Punch roused himself from his post on the living room carpet, where he had been keeping vigil over the three pastel mignardises, and, with one last wistful glance at his little fondant charges, went to greet Morris, who, after fiddling with the key in the lock (hadn’t he just paid a small fortune to have it fixed?), had entered the house.
”Hey,” a voice called from the next room.
Morris set his laptop case down amidst the jumble of shoes, draped his Barbour over the newel post and braced himself.
“Working hard, I see,” he said to Rennie, who was pouring coffee into one of the mazagrands that Aimeé had found at the Marché Serpette one blistering hot afternoon in August (when most of the vendors were closed)…fifteen—or could it have been almost twenty?—years ago. She had bought it, Morris thought (stung by a quick prickle of resentment), as a birthday present for him.
