Hennessy led the way, finding her impeccably dressed, blonde hair perfectly arranged, a tasteful amount of makeup rendering her skin flawless. “Oh, thank God,” she grumbled, stepping away from the espresso maker, relief filling her gaze. Meeting Hennessy’s eyes, she said, “Could you possibly make me a cappuccino?” Given the day she’d had so far, Hennessy thought she might be past being shocked. But both Bartley women were skilled at knocking a person off her stride. “Have you checked your phone?” She moved to the espresso machine and tried to replicate what they’d done the day before. “I did.” She leaned against the counter, casually crossed one ankle over the other and gave Townsend a long look. It was tough to put into words how bad she looked, like someone who’d broken out of the hospital during a plague outbreak. But Miranda didn’t make a single comment. “I called over there and learned that Jim had already come to the rescue.” Half of her attention was on Hennessy, supervising the progress on the drink she was obviously very invested in, the other half on her daughter, her investment clearly less dramatic.
