“Enjoy,” she says brightly, leaving us with the bottle.
Elena reaches for her glass and raises it. “To old friends.” She smirks and takes a sip.
I snort, feeling some of my tension leave my shoulders. “Old friends.” I raise my glass and gulp down a few mouthfuls of wine, not tasting it. Elena frowns and presses her lips together but says nothing, her eyes not leaving mine.
I sigh. She wants me to fill the silence. I’m going to have to say something. “How’s the business?”
“Good. It was generous of you to gift it to me. Thank you for that.”
“It was the least I could do.”
She glances down at her glass as the silence between us expands. Eventually, she breaks it. “As you’re here, I think I should apologize for how I behaved at your parents’ house.”
Well, this is a surprise. It’s not like Mrs. Lincoln to apologize for anything. Her mantra has always been “never apologize, never explain.”
“I said several things that I regret,” she adds quietly.
“We both did, Elena. It’s in the past.”
I offer her more wine, but she declines—her glass is still half full, while mine is empty. I pour myself another.
She sighs. “My social circle is considerably diminished. I miss your mother. It hurts that she won’t see me.”
“It’s probably not a good idea for you to get in contact with her.”
“I know. I understand. I never meant for her to overhear us. Grace was always most fearsome when it came to protecting her brood.” She looks wistful for a moment. “We shared some good times, though. Your mother knows how to party.”
“I don’t wish to know that.”
Elena laughs. “You’ve always placed her on such a pedestal.”
“I’m not here to talk about my mother.”
“What are you here to talk about, Christian?” She cocks her head to the side and runs a scarlet nail around the rim of her glass, icy blue eyes on mine.
I shake my head and take another long draft of the pinot.
“Has she left you?”
“No!” I snap. If anything, it was me who walked out.
What kind of man walks out on his pregnant wife?
Hell. Maybe my father was right.
His words come back to haunt me. It’s about you. You living up to your responsibilities. You being a trustworthy and decent human being. You being husband material.
Maybe I’m not husband material.
I shake off the thought as Elena gazes at me, and I know she’s trying to work out what’s wrong. “You miss it? The lifestyle? Is that it? The little woman not giving you what you want?”
Fuck you, Elena.
I don’t have to listen to her bullshit.
I start to slide out of the booth.
“Christian. Don’t go. I’m sorry.” She reaches for my hand, then changes her mind, so her outstretched hand becomes a fist on the table. “Please. Don’t go,” she pleads.
Two apologies from Mrs. Lincoln in such a short time.
I settle back in my seat. Warier.
“I’m sorry,” she says once more, for emphasis. Then tries a different tack. “How is Anastasia?”
“She’s good,” I answer, eventually, and hope that I haven’t given anything away.
Elena narrows her eyes; she doesn’t believe me.
I exhale and confess. “She wants children.”
“Ah,” Elena says, as if she’s solved the riddle of the Sphinx. “This shouldn’t be a surprise to you. Though I will say she’s a little young to be producing your spawn.”
“Spawn?” I scoff, because she’s said the last word with such malicious invective. Elena’s never wanted children. I suspect she doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body.
“Baby Grey,” she muses. “That will put an end to your predilections.” She looks amused. “Or maybe they’ve come to an end already.”
I scowl at her. “Elena. Shut up. I’m not here to discuss my sex life with you.” I drain my glass and pour more wine for us both, finishing the bottle. The pinot noir is beginning to work its magic. I’m already feeling hazy around the edges. It’s not a sensation I normally enjoy, but right now, I welcome the oblivion that beckons from the bottom of my glass. I signal the waitress for another bottle.
“Has she done something specific to upset you? I haven’t seen you drink like this in years.” Elena sounds most disapproving. But I don’t give a fuck.
“How’s Isaac?” I ask, to move the focus to her lover and away from my wife. My marriage is none of her business.
She half smiles and folds her arms. “Okay. I get it. You really don’t want to talk.” She pauses, and I know she’s waiting for me to spill my guts. But my secrets are mine. Not hers.
“Isaac is fine,” she continues, finally. “Thank you for asking. In fact, we’re really good at the moment.” She launches into a tale of their latest sexual escapade, but to what end, I don’t know. I half listen and half let the wine carry me away.
“So, is it the business? Is that your issue?” she asks when I don’t react.
“No, it’s going great. I bought a shipyard.”
She nods, impressed, I think, and I refill both our glasses from the latest bottle, and give her a rundown of what I’ve been doing at work: the solar-powered tablet, the fiber-optic business takeover, Geolumara, and of course the shipyard.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Always.”
“So, you’re talkative about your business, but not your wife.”
“And?” Is this a problem?
“I knew you’d come back,” she whispers.
What?
“Why are you drinking so much?”
“Because I’m thirsty.” And I want to forget how I behaved two hours ago.
She regards me through half-closed eyes. “Thirsty?” she breathes. “How thirsty?” She leans in and reaches over, taking my hand. I tense as her fingers slide under my palm, and beneath the cuffs of my jacket and shirt. Her fingernails digging into my flesh over my pulse. “Maybe I could make you feel better? I’m sure you miss it.” Her breath is stale, not sweet like Ana’s. Her hand tightens around my wrist, and from nowhere the darkness circles my chest and starts spiraling into my throat. It’s a feeling I haven’t experienced for a while, and now it’s back, amplified, echoing through my body and screaming for release.