He picked up his coffee and tossed the bag from one hand to the other. She saw the Swatch watch on his left wrist, a scar on the underside of his jaw (from playing ice hockey, she’d learn), and almond-shaped icy-blue eyes.
“Want me to wait for you?” Matthew asked. “I could maybe walk you home?”
* * *
The waiter breaks into her memory, clearing away Marissa’s appetizer plate and asking if she’d like another glass of wine when her scallops are delivered.
“No, thank you.”
The young couple a few tables over get up and head toward the exit, the guy’s hand hovering by the small of the woman’s back but not actually touching it.
Marissa’s eyes trail them. Just before they reach the maître d’, they step aside to let another customer pass by.
Her heart leaps.
It’s Matthew.
He strides to her table and leans over. He kisses her on the cheek, just as he did after he walked her home in the velvety August air on that long-ago night, when they were teenagers and on the cusp of something life changing. Back then, he was saying good night.
Right now, he is saying hello.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AVERY
SUNDAY MORNINGS ARE SUPPOSED TO be lazy. If it weren’t for Romeo trying to lick my face and bumping his cone against my cheek, plus the realization that I’ve scheduled an important 10:00 A.M. appointment, I’d roll over and go back to sleep.
Instead I flip onto my right side, draping my arm around my dog, and grab my cell phone from the charger. Two days in, and I’ve already broken the no-sleeping-in-my-bed rule.
There’s nothing urgent to attend to. Just an email confirming the address of my meeting and a text from Derrick. Fun night, babe. Wish I was waking up next to you.
It had been a fun night, even if I’d arrived nearly half an hour late, explaining I’d had a client emergency. This was only a partial fib. I’d planned to be at Derrick’s place in Adams Morgan by 8:00 P.M., but Marissa and Matthew’s date night proved more complicated than I’d anticipated.
I’d needed to make sure the Bishops had followed my instructions and gone out together. And I’d wanted to observe the couple as they left their home, and again as they entered the restaurant. Would their body language change when they were in public versus in private?
It would be informative to compare my impressions with their recounting of the evening when we met for our third session.
The first surprise of the night came when Marissa drove to the restaurant alone. I followed her in Paul’s old Mercedes, then double-parked with my hazard lights flashing, figuring Matthew must have had a prior commitment and was meeting her there. I hadn’t used Paul’s car in a while, and I swear when I first opened its door, I could still smell the faint scent of his cologne.
Twenty minutes later, Matthew still hadn’t shown up, and I’d been flipped off by more than one driver who’d had to maneuver past me. Was it possible he’d driven to the restaurant before Marissa and I’d simply missed his entrance? I was tempted to call the maître d’ and ask if the Bishops had arrived—I could pretend I wanted to send them a bottle of wine—then Matthew pulled up in his Land Rover and jumped out, handing his keys to a valet. But rather than hurrying inside to meet his wife, Matthew remained on the sidewalk. I leaned to my right and peered through the passenger-side window, trying to see what he was doing.
He was on his phone.
Matthew was late, and his wife was waiting. Was he trying to punish her, or was the conversation truly important?
After a full four minutes, Matthew finally tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his blazer and strolled into Mon Ami Gabi.
Now as I lie in bed, my fingers unconsciously stroke Romeo’s back. It’s soothing, but not just for him. Something about the steady, repetitive motion quiets the questions ricocheting through my mind.
All marriages contain secrets; of this I’m certain.
Marissa has revealed one. Is Matthew hiding something equally explosive?
I hope my 10:00 A.M. meeting will help me figure some of this out.
I haul myself up, throw on jeans and a sweatshirt, and brew a cup of to-go coffee. Then I grab my dog’s leash and we head out into what has shaped up to be an unexpectedly sunny, mild day.
* * *
An hour later, I’m opening the door to a bedroom—but not my own. It’s in a home on one of the most exclusive streets in Chevy Chase, just a half mile or so from Matthew and Marissa’s place.
I take in the vaulted ceiling, gas fireplace, and blond hardwood floors. The walk-in closet is about the size of my first studio apartment in Georgetown, and the bathroom is every woman’s fantasy, with its deep, claw-foot tub and multi-jet shower.
“The tiles were handcrafted in Italy,” murmurs the broker beside me. It’s stunning. It should be, for $3.2 million, I think. It’ll be tough to find a flaw.
My broker has been mostly quiet during our tour—she seems to want the house to speak for itself—but now she leads me back into the cheerful, newly renovated kitchen, where I know she’ll ask questions designed to gauge my interest. I’ve already established myself as a serious buyer by telling her I’m prequalified and need to find something within the next month.
“So, where did you say you were moving from again?” she begins, leaning forward with her elbows on the kitchen counter. Her pencil skirt hugs her curvy hips, and her blouse is undone enough that I can see the tip of her blue lacy bra.
“Naples,” I answer, because I have a little familiarity with the area from visiting my grandmother.
“Love it there! And it’s just you and your son?”
“Yeah, his father and I divorced a few years ago. It was kind of messy.”
“Say no more.” She gives a knowing laugh, as if we were already girlfriends. She’s good at her job; she’s building rapport.
“Oh, are you divorced, too?” I ask, thinking, Four years ago, but you’re still friendly enough with your ex to wish him a happy Father’s Day on social media.
Natalie runs manicured fingertips through her shiny dark hair. She’s every bit as alluring as Marissa indicated. “Yup. I have one child, too, Veronica. She turned six last month.” With a Frozen-themed birthday party, I silently add.
“Oh, my Teddy is five! I don’t suppose you have any advice about the schools here? That’s next on my list, after getting a house.”
“You have to get him into Rolling Hills. It’s the best private school around. The teachers are amazing. They start Mandarin in the second grade. And they are building a new STEM building. Of course it probably won’t be ready until after our kids graduate.…”
I nod, thinking, Mandarin in the second grade? “And the parents?”
“The usual—some helicopter moms, and a few cliques, but for the most part they’re a good group.”
“Hmm. What about the dads?” I give her a wink.
Natalie grins. “All the best ones are married. But you know what they say—every couple is just one big fight away from splitting up.”
“Do they really say that?”
She shrugs. “I do.”