Trespassing(48)

If I’d known Micah had three island-hopping children before Bella, would I have continued?

“Welcome to Fogarty’s. Party of two?”

I catch a tear on a knuckle and smile at the hostess. “Sorry. Yes. Two.”

The moment we sit, Bella says, “Ronis and cheese.”

“Do you have macaroni and cheese?”

The hostess half shrugs, but fully smiles when she doles out menus. “We have a three-cheese penne pasta.”

It’ll have to do. I glance about the room, seeking auburn hair, scanning for bright-green eyes that put my brown eyes to shame. Natasha Markham was always striking. I’ve always marveled at what Micah’s choosing me must have meant. He convinced me I was worthy—even went so far as to say that Natasha was more upset over losing me than she was over losing him. He made me believe I was a prize, and that Natasha’s distance once we got together was due to her losing her best friend and roommate when I moved out of our apartment and in with Micah, instead of losing her man.

His theory never made any sense. Natasha found another girl to split her rent, and she never looked back—at least not at me. Roommates were easy to replace. Men like Micah, on the other hand . . .

Now I’m not so sure Micah ever found me worthy, either.

The images in those photographs are forever planted in my mind. I suspect I’ll see the smiling faces of those children even when I’m sleeping. Even when I’m dead.

“Small world.” I look up to see my neighbor, still looking like a surfer, holding a rose-colored, frozen concoction with a pineapple garnish. “Small island, anyway. Saw you walk in, past the Monkey. Thought I’d buy you a drink. Welcome you properly to the island.”

“Thank you, but—” I shut up before my standard refusal slips out—I’m a fertility patient. I don’t drink—because he places the glass in front of Elizabella.

Tentatively, she reaches for it. She may not like our neighbor—she likes few people right off the bat—but she can be bribed, and she’s hungry. A split second before she wraps her fingers around the cup, I scoot it just out of her reach. “What’s in it?”

“It’s nonalcoholic. Naturally.”

As if I thought he’d serve her anything else. I’m being ridiculous. I loosen my grip.

“A lot of sugar. She might be wired once it’s down the hatch.”

I let her take a sip anyway.

“Mmmmm!”

“Say thank you to Mr. Renwick,” I remind her.

She shyly glances up at him, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Ellie-Belle.”

“Thank you,” she says.

Christian gives her a wink. “And you? What’s your poison? You like rum?”

So he was responsible for the bottle of coconut rum on the front porch. “Thank you for that. I’m a fertil—” I clear my throat and meet his gaze. I’m not a fertility patient anymore. I can have a drink if I want to, but it’s been so long since I’ve ordered a drink that I don’t even know what I like or how it might affect me. And it would be rude to say I don’t drink rum after he thoughtfully left a bottle for me. “I don’t know.”

“Everyone likes rum, right? You’d better, on this island.”

I look at him. Really look at him. He looks trustworthy, and we’re in a public place. What harm can come of a drink?

And if he’s been feeding Tasha’s cat, he might know something. Not that I can pounce on him and demand information. I have to build trust if I expect him to tell me what he knows. Besides, theoretically, I ought to know more than I do, considering I own the house she was-slash-is renting.

“Would you like to join us?”

“That’s not why I . . . I couldn’t impose.”

“Don’t be silly.” I’m already half out of the booth, ready to slide in on the other side next to Bella. “Have a seat.”

He looks to my daughter, who stops sipping her treat only long enough to whisper, “Stranger danger.”

“He’s not a stranger.” I glance up at him, but he isn’t observing us. He’s politely pretending not to hear. “He’s our neighbor.”

“Like Crew and Fendi?”

“Like Crew and Fendi.”

She eyes him. “Do you have little kids?”

“I don’t even have big kids,” he answers.

My phone buzzes.

Shell! It must be! I left her a message detailing my change of plans; it’s taken forever for her to return the call, and finally . . .

But Claudette Winters spans the screen. I’ll have to call her back. I can’t take a call just after I invited my neighbor to dinner.

Why hasn’t Shell called me back? I know she and Guidry spoke. Maybe she’s angry that I changed our plans for Thanksgiving.

“Bella.” I silence my phone. “Mr. Renwick is going to join us for dinner.”

“Just a drink maybe,” he says.

“Nini says okay.”

“Oh, you know Nini?” Christian suddenly breaks from his firmly rooted statue routine and slides onto the bench across from us.

I trade glances between my daughter and our new neighbor, anxious to hear the exchange. If Nini is a real little girl . . .