Mike shrugged. “Up to now, Franco’s had nothing but hit-and-run bedmates. Joy’s the first young women he’s maintained a friendship with.”
“That’s what Joy told me when I asked: ‘Franco is just a friend.’ Well, I didn’t want to admit this, but when she asked about us getting married, I wondered whether she was thinking about that question for herself. But she’s way too young to consider it—and Matt would strangle Franco before he’d let his little girl walk down an aisle with him.”
“Let’s table the discussion on your ex-husband, okay? I want to talk about something else. Something important—at least to me.”
“You mean those cold-case files? The ones that involve the Village Blend and Matt’s mother? Did you read them yet?”
“No. I’m still waiting on archived files.”
“Then what do you want to talk about?”
“Joy’s question—the one you don’t want to talk about.”
“You want some hot cocoa? Because I do . . .”
“Clare . . .”
I led Mike into the kitchen and stopped in shock. I’d expected to find a sink overflowing with dirty dishes, pans, and cutlery. But the place was spotless, not even a crusted fork sat in the sink.
“It’s all cleaned up,” I whispered.
“Must have been a good fairy,” Mike said, behind me.
“A fairy named Joy.”
Grateful, happy, proud (and still worried she was in for massive heartbreak with Franco), I reached for a saucepan and put some whole milk on the burner to warm.
“Okay,” I said, pulling out the squeeze bottle of dark chocolate syrup I’d made from Voss’s bittersweet. “What do you want to talk about?”
Mike sat down, ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Clare, answer me straight, okay? Why do you have reservations about making a commitment?”
“That’s not a fair way to characterize it.”
“Then what is?”
“I just have reservations . . .”
“About me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Because most of my days are spent digging the truth out of a steaming pile of equivocations, and it certainly sounds to me like you’re trying to break it to me gently.”
“Break what?”
“The fact that your feelings for me . . . that they have limits.”
“Mike, I love you. I love you with all my heart.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“It’s not my problem. It’s yours. I’m sorry Joy brought this question up, because whether or not you want to admit it, you don’t want a wife—”
“Hold it right there—”
“Look, maybe
He folded his arms.
“You need your freedom, Mike, a pass to come and go, to put your work first. And that’s okay with me. You don’t need the burden of a wife waiting for you to show for dinner every night, expecting you to hold up your end of a conventional relationship.”
“I don’t follow your argument. I’m
“You’re not hearing me. I’m saying the opposite. What we have now is working. And that’s why I want to keep things the way they are. I love my life, too . . . and I’m not about to change on you, but if our relationship changes, our lives change, and I’m not ready for that . . .”
“Clare, please . . .” He massaged his forehead. “Explain to me exactly:
“Why?” I threw up my hands. “You’re the one who nearly resigned his position this week! You don’t think that would change everything? If they reassigned you to a precinct in southern Brooklyn or eastern Queens, I would never see you.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Okay, I would
“I would simply commute to a new precinct.”
“With the hours you keep? The commitment you have? I’d have to move with you to keep our relationship going. Uproot from this place, this life . . .”
“You do realize this is a theoretical argument?”
“So? Most of your days are spent finding and proving some theory of a case, aren’t they?”
“That’s work. Law and procedure; cold, concrete crime solving. What I’m talking about is practically the metaphysical opposite—and I
Mike spoke again, his voice quiet. “You’re a worrier, Clare, but worrying isn’t going to solve anything. You have to learn to trust.”
“Trust you?”
“Trust yourself. Your decision. Your choice. Trust that things will work out . . . and if they go off track, you’ll find a way to get them back on again.”
“I just . . .” With a deep breath, I turned off the burner under the milk, moved to sit with him at the table. “I want things to stay the way they are. Is that so bad?”
Mike fell silent. He met my eyes. “You’re telling me it’s my turn to wait?”
Another man might have said those words with brittleness, with sarcasm. Mike said them with calm, quiet comprehension. I loved him all the more for it.
Leaning closer, I took his hands in mine. “I just need time, Mike.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. Enough to be sure we’re on the same path, enough to make certain that a wedding ring won’t end up feeling like a locked handcuff, on either of us.”
He took a breath. “I guess we both know waiting is a state I’m acquainted with.”
“Thank you. I mean it.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Clare. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I said. “And I’m here for you. That I promise you.”
“A promise is all I’m after.”
Thirty
The next day my coffeehouse was filled with small actors (literally).
Up the street, auditions were again under way for the new musical sequel to the
Our morning regulars fell silent as the front door opened and sixteen little people paraded across our floor. Most were middle-aged, a few older, every one of them less than four feet tall. As the group approached the counter, my newest, youngest barista didn’t even blink.
“Good morning,” Nancy Kelly said with a practiced smile. “What can I get you?”
I bit my cheek as Esther threw me a deadpan stare. “Looks like Dorothy is finally getting the hang of not