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Joe rang the doorbell at seven on the dot and was greeted by everyone—Julie, best dog, and me. And wouldn’t you know, even on short notice he brought imported sauce from a small town in northern Italy, dessert from b. Patisserie, and a bottle of Brunello, a varietal from Tuscany, which he’d bought at the liquor store down the street. I’m pretty sure that bottle cost an extravagant hundred bucks.
Joe looked like the Joe I loved and had known in so many ways: lover, husband, companion, father of my child, and secret keeper who’d sworn to make things right. His dark curls had grown out, so I asked to see his scars so that I could put my hands in his hair.
And then I was in his arms.
He kissed me, and it felt like the first time years ago when we’d worked a case together, him with the FBI, me a lieutenant with the SFPD, and there had come a moment when we both just knew—this, the two of us, it was going to happen.
Joe said, “I knew Grant’s complaint was going nowhere.”
“I didn’t. But I couldn’t make a plan B. I didn’t want a plan B.”
“I’m really happy with plan A.”
“Me, too.”
He kissed me again, and I almost forgot the pasta on the stove and a darling little girl who looked like her dad, who was underfoot, and so was Martha. We stole another kiss. And the promise was made without words.
There would be more.
Joe stirred his special red sauce, and I made the salad with radicchio and romaine, escarole, and ripe Campari tomatoes. I whipped up a balsamic vinaigrette, spiced per Joe’s own recipe.
And as we cooked, we talked about bringing down Haight, of course. And we talked about Julie, how bright she was, how talkative, how she wanted a bed “without fences,” and we laughed at that. Soon she would be going to kindergarten, but not yet. There was plenty of time before Julie went to school. Family time.
I set the table, and Joe brought Julie over to her chair. I was trying on the thought of asking Joe to stay the night. It was up to me. It might be better to let dinner go with kisses and hugs and have another date next week. But I knew and he knew that I missed him. Julie missed him. So much time had passed and so much had happened since we’d split up, it was crazy to obsess about the past. Right?
Joe was dishing up dinner for Julie and me when my phone buzzed, rattling the glass top of the coffee table, far away in the living room.
Joe said, “Don’t take it, Linds.”
Then the landline rang.
“I’d better,” I said. “I’ll make it quick.”
I answered the wall phone in the kitchen, where I could watch Joe cutting up spaghetti for Julie.
“Right now?” I said to Jacobi. “Okay.”
I switched on the living room TV and called my husband over.
“Joe. Look.”
He stood up, came over, and focused on what I couldn’t believe I was seeing. A retina-searing blast had lit up the television screen. The newsman was saying that this explosion had happened in front of City Hall.
I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Oh, my God. Warren, please tell me again what he said.”
He talked and talked, and I listened even though I kept saying, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
CHAPTER 94
CONNOR GRANT DOUBLE-CHECKED the room for anything left behind, placed fifteen dollars on the dresser for the housekeeper. He strapped his big duffel onto the trolley, hung his travel bag over his shoulder, and headed down to the front desk.
Connor Grant’s credit card was currently in good standing, and after the charges that would never be paid were rung up, he rolled his duffel bag through the doors and out to the front of the motel.
A cab was waiting.
The driver was a woman built like a jockey. She wanted to help him with his bag, but he said, “No, no. Please just open the trunk. I’ll handle this.”
