The Kind Worth Saving (Henry Kimball/Lily Kintner, #2)(81)

“Okay,” I said, and reached out and touched her leg, and saw something else in her eyes. I thought at first it was superiority, but then I recognized it as happiness.





Chapter 36





Joan


After getting home Joan stared into her refrigerator for a while, but she was too amped up to even think about cooking dinner. She went and changed instead, got back into her car, and drove three towns over to a trendy farm-to-table bistro called Glasshouses. She’d been once with just her husband, and once with a group of friends, mainly real estate people that Richard had known.

She entered the restaurant and told the hostess she was looking for a bar seat, then made her way to the long, elegant bar constructed from refurbished barn wood. She took a seat near the far end of the bar, and only after her water was poured did she swivel on her stool to survey the other patrons at the bar and in the dining room. It didn’t look as though there was anyone she knew. She turned back to the bartender, young enough to be sporting what was probably an ironic mustache, and ordered a glass of cabernet and the beef tartare.

It wouldn’t be the end of the world if there was anyone she knew in the restaurant—widows needed to eat, after all—but she was glad that so far no one had recognized her. Something about her conversation with Addie Logan had made her want to celebrate, to be alone in a place full of people. She felt good. Not as good as she’d felt all those years ago when she’d met Richard Seddon for the first time at the Windward Resort and she realized there were other people like her in the world, but meeting Addie made her feel pretty darn good, especially the fact that they had concocted a plan, one they were putting into action tomorrow. Who knew what would happen next? Maybe Addie was a total flake, but, then again, maybe she wasn’t.

The bartender gave her a taste of the wine, and it tasted thin to her. She must have shown it on her face because he cracked open another bottle almost immediately—a Spanish wine—and splashed it into a new glass. It tasted unfinished somehow, raw and funky, and she nodded at him. When the beef tartare arrived, she mixed the raw egg into the meat, adding a little bit of onion, then devoured all of it, asking for more toast at some point. She hadn’t remembered being this hungry in years, and if she had been a little less self-conscious, she would have ordered a second plate. Instead, she ordered the duck breast and another glass of the same wine.

When the food was gone and she’d said no to the dessert menu, a man who seemed vaguely familiar to her tapped her on the shoulder.

“Joan Whalen, right?”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

“You won’t remember me, but I actually went to your wedding. I was a plus-one. Olivia Waring’s date.”

She actually did remember him, very vaguely. Olivia was one of Richard’s college friends, one of those fake-nice people that was always complimenting everyone, and the only reason she remembered this guy—Olivia’s date—was because he’d worn a white linen suit and Richard had mentioned it, saying he thought it was pretentious.

“Sure,” Joan said. “You wore a white suit.”

“Ha,” he said. “I did. Olivia made a joke about it, said I was upstaging the bride.”

“Yes, I’m still livid.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Are you still with Olivia?”

“God, no,” he said, and looked back toward the dining area. Joan followed his eyes, looking for this man’s wife or some new girlfriend anxiously waiting for him. Instead, a group of three men were getting up from a table, nodding and waving in this man’s direction.

“Are those your friends?” Joan said.

“Those are the men I just had dinner with. But they’re leaving now, and I have my own car.”

“Tell me your name again.”

“You remembered my suit but not my name?”

“I did.”

“It’s George Mayer. Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you, too.” They shook hands, and a few more memories of this man came back to her. He’d actually been stunning in his suit, which was why Richard had made the comment, and he was fairly stunning now in a dark blue woolen shirt and gray jeans.

“I heard about what happened with Richard,” he said, “with all of it, and I was totally shocked.” Joan just nodded. “And I’m so sorry for what you must be going through,” he continued. “I can’t even imagine.”

It was the conversation she’d been hoping to avoid when she’d decided to go to a restaurant, but she put her hand on his arm and said, “Thank you.”

“Hey, you look as though you’re leaving but I’d love to buy you a drink if you have the time. No pressure.” He was leaning up against a stool, ready to slide on top of it.

“Do you live around here?” Joan said.

“I don’t. I’m here for work. That dinner was a client dinner.”

“Oh. Where are you staying?”

“Wadsworth Inn. About ten minutes away. You know it?”

“Yeah, of course. Why don’t we just go directly there,” Joan said, sliding off her own stool, suddenly feeling short next to George Mayer, who had at least a foot on her.

“Okay, sure,” he said, and Joan led him out of the restaurant.