Chapter 2
There is no way Mr. Reese could know. Finch is sure that he has never let a clue slip as to the significance of the date. Nor is a date of any special significance to Harold Wren, or Harold Martin or Harold Crane, or any of his other aliases.
“What is this, Mr. Reese?” He asks, pointing to the platter. John glances up from the stove.
“It’s a cake, Finch.” He announces solemnly. His face and tone of voice perfectly deadpan.
“I was inquiring as to the occasion.” Harold retorts, giving John a mild glare. There was no way Reese could know. He thought that the invitation to dinner had been spur of the moment. They’d finished with the number and he’d suggested they get some dinner. John had told him he had gotten some scallops from Fulton’s that morning and why didn’t Harold come over to the loft and John would make them dinner. It wasn’t the first time Mr. Reese had cooked for them, so Finch had agreed without thinking twice.
“No occasion,” John turns his attention back to the various saucepans bubbling on the stove. “I stopped in the bakery to pick up a loaf of bread and they had blueberry cake on special. It looked good and I figured we deserved a treat after that last number.”
Finch considers that for a moment. There last number had been a bit more trying than usual and the cake does look good.
“Thank you, Mr. Reese.” He says finally. “That is very nice of you.”
He is remembering his grandparent’s farm back in Iowa. Going with his grandmother to the pick blueberries down by the creek and afterwards she’d make his favorite blueberry cake. He remembers sitting at the kitchen table watching the candles glow while his family sings ‘Happy Birthday, Harold.'