“I’ll be waiting.” I grab my bags from the back seat and head into Delphine’s shop. Fortunately she’s with a customer, too preoccupied to notice the giant shit-eating grin covering my face.
Merritt’s IQ has to be akin to the department store lipstick she keeps in her designer satchel . . . because this is almost too easy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MERRITT
“Rough day?” I ask when Luca pours himself two fingers of Scotch after work.
I can’t remember the last time I saw him drink at home. He’s never been a fan of alcohol, typically ordering a cocktail or beer at dinners out mostly for show. The minibar we installed during the remodel was predominantly for me. When not with child, I enjoy a nice glass of cabernet with dinner or the occasional top-shelf cocktail on the weekends. The Scotch was a Christmas gift from several years ago. The $200 collector’s bottle imported from Scotland went perfectly with the Baccarat crystal tumblers I’d bought us for our first wedding anniversary. They were the perfect complements to our well-appointed home bar. But this is perhaps the third time I’ve ever seen my husband so much as go near that bottle.
I’m hopelessly wild about Luca, but not when he’s drunk. There’s a darkness in his eyes when he overindulges. He slurs and rambles and becomes testy. Wine doesn’t affect him as much as the hard stuff, but he generally avoids both.
He tosses the entire thing back in one gulp, wearing a pained expression when he’s finished. My esophagus burns with phantom sympathy.
I’ll have to keep an eye on him.
“Come.” I thread my fingers through his. The roast chicken I put in the oven still has another ten minutes. “Let’s sit down and relax for a bit . . .”
I lead him to the family room, where Elsie plays with her little dollhouse and the wooden family I had specially made from some local artisan in Bent Creek. Little wooden versions of Luca, Elsie, me, and the baby.
We sink into the sofa cushions together, and I nuzzle up to him, inhaling the cocktail of restaurant scents that cling to his dress shirt.
“Heard anything from out east?” I ask. Out of three pitches, there has to be someone.
“One said definitely not.” His body tenses with his words. “The other said they were waiting until next week, after a shareholder meeting. Nothing from the third.”
“I’m not worried.” It’s a little white lie. I don’t tend to make a habit out of dishonesty, but someone needs to be the beacon of hope.
“That makes one of us.” He stares out the picture window, toward the gray seascape beyond our backyard. It isn’t like him to be so gloom and doom, but I don’t hold it against him. His mind must be laden with worry and doubt and uncertainty.
“I, um, had lunch with Lydia today,” I say. But before he allows me to explain, he flies off the sofa and grabs a fistful of his dark hair.
“Jesus Christ, Merritt.” His dark eyes burn with a fiery haze. “What the hell are you thinking? She’s not your friend. Did I or did I not tell you to stay away from her?”
I stay calm—mostly for Elsie’s sake and for the baby, but also because Luca needs to simmer, and meeting his frenzy with mine won’t help anything.
“I just think . . . if we could help her get on her feet,” I say, rising, confident. “I think that’s all she wants—all she needs.”
His arms fold, muscles straining against the white fabric of his button-down.
“Luca, the woman had holes in her shoes. She literally has nothing,” I say, keeping my tone as casual as if we were discussing tomorrow’s dinner menu.
“So, what . . . you’re going to buy her a new wardrobe and send her on her way? Is that how you think this is going to pan out?”
“I don’t know how it’s going to pan out,” I say. “But I think taking a rational approach to this, handling it like grown adults, being generous in whatever ways we can—”
“Generous?” He tugs a handful of hair again. “Generous, Merritt? I just laid off three servers today. And tomorrow, I’m shuttering the coffee shop. That’s eight more out of jobs. We can’t afford to be generous, and even if we could . . . you need to run these things by me.”
The timer on the oven chimes. I meet his wild regard with one of my own. “I’m only trying to help.”
“Daddy!” Elsie runs to her father, arms outstretched. He scoops her up, kissing her cheek as his stare locks on mine.
For the first time in remembrance, I can’t begin to know what he’s thinking.
He turns his attention to our daughter, and I toddle to the kitchen, my belly sore from a day of Braxton-Hicks. While I’m well aware of our financial situation and it pains me to hear of the layoffs, I will not be treated like an imbecile.
I’m going to right this ship—with or without his permission.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LYDIA
“Just one today?” The doll-faced strawberry blonde hostess with lashes up to her eyebrows and a whittled waist greets me at Coletto’s by the Sea.
I nod, scanning the dreamy restaurant bathed in natural light.
Grabbing a linen menu, she leads me to a corner table for two flanked with windows and a perfect view of the crashing waters. A tea light candle glimmers next to wooden salt and pepper mills, and piano music mixes with tinkling silverware to create a relaxing ambience. Overhead, exposed wood beams complete the experience, adding an earthy, homegrown touch.
Poring over the menu, I laugh out loud at the prices. Literally.
Twenty-five dollars for a bowl of oyster soup?
One-fifty for sea bass?
A thirty-dollar house salad?
Either Luca’s a brilliant businessman—or success has made him greedy.
“Hi, I’m Jolie, and I’ll be your server today.” A twentysomething girl with a mess of caramel curls piled on top of her head brings me a glass of iceless water. “Can I start you out with something from our drink menu? We’re featuring our Walnut Grove Malbec today, or I can bring you a list of our cocktail specials.”
“Iced tea. Please,” I say. “Thank you.”
Having worked in the serving industry before, I’ve learned that the kindest patrons are the ones who say “please” and “thank you” right off the bat. It sets a precedent. And it’s a sign of respect, basic human decency. It almost always guarantees you decent service.
“I’ll be right back with that.”
I study the menu in her absence. Since I’m not hungry, nothing jumps out. Delphine had the random urge to whip up a big breakfast this morning, and like a pampered bohemian queen, I feasted off egg white spinach omelets and ancient grain toast with local strawberry jam. Better than anything on this pretentious menu.
Regardless, I didn’t come here to eat.
I locate the most expensive item—a surf and turf special featuring a filet mignon and fresh Maine lobster, which the menu boasts is imported daily.
Two hundred bucks.
With prices like this, no wonder he’s doing so well for himself.
I have her throw the house salad in as well. And a chocolate soufflé for dessert because the menu states they require a thirty-minute lead time.