week got me in the mood.”
“When it smells this good, you bet.”
I was halfway to the bathroom when I stopped and turned around. “By the way, Mr. Fisher Man, I don’t think I’ve told you lately that I’m madly in love with you.”
“It goes both ways, Spice Girl.” A slow sweet smile crossed his face. “It goes both ways.”
I took a quick shower to rinse off the remains of the day. In the bedroom, I put on a clean T-shirt and glanced around. Two walls redbrick, two painted a soft caramel. The bed covered with the black-and-white antique quilt Kristen and I had found in a shop up near the Canadian border. The rolling doors, the tansu, the neon lips on the wall. Nate’s sweater tossed over the wooden chair.
I didn’t need to expand into the unit beneath this one. Maybe Glenn and his Nate could rent it during their construction project. My loft was perfect just the way it was. I’d rather leave it alone and gain a new neighbor. Throw more potlucks and cocktail parties for the building. Start working on that rooftop garden.
Then the music stopped and the broadcasters started their World Series pregame chatter. I stepped into a fresh pair of yoga pants and smiled.
Everything I wanted, everything I loved and needed, was safe and warm and dry, right here, between these four walls.
Thirty
Our house is a very, very, very fine house . . .
Now everything is easy ’cause of you.
— Graham Nash, “Our House”
A WEEK HAD PASSED SINCE WHAT MY NEAREST AND DEAREST were calling the Great Sidewalk Coffee Caper. The newspaper had run lengthy articles discussing virtually every aspect of Patrick Halloran’s career, the twists and turns the investigation had taken over the years, and the unexpected link to Maddie’s shooting. A series of stories covered the Petrosian family, the properties they’d saved from the wrecking ball, and their good deeds. At my request, the detectives had referred to my role only as “assistance from a citizen.” If the charges against Byrd went to trial, I’d have to testify and my identity would be made public. But I didn’t want reporters and camera crews following me through the Market or camping on my doorstep. I had a business to run, and a party to throw.
All the staff were on hand, including Cody Ellingson, whose main job today was to help Matt keep the pseudo-samovar full of tea and sweep up cookie crumbs and dropped napkins.
The heads of the Public Development Authority and the Market Merchants Association had both dropped by to offer congratulations and enjoy lemon thyme shortbread and ginger-snaps. Friends and suppliers had sent flowers and other gifts. Market neighbors, including Misty the Baker, Vinnie the Wine Merchant, and my new pals, Jamie the Painter and Lily and her mother, had come by.
Edgar arrived with a shopping bag. “For you and your sweetheart. Hide it so your employees won’t be tempted.”
I peered in at the brown paper “to go” boxes. “What is it?”
“The best crab cakes in the city. And bones for your dog.”
Treats for the entire family. “I have to confess, I didn’t solve your stolen spice problem all by myself. Sandra helped, and so did Tariq.”
Edgar’s eyebrows rose, but I had a feeling that if Tariq came looking for a job, Edgar might give him a chance.
“Good,” he said. “Good. But now I need a new bartender.”
I glanced at Cody. I knew from his job application that he’d turned twenty-one a few weeks ago. “Will you train?”
“Si, si, yeees!” Edgar said.
My good deed might cost me my new deliveryman. No matter. At that age, I hadn’t had a clue what I wanted to do with my life, but eventually I’d found the right path. Restaurant work might be Cody’s path or not, but I was happy to give him all the help I could.
I left the two men talking and greeted Jamie, who held out a small flat package. “Special delivery.”
I unwrapped it and turned the canvas over. Then I gasped, and I swear, my hand flew to my heart.
“It’s—it’s spectacular. The colors. The flowers. The joy.”
“I call it ‘The Dance of the Dahlias,’” she said. “It’s a thank you gift, for making me feel so welcome in the Market.”
In a day crazier than any day in ages, tears streaming down my hot, sweaty cheeks, nothing could have made me happier.
Except the next arrivals: Tim, Maddie, and the kids, each in new Sounders
