Even now, with fatigue circles under his eyes, Matt was turning the heads of random females passing by. (No surprise.) His black sport coat was cut to hug his buff torso; his latte-cream button-down contrasted attractively with his tan—not the spray-on kind but a deep, natural glow from the kiss of an African sun. Even his jeans were fashionably scuffed, though in Matt’s case the wear and tear didn’t come from some urban house of design; it was earned via treks around the world’s coffee belt as he hunted the highest-quality arabica for the Blend and his other global clients.
“This is supposed to be a private party,” I informed him. “Invitation only. What did you think you were going to do? Charm your way past teenage usherettes?”
Matt folded his arms, suddenly looking pleased with himself. “I told them I had to make a delivery. A last- minute addition to your catering staff.”
“You mean you?”
“No. Not me, Clare. You know I don’t cater—”
“No, generally you’re the one catered to.”
“Very funny.” Matt jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Your new assistant is in the ladies’ room, freshening up.”
“Oh God.” My throat was closing up already. “You don’t mean Breanne?”
“Relax. Breanne’s uptown. Like I said, I had a connection in Paris so—”
“Oh God! You saw Joy?”
“Better than that.”
“You mean—”
“Yup,” Matt said with a nod.
“Hey, Mom, I’m home,” a voice called from across the lobby.
“Joy!”
A moment later, my daughter and I were wrapping our arms around each other in a hug I wanted never to end.
Fourteen
After signing in my daughter with building security, our little reunited family moved to the elevator bank. The spring in Joy’s step fortified me, and I noticed her dark brown hair was much longer than I remembered.
Over the years, Joy had picked up a few habits from Matt. The very worst of which (some drug use in nightclubs) I continually prayed would remain far behind us. Joy’s height was her dad’s, too, but her heart-shaped face and big emerald eyes were totally Cosi. What cheered me most of all was seeing the meat back on her bones.
Before she’d gone to France, a horrific ordeal had sunk Joy’s spirits along with her appetite. She’d lost enough weight to worry me. But now her figure was back to displaying its natural curves, the kind that seldom wanted for male attention.
“So tell me?” I fished, “what’s the boyfriend news? Another adorable French cook in your brigade?”
“Not even close!” Joy replied so quickly and lightly I flashed back on my own attempt to snowball Mike earlier in the day.
I folded my arms, shot her the maternal X-ray.
“It’s true, Mom! I’ve been
“Then how did you get away?”
She waved her hand—a gesture identical to Matt’s mother. It was so adult, so self-assured, I blanked for a moment, wondering how that could be. She was just five years old, wasn’t she? Helping me frost her grandma’s birthday cake. Or eleven, crying over some jerk of a neighbor boy who’d made fun of her. Fourteen, laughing as we tested a new recipe in our Jersey kitchen. Sixteen, alone at the stove, excitedly cooking a Julia Child feast for one of Matt’s visits. How could she possibly be in her twenties now? All grown up and living in Paris?
“. . . and next week Monsieur Boucher’s youngest sister is getting married. It’s a huge deal for their family. They rented a neo-Gothic castle in the Loire Valley, and since half his restaurant staff is related, he just threw up his hands and closed us down for a week.”
In the pause that followed, I stared at my daughter, willing my mind to catch up to the incomprehensible passage of time. “Boucher’s sister is getting married,” I repeated. “Well . . . I’m surprised you weren’t invited.”
“Oh, I was. But then Dad showed up and offered to buy me a ticket home.” She grinned. “How could I say no?”
My mind sharpened fast. Something about Joy’s tone sounded off. “I hope Monsieur Boucher wasn’t offended about your missing his sister’s wedding. What did you tell him?”
As I hugged her again, I noticed Matt staring.
“No boyfriend?” he said. “Really?
“Oh, Dad, the French guys I’ve met are okay, but none of them are worth hooking up with, you know?”
I stiffened. So did Matt. He was thinking the same thing I was, but neither of us had the stomach to ask. I certainly wasn’t going to bring up the dreaded
“So, Mom, when are we going to hear wedding bells for you and Mike?”
I blinked and stared. Joy’s question surprised me so much I wasn’t sure what to say. Thank goodness the elevator car
He didn’t.
“Come on, Mom—” Joy was grinning now. “Don’t go all quiet on me. I know you and Mike love each other.”
“We do,” I finally said. “And we may consider matrimony in the future. But right now things just aren’t settled enough in our lives.”
“That’s no excuse! Look at Dad. His life is crazy, but he married Breanne.”
Matt coughed—I’m pretty sure to hide a laugh. As I shifted from foot to foot, I could see he was smirking.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
“The day has finally come when our daughter thinks I’m a good role model for you.”
“Oh, please.”
“Come on, you guys,” Joy said, “don’t fight.”
“We’re not fighting,” I said. “But you should understand that Mike and I don’t view marriage the same way your father and his new wife do. They don’t have . . .” I was about to say a sacred union, but I knew it would come off badly.
“What?” Joy said. “They don’t have a traditional marriage? I’m not a kid anymore, Mom. We can certainly talk about these things.”
I didn’t reply. For one thing, this wasn’t the time or place. So I just gritted my teeth and checked our progress.
“Here we are!”
Leading the way down the corridor, I checked over my shoulder. The Garden was still full of guests, but it wouldn’t be for long. We had fifteen minutes before service, even less if the weather turned. Recalling that smell of dampness in the outside air, I pushed quickly through the Loft’s doors and waved Joy and Matt inside.
