The Marriage Lie(16)
I found him bent over one of my cookbooks in the kitchen, the most amazing smell hanging in the air. “What’s going on?”
He whirled around, a twig of thyme dangling from a curl and a mixture of pride and guilt on his expression. “Um, I’m cooking.”
I could see that. Anyone could see that. He’d used every pot and pan we owned, and covered the entire countertop, every single inch, with food and ingredients and cooking utensils. Will was covered in flour and grease.
I smiled. “What are you making?”
“Standing rib roast, new potatoes in butter and parsley, and those skinny green beans wrapped in bacon, I forget what they’re called.”
“Haricots verts?”
He nodded. “I’ve got dessert, too.” He gestured to two chocolate lava cakes in white ramekins, cooling on a rack by the oven. He’d even sprinkled them with powdered sugar. When I didn’t respond, he said, “We can still go out if you want to. I just thought—”
“It’s perfect,” I said, meaning it. I didn’t care that the kitchen was a wreck, or that we’d miss our reservations at the new sushi hot spot in Buckhead. Will cooked, and for me. I smiled and leaned in for a kiss. “You’re perfect.”
The meal, however, was not. The roast was overdone, the potatoes were mushy, and the haricots verts were cold, but no food had ever tasted better. I ate every single bite. Afterward, we took the cakes upstairs and devoured them in bed, kissing and licking and growing delirious on chocolate and sex, loving like there was no tomorrow.
But tomorrow came.
8
“Mrs. Griffith, let me begin by expressing my deepest condolences for the loss of your husband.”
Dad, Dave and I are sitting shoulder to shoulder, a united front across from our Liberty Airlines point of contact, Ann Margaret Myers, a thin, blonde woman in a punishing ponytail. The tag hanging from her neck identifies her as Care Specialist, and I hate her on sight. I hate her starched pink blouse and the way she’s buttoned it up all the way to the notch in her throat. I hate her long, French-tipped fingernails and the way she clasps her hands so fiercely together that the skin turns white. I hate her thin lips and her mud-puddle eyes and her mask of empathy so exaggerated, I have to sit on my hands so I don’t punch it off her face.
My father leans both forearms onto the wooden table. “Actually, Ms. Myers, we’d like you to begin with an explanation of how the media learned Will’s name before his own wife was told he was on the plane.”
Ann Margaret’s spine goes ramrod straight. “Excuse me?”
Dad lifts a shoulder, but the gesture is anything but casual. “You’d think an airline would have better ways of informing the next of kin than releasing the passengers’ names to the media, but what do I know? I suppose you folks at Liberty Air have a different way of doing things. What I can tell you is that your policy is a shitty one.”
“I...” Her lips flap around like a stranded fish, and her gaze flits back and forth between me and my father. “You learned about Mr. Griffith from the news?”
The three of us nod, once and in unison.
“Oh, my God, I had no idea. I can assure you, Mrs. Griffith, Mr. Stafford, that is absolutely not Liberty Air’s policy. Someone over there made a huge, grave error, and I am so very, very sorry.”
I know what she’s doing. She’s distancing herself from both the airline and their mistake, and I’m not buying it. Not even a little bit.
And judging from his scowl, neither is my father. “I appreciate that, Ms. Myers, but I’m sure you can understand that an apology from you isn’t going to cut it. We’d like an explanation, and we want to hear it from the person responsible.” He leans back and crosses his arms, commanding, authoritative and in charge. On a good day, my father is someone to be reckoned with. Today he’s supreme command.
Ann Margaret is clearly rattled. “I absolutely understand. As soon as we’re done here, I will find out what went wrong and then coordinate a face-to-face meeting between that person and your family. Does that sound like an acceptable solution to the three of you?”
Dad gives her a curt nod, but I don’t move. To me it sounds like her throwing us a bone, but I’m too tired, too shaken and shattered to say anything without flying across the desk and wrapping my hands around her neck.
The room Liberty Airlines has stalled us in is an airline executive lounge in Hartsfield’s brand-new international terminal. It’s plush and roomy, decorated in dark jewel tones, with sitting areas and a bar and an entire wall of windows overlooking the concourse. Airplanes lumber back and forth on the other side of the glass like giant missiles, taunting me with murderous intent.
“Has the press found you yet?” Ann Margaret says, and I turn back to the table.
Dave nods. “They’ve been calling the house all morning, and there are a couple of vans camped out on the street. Some of the reporters even had the nerve to ring the doorbell and ask for an interview.”
She shakes her head, disgusted. “We’ve specifically asked the media outlets to respect the privacy of our families, but not all of the journalists listen. What I can do is make sure you get out of here without having to interact with them. And may I suggest you appoint a family friend to be media contact? That way, you won’t have to talk to them until you’re ready.”