Wow, she thought as he turned away. Maybe he had short-term amnesia from all the peroxide in the hair color? Too much aerosol from the sprays? Mousse-induced dementia?

Cait went back to where she’d done her disrobing and got down on her knees, patting under the built-in bench, looking around on the carpet. She even pulled her sweater out at the neck to see if the shell had gotten stuck in the weave.

“Damn it…”

Heading back out, she went over to Pablo, who was clearly tapping his boots to go home. The “lovt und fond” was in fact a Stuart Weitzman shoe box, and in it there were two pairs of sunglasses, a stringy scarf, a couple of chunky, fake-gold necklaces, and…

A hoop earring that was big enough to double as a choker.

No dainty seashells. But she hadn’t really expected it to be there—Pablo didn’t seem like the type to rock a vacuum around his business before he left for the night.

“Okay, thanks,” she said. “It’s a little seashell, a gold shell?”

“Do ve haf number for oo?”

“Ah … your assistant called it yesterday to confirm my appointment with you?”

He seemed confused. “Vell, wee call if fond.”

“Thanks.”

Outside, she shook her head. Weird, weird, weird. But lost accessory be damned—the guy did great hair, and that’s what she was paying him for.

He must have one really short Christmas list, though.

Back in her Lexus, she gave the whole head-to-Old Caldwell thing another go, and about fifteen minutes later, she made it to the part of town where an entire twelve-block section of multicolored Victorian mansions had been turned into condo associations, cafés and shops—although the latter were nothing like where she’d just been. Here they were folk-art galleries, organic spice sellers, hemp clothiers, that kind of thing.

“Four seventy-two … four seventy-two … where are you…?”

Seemed like this was the theme for the night, her out in the dark, searching for—

“Got it,” she said as she hit the directional signal.

The café was called the Black Crow, but its exterior was all about the friendly: the gabled details, the overhang above the door, and the curlicues under the eaves were painted pink and yellow and pale blue. Matter of fact, the facade looked like a cartoon face, its two plate-glass windows like oversize eyes, with the rafters as the brows and the slate roof like a bowl haircut.

Following the arrows around behind, she rode out the potholes in the dirt lane between buildings and parked in the shallow lot.

Grabbing her bag, she got out—

Over by a door marked “Staff Only,” a man was getting off a vintage motorcycle … and as he removed his helmet, long dark hair swung free across a broad back. His leather jacket was beaten up, but it seemed weathered from age, not some kind of designer distressing stuff, and his long legs were covered with the sort of jeans that were very un-Victoria Beckam.

With a smooth movement, he bent down and took something from the back of the bike—a guitar case?

She couldn’t see the front of him because he was facing away from her, but the way he strode into the back of the café would have made her notice him even more than that dark rush of hair: He moved with total confidence. Maybe he was an owner? Or … the talent, given that case?

Whatever his role, he was in charge.

As that door clamped shut behind him, Cait shook herself, feeling strange that she’d just eyeballed some man. Then again, maybe the blond had gone to her head?

Har-har, hardy har-har.

Shaking herself back to reality, she walked around to the café’s front entrance and pulled open the door.

In a rush of air, she got hit with a hot blast of coffee, vanilla and patchouli—like a latte had been splashed in her face by a member of the Grateful Dead. Rubbing her finicky nose, she eyed the thick crowd and wondered how she was going to find anyone in the place: the café was long and thin as a cattle chute, with a bar that ran down one side, little tables lined up along the opposite wall, and about two hundred people squeezed between the two.

At least she was in the right place to hear music, though. At the far end, there was a raised stage big enough for a quartet, and all around the exposed brick walls, folk instruments hanging from wires alternated with fairly serious-looking speakers—

“Cait! Over here!” came a holler from down in front.

“Hey!” With a wave, she started to work her way toward the stage, squeezing between vertical waiters in sherbet-colored T-shirts, and seated patrons who struck her as disproportionately female.

“What the hell did you do to your hair?” Teresa Goldman said as she got to her feet for a hug.

Teresa had been a good friend in high school and a great roommate in college, the kind of girl who could be depended upon to give you a straight answer whether you needed it or not. In short, she was awesome—and a little frightening.

Especially when you’d gone from blond to brunette without any warning.

“Is it awful?” Cait fussed with her bangs. “Is it—”

“Fuck, no! It’s fantastic! Are you kidding me? And, Christ, have you lost more weight?”

Cait shuffled into a wooden chair that squeaked. “I haven’t lost any, I swear.”

“Bullshit.”

“Does your mother know you talk like that?”

“Who do you think taught me to curse?”

As they went through the back-and-forth they’d coined in their freshman year, a server brought Cait a menu printed on cardboard.

Cait stopped laughing as she looked things over. “Wait a minute—what’s all this stuff? Kombucha? Tulsi? Yerba mate?”

“You are so behind the times—”

“These people ever heard of Salada?”

“What a plebe—”

“No Earl Grey—?”

“You are not cool enough for your hair.”

Just like the good ol’ days, Cait thought with a smile. And see, this was exactly what she needed: a break from her work routine, a good distraction from her mourning, an opportunity to put her money where her mouth was—and live a little.

Teresa leaned forward. “Fine, forget the libations—I didn’t bring you here for the drinks.”

“Good.” Cait frowned. “Because I’m going to pass on all this. Call me common, but I’m proud of my simple Midwestern roots—Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is as exotic as I get.”

“The singer. It’s all about the singer.”

That man on the motorcycle? she wondered. “I didn’t know you were into music played in a place like this. Not exactly Aerosmith or Van Halen.”

“Ah, but the good news is Katy Perry isn’t showing up, either.”

“Hey, I like to work out to her stuff.”

“I can’t help that.”

“You know, you should really try to past eighties metal. How old were you when it came out? Three?”

“Have some kombucha with that judgment, would you?” Teresa grinned. “Anyway, his name’s G.B. and he comes here the last Monday of the month. As well as Hot Spot on Wednesdays at eight, the Hut on alternative Tuesdays, and the—”

“Are you a fan or his tour manager?”

“Wait’ll you see him. He’s incredible.”

The waiter in the raspberry shirt came back. “What can I getcha?”

“I’ll just have water.”

“We have tap, Pellegrino, Rain Forest—”

Too much choice around here, she thought. “Just tap.”

“With or without cubes?”

“Ah … with?”

“In a mug or a glass?”

“No preference.”

“Infused with—”

“Honestly, just plain tap would be great, thanks.” She smiled up at him as she handed the menu back.

As he left, she exhaled. “I don’t know how you handle it.”

“Again, not here for the drinks. Although I’ve tried the strawberry infusion and it’s awesome.” Teresa eased back in her chair. “So what’s new? I feel like it’s been a month since I saw you over the holidays.”

“That would be five months ago, I think.”

“Is it almost May? Wow.” Teresa shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention to time.”

“Which was why you gave me your schedule of classes each semester.”

“You always were a great sheepherder. Wish my assistant was as good as you were.”

“How’s work?”

“Same shit, different day. But I knew that tax law wasn’t going to be glamorous.”

“It’s clearly lucrative, though. What kind of bag is that? Prada?”

“Aw, you noticed, how sweet.”

As Teresa settled into a pause that grew much, much longer, Cait stiffened. Silence was antithetical to her old roommate. “Okay, what’s up. And tell me now, before the waiter comes back and interviews me for five years over whether or not I want a cinnamon bun.”

“Their croissants are better.”

“Spill it, Goldman.”

The hesitation lasted through the delivery of a tall mug full of ice cubes and H20.

When they were alone again, Cait said grimly, “You’re scaring me, Teresa, and no offense, after the last couple of weeks, I don’t need any more of that.”

“Yeah, I’d heard that Barten girl went to Union.”

Cait ducked her eyes. “She was in my drawing class.”

“Shit, Cait … I didn’t know you knew her.”

“I did. And she was a lovely girl—I had her for my intro to sculpting seminar, too.”

“You going to the funeral?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Cait looked up. “Now tell me what you don’t want to tell me.”

“There’s a sentence and a half.”

“Talk, Goldman.”

Her old friend cleared her throat. “Did you hear about Thom and the girlfriend?”

Cait looked away again. Yes, she thought. “No,” she said.

“They’re pregnant. Due this month, as a matter of fact. I ran into him downtown at the courthouse. I guess one of his colleagues was brought up on embezzlement charges and he was there to testify, and I was there for … shit, what does it matter. I just … yeah, I figured you’d want to know.”

Cait forced a smile onto her face, and didn’t know why she bothered. Teresa knew better than to be fooled by a fake show of teeth. “I’m happy for him. For them, I mean.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be a bitch, but it had to have been a mistake. I can’t picture Thom with his nitpick all covered in spit-up, while he changes diapers and fills bottles with formula. That man used to vacuum his dorm room. Who does that?”

“In his defense, we did.”

“We’re girls.”

“Traditional sex roles much?”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

Cait nursed her water, feeling a cold tingle in that molar with the iffy filling she needed to take care of.

The truth was, Thom had told her the news six months ago. As soon as they told their families. And to his credit, it had been in a kind way—because he didn’t want her to hear it from anyone else, and his GF was shouting it from the rooftop, evidently. Cait had been shocked to the core, but she’d said all the right congratulatory things … then hung up the phone and burst into tears.

The woman who was about to give birth to his baby was the one he’d cheated on her with.

Margot. Her name was Margot. Like she was a French movie actress or something.

Hell, maybe it was even spelled Margeaux.

At least they’d been together for a while now. How many years had it been? Almost as long as Cait had been with him. No, wait … longer. So why the pregnancy had been such a shock to the system, she hadn’t a clue. But it had thrown her into a tailspin that had landed her here, in this hard little chair, with new hair, and an improved body … and a sense that she was through hiding from life, and ready to…

Okay, she didn’t know the answer to the “what” on that one.

“Hey, did you know you’re missing an earring,” Teresa said.

“Oh, yeah. I think it happened at the hair salon—”

“Here he is,” Teresa hissed as she sat up straighter.

Cait glanced over her shoulder. And did a little spine stretching of her own.

Yup, it was the one she’d just seen by the bike … and if the guy had been an eye-catcher from the back, the front view was even better: His face was a stunning composite of strong lines, enhanced not only by that holy-crap hair of his, but a goatee and a pair of hooded eyes that had bedroom all over them. Long and lean, he was wearing just a muscle shirt now, his arms covered in flowing black and gray tattoos marked with lettering in a foreign language.