The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(45)
I was stunned and unsure of what to say. I’d never had anyone pick me up, and I wasn’t even sure that was the guy’s intent. I know you can’t judge a book by its cover, but he seemed so earnest, even a bit sheepish in his approach, like he really never had done this before. Some people give off a vibe, you know?
“I’m sorry,” I said. I truly was. “I’m having lunch with my friend. But, thank you for asking.”
He nodded as if he understood my situation, though I’m certain he couldn’t have. Maybe it was my vibe. Maybe my vibe was sadness and desperation.
“No worries,” he said, taking a step back from the fence. “I just saw you sitting alone and thought . . .”
The hostess appeared at the table, escorting Brenda.
“Well,” the man said, nodding to us both. “Sorry to interrupt. Have a nice lunch.”
Brenda gave me an inquisitive, arched eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”
“No,” I said, watching the man walk away. A part of me wanted to chase after him, tell him I’d love to have lunch, and then we’d talk and I’d realize he was my soul mate. But I knew that was just an age-old fairy tale that had been done a billion different ways in books and movies.
“He just wanted to buy me a beer,” I said.
She smiled. “I don’t blame him. You look great. You’ve lost weight and you look really toned.”
I could again fit into what I referred to as my “skinny wardrobe.” I felt comfortable.
Brenda was casually dressed—casual for her, anyway. She wore slacks, a colorful blouse, and a brown jacket she quickly ditched over the back of her chair. For someone who’d just had her first child, she was in phenomenal shape, but then she was obsessed with working out. I knew Brenda was a member of the local YMCA and, when the weather got nice, she ran. Apparently, she and her husband participated in CrossFit competitions.
The waiter arrived. “I’ll have a Mac & Jack’s,” Brenda said.
He looked to me.
It was lunch and Brenda was my boss. “I’ll have iced tea.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “She’ll have what I’m having.”
After the waiter departed, Brenda said, “The doctor says beer helps produce milk when you’re breast-feeding. Who am I to argue? So what have you been doing to look so terrific?”
“I’ve been working out,” I said, sensing the opening. “Graham wants to climb Rainier. He thinks we need a hobby, that it will help our relationship.”
“Are things going better?”
When I asked Brenda for my job back I’d told her we had to file for bankruptcy and that the stress had impacted our marriage. “We’re working at it,” I said. “Actually, that reminds me. I need to get an insurance policy.”
“An insurance policy?”
“Life insurance,” I said. “Graham thinks it would be wise, given the climb is coming up. Could you help?”
“Sure,” she said. “So, co-policies?”
“No. Just a policy for me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just for you?”
“Well, we can’t really afford the premiums on two policies, and Graham says that if anything were to happen to him, I’d have my parents’ trust, so I’d be okay.”
“So he just wants a policy on you—with him as the beneficiary?”
“Right.”
She seemed to give that some thought. The waiter appeared with our beers. Brenda raised her glass and I met hers across the table. “Cheers,” she said. “It’s good to have you back.”
Brenda ordered a Caesar salad. The thought of anchovies, even just the smell, almost made me lean over the railing and vomit. “I’ll have a house salad with oil and vinegar on the side.”
“Well, I’m glad things are going better,” Brenda said as the waiter departed.
I diverted my gaze.
“Andrea? Things are going better, right?”
“A little,” I said. Then I just blurted out, “Actually, I think he might be cheating on me again.”
The saddest part might have been Brenda’s reaction. She did not look surprised. She set down her glass and reached out a hand to me, her multiple bracelets clattering against the tabletop.
“How long has it been going on?”
“Well, the first time was before we were married.”
“What?”
“It was an associate in his law firm. He’d been seeing her before he met me and said it had been difficult to break off because he didn’t want to hurt her. I’m an idiot, right?”
In hindsight, I knew I had ignored all the signs—the late nights, Graham coming home smelling of alcohol, the lack of interest in me except when it suited him. I had been an idiot, but I was no longer going to be an idiot. I had to have a different plan now, and telling Brenda was part of it.
“No,” she said, looking at me as if I were a broken little bird. “Don’t blame yourself for this. Have you confronted him about it?”
I shook my head. “He’ll deny it and turn it around, say I don’t trust him.”
“How did you find out?”
“I wasn’t snooping,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that.”