Page 57 of Fallen Angel

With shaking hands, Poppy manages to get dressed. Violet escorts her wordlessly out of the room, sending her back down the dark hallway alone.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

In the morning, Mallory decides that her disastrous night with Gavin is more comedy than tragedy. Unfortunately, the person who would most appreciate the humor of the story is the one person she can’t talk to about it: Alec.

Ironically, spending time with another man has made her appreciate Alec more than ever. Their connection, however flawed, is deep and genuine and rare. So why is it so difficult?

Before she can start obsessing, untangling, rationalizing, and second-guessing her decision—break up—Poppy calls.

“Can you meet for coffee? It’s important,” she says.

Mallory wants to be a friend, and she wants to be supportive of Poppy’s relationship with Patricia. But considering the state of her own life, she doubts she has much to offer in terms of advice.

“Poppy, I’m honestly in no state to be telling anyone else how to fix their love life.”

“It’s not about my love life. It’s about the Blue Angel.”

Oh. Another topic she has no business getting involved in.

“You know I don’t work there anymore, right?”

“Yeah. I’m hoping you still care about Agnes and the future of the place.”

She does.

Mallory takes the subway down to Nolita, to a bakery just off Mulberry Street. Tucked into a narrow side street, the building that houses the bakery has clearly been there forever, but the cakes in the glass cases are modern marvels—tall, layered creations with glossy ganache drips, buttercream florals, and seasonal fruits perched like jewels. The floors are the original hex-tile floor, worn smooth in places, spelling out the name of a long-gone grocer in faded black-and-white mosaic. The ceiling is pressed tin, gleaming softly under the warm glow of milk glass pendant lights. A long marble counter runs the length of one wall, its surface veined and nicked from decades of use.

The room smells of sugar and vanilla and butter. Mismatched bistro chairs are set around small marble-topped tables. She finds Poppy seated at one, eating a large slice of lemon cake with a plastic fork.

“Breakfast of champions,” Mallory says, taking the seat across from her.

Poppy doesn’t smile. Mallory has never seen her look more miserable. So she shifts gears, gets serious, and asks what’s going on.

“I was at a fitting with Agnes, and she told me she’s considering selling.”

“Costumes?” Mallory says.

“No! Not costumes. The club. Someone wants to buy the Blue Angel.”

Mallory doesn’t believe it.

“She’d never sell.”

Poppy shrugs. “I was there when some lawyer called. This is real.”

“Who’s the buyer?”

“They’re anonymous.”

Mallory sits quietly in disbelief. Yes, Agnes had seemed a bit cynical when she told her she was quitting. But given the circumstances, she hadn’t given it a second thought.

“Well, it’s hard for me to imagine the Blue Angel without Agnes. But if that’s what she wants, we have to respect it.”

Poppy stuffs her mouth with a forkful of icing. Mallory can imagine her own teeth tingling from the sugar. They sit in silence for a few seconds, and then Poppy says, “Remember the other night when I told you I was attracted to other people and I felt guilty?”

Mallory is momentarily disoriented by the change in topic.

“Yeah,” she says. “And I told you that’s normal and harmless if you don’t act on it.”