“You, too. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Nope, but even if you were, it would serve me right for calling Matthew on a Saturday night and making him late to your dinner date.”
Of course Matthew had been truthful about the call; Marissa can’t believe she doubted him even for a moment.
Spencer frowns as a man down the hallway waves to catch his attention. “Sorry, gotta run.” Spencer begins walking away hurriedly.
Matthew reaches for Marissa’s hand. “Renee, can you hold my calls?”
She smiles. “Of course.”
Matthew leads Marissa into his office and closes the door. The generous, sun-splashed space is just as she remembered it. Matthew’s glass desk and leather chair are positioned against a far wall, while the coffee table, love seat, and chairs that make up his sitting area are closer to the door.
“Sit down, sweetie.”
Marissa claims a spot on the love seat, leaving room for him to join her.
“What’s in the bag?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself.”
He peers inside: “Mmmm … it’s like you knew I needed a sugar fix to get through the rest of the day.”
A ringing sound cuts through the room, and Matthew frowns and hurries to his desk, picking up his cell phone. “I’m going to mute it.”
Marissa nods and her gaze drifts behind Matthew, toward the stunning view.
Her eyes widen. The black-and-white wedding photo that used to stand alone on the deep windowsill is now surrounded by a cluster of family pictures: one of Marissa and Matthew on the back of a camel in Egypt, another of Marissa in a black dress and Matthew in a tuxedo holding Harlequin masks over their eyes, and several of Bennett, including a baby photo in which he’s clutching a giant bagel with both hands, this year’s school picture, and one of him in his baseball uniform. The biggest photo of all is of the three of them, posed in front of their fireplace for their annual holiday greeting card.
Marissa experiences a flash of shame. She felt abandoned by her husband—even ignored at times—but all the while, he was surrounding himself with images of their family while he worked.
Maybe he felt as lonely as she did.
Now here he is, walking back toward her, looking at her with so much love, just like when they were first dating. He is so handsome he takes her breath away.
“I know you’re really busy. But I missed you and wanted to see you.”
He sits next to her and reaches for the napoleon, offering her the first bite.
She takes a small taste, then he brings the pastry to his mouth and takes a more generous one.
“Delicious,” he says. “You know, these always remind me of our trip to Paris.”
Marissa feels her eyes unexpectedly prick with tears. “Matthew, I want you to know how much I love you.” But instead of giving the compliment she rehearsed on the way over, she speaks from her heart. “Marrying you was the best decision of my life. You are the strongest, smartest man I’ve ever known. I don’t know when things between us began to shift, but I want more than anything for us to feel connected.”
A tiny cloud of whipped cream is on the side of his mouth. When he leans forward and kisses her, deeply, she tastes the sweetness on his lips.
A little later—after Matthew has walked her around the office to say hello to a few of his colleagues, keeping his arm around her the entire time; and taken the elevator with her down to the office lobby; and seen her safely to her car—Marissa finds herself so lost in thought at a stoplight that she doesn’t notice when it turns green.
The words Matthew murmured in her ear as they said goodbye fill her with a warm glow; it’s as if she were floating home: The first time I kissed you, it was like glimpsing the ocean for the first time. All these years later I still feel the same way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AVERY
NOTHING ABOUT POLLY is adding up.
After I rifled through Polly’s purse, I decided to remain in the area. Luckily, I’d tucked my laptop into my bag before leaving home, so I was able to work in the coffee shop down the street from Coco, giving me a chance to check it out in advance of the Monday meeting between Marissa and her old friend.
According to the résumé Marissa forwarded to me, Polly worked as a nanny and as a sales associate at Anthropologie prior to her job at Coco. When I talk to the mother of the young girls Polly babysat for, she verifies Polly’s employment, saying Polly was a devoted babysitter who really seemed to love the kids. Then I call Anthropologie, pretending to be the owner of another local boutique, but the manager isn’t available. Rather than leave a message, I decide to try again later. People tend to be more candid when they’re caught off guard.
I keep envisioning Polly trying on the floral scarf and tying it exactly as Marissa had worn it. It wasn’t just the off-center bow that caught my attention. The way Polly tilted her head and held her body as she stared in the mirror—she transformed from a slightly awkward, anxious young woman into someone who was confident and assured. It was as if she wanted to be Marissa.
I take a sip of my espresso and continue typing, detailing everything I can remember about Marissa’s assistant. Polly slept at Coco the night the mysterious note was pushed under the door, practically guaranteeing she’d be the one to find it. Instead of waiting and giving it to Marissa or simply calling her, Polly showed the note to Matthew.
After Matthew shared the note with me, my focus was on him and Marissa. The anonymous message thrust them toward the edge of a new crisis, one that I’m working to reel them back from.
Polly was in my periphery then. Now I bring her into full focus.
She was flustered when we all clustered around the note, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Agitated … or perhaps a little thrilled?
It’s common for perpetrators to visit the scene of the crime, to crave involvement as their misdeeds play out.
Marissa, Matthew, and I assume we know who wrote the message, which could be interpreted as longing, determined—or slightly sinister.
But maybe we all got it wrong.
What if Polly wrote the message?
I run through possible scenarios in my mind. Polly is secretly in love with Matthew, and trying to cause trouble in the Bishops’ marriage. Or, she could be obsessed with Marissa.
I set aside my questions about Polly and spend a couple of hours attending to other work, glancing up when a man takes a seat at the table directly next to mine, even though a number of empty tables are scattered around the coffee shop. I straighten my back and brace myself in case he’s from Acelia, but he simply pulls out his phone and begins playing an online game of Scrabble.
My week is busy: Sandra, my client who recently learned her older sister got pregnant with her at the age of fifteen and their parents pretended Sandra was their baby, is coming to see me tomorrow morning for her second session, Disruption. She’s a smart, articulate legislative assistant for a Democratic congresswoman. She is a challenging client, the kind I like best. I’m also meeting with a few prospective new clients, and I need to write the speech I’m giving at Georgetown University next week.
But nothing is pulling at my attention as much as meek, awkward Polly and the complicated lives of Matthew and Marissa Bishop. I’m acutely aware of time ticking by as I order another espresso, decaf this time, and a packaged cheese-and-fruit tray to nibble on. At 5:45 sharp, I pack up my laptop. Coco closes at 6:00 P.M., and I want to make sure I’m nearby when Polly leaves.