“All of the ferry times and the missed shipments and the timing and the spoiling.” He waved his hand toward the line, which was now only five deep. “And people wait and wait and they buy only one or two macarons, and that is not enough to sustain us. My boss has lost money on us this summer. I have lost money for him.” Luca looked disappointed in himself and Joy felt her sympathies begin to shift.

He shook his head sadly. “We are only, what do you call it, men for hire, my son and I. It is a man in New York who has the money, who owns the truck, who made the plan. If it is not a success this year”—he made a poof motion and the accompanying sound—“then we will not be back next year. We knew that from the start. And it is not a success this year.”

“So what will you do?” Joy asked.

“We will go back home.”

“New York?”

“No, no. No. Home. Paris. France. So the penalty for this—this permit situation. Can you tell me more about that? I will have to let my boss know. I was not aware . . .”

Joy felt something change then, a shifting of the tides. “You know what?” she said. “I’m just the messenger here. But let me put in a word with my boss and I’ll see what I can do about making this just a warning. Since you’re leaving soon and everything, it really doesn’t seem right to shake you down for a fee.”

His relief was almost palpable. “Really?” he said. “I would be so grateful. You would do that for me?”

She nodded magnanimously. It was such fun to wield power! Perhaps she should run for public office. “I would, Luca. I would do that for you.”

After Luca had returned to the bowels of the truck, Joy opened the container and took a peek inside.

Instead of a composed salad, the way a Niçoise was often served, the Patisserie had cut up the beans into bite-sized pieces, pan-fried the boiled potatoes to leave little crispy bits in the salad, and done the eggs in a medium boil, so that the yolks hadn’t gone all chalky. Besides the usual suspects—the olives, the cherry tomatoes chopped in half—she thought she spied some chopped fresh herbs, and a deep sniff told her she was right. Tarragon? Chervil? She didn’t see any anchovies in the salad, but when she dabbed her index finger into a piece of the (she had to admit, beautifully torn) butter lettuce and put it to her lips, she thought she tasted anchovy. The bastards must have minced it and put it right into the dressing.

Even though Joy was about as loath as could be to say it, it sort of had to be said: that food truck had turned out a genius of a salad.

Chapter 67

ANTHONY

ANTHONY, WALKING DOWN Water Street, turned when he heard his name. Joy. His heart thumped and turned over, once, twice, experimentally, like an engine trying to start in the cold. He turned around. He’d missed her so much, but now here she was in front of him, and his heart was still full of his father’s death. It was hard now to find room for anything else.