Unmissing(34)

“I just think . . . if we could help her get on her feet,” I say, rising, confident. “I think that’s all she wants—all she needs.”

His arms fold, muscles straining against the white fabric of his button-down.

“Luca, the woman had holes in her shoes. She literally has nothing,” I say, keeping my tone as casual as if we were discussing tomorrow’s dinner menu.

“So, what . . . you’re going to buy her a new wardrobe and send her on her way? Is that how you think this is going to pan out?”

“I don’t know how it’s going to pan out,” I say. “But I think taking a rational approach to this, handling it like grown adults, being generous in whatever ways we can—”

“Generous?” He tugs a handful of hair again. “Generous, Merritt? I just laid off three servers today. And tomorrow, I’m shuttering the coffee shop. That’s eight more out of jobs. We can’t afford to be generous, and even if we could . . . you need to run these things by me.”

The timer on the oven chimes. I meet his wild regard with one of my own. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Daddy!” Elsie runs to her father, arms outstretched. He scoops her up, kissing her cheek as his stare locks on mine.

For the first time in remembrance, I can’t begin to know what he’s thinking.

He turns his attention to our daughter, and I toddle to the kitchen, my belly sore from a day of Braxton-Hicks. While I’m well aware of our financial situation and it pains me to hear of the layoffs, I will not be treated like an imbecile.

I’m going to right this ship—with or without his permission.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


LYDIA

“Just one today?” The doll-faced strawberry blonde hostess with lashes up to her eyebrows and a whittled waist greets me at Coletto’s by the Sea.

I nod, scanning the dreamy restaurant bathed in natural light.

Grabbing a linen menu, she leads me to a corner table for two flanked with windows and a perfect view of the crashing waters. A tea light candle glimmers next to wooden salt and pepper mills, and piano music mixes with tinkling silverware to create a relaxing ambience. Overhead, exposed wood beams complete the experience, adding an earthy, homegrown touch.

Poring over the menu, I laugh out loud at the prices. Literally.

Twenty-five dollars for a bowl of oyster soup?

One-fifty for sea bass?

A thirty-dollar house salad?

Either Luca’s a brilliant businessman—or success has made him greedy.

“Hi, I’m Jolie, and I’ll be your server today.” A twentysomething girl with a mess of caramel curls piled on top of her head brings me a glass of iceless water. “Can I start you out with something from our drink menu? We’re featuring our Walnut Grove Malbec today, or I can bring you a list of our cocktail specials.”

“Iced tea. Please,” I say. “Thank you.”

Having worked in the serving industry before, I’ve learned that the kindest patrons are the ones who say “please” and “thank you” right off the bat. It sets a precedent. And it’s a sign of respect, basic human decency. It almost always guarantees you decent service.

“I’ll be right back with that.”

I study the menu in her absence. Since I’m not hungry, nothing jumps out. Delphine had the random urge to whip up a big breakfast this morning, and like a pampered bohemian queen, I feasted off egg white spinach omelets and ancient grain toast with local strawberry jam. Better than anything on this pretentious menu.

Regardless, I didn’t come here to eat.

I locate the most expensive item—a surf and turf special featuring a filet mignon and fresh Maine lobster, which the menu boasts is imported daily.

Two hundred bucks.

With prices like this, no wonder he’s doing so well for himself.

I have her throw the house salad in as well. And a chocolate soufflé for dessert because the menu states they require a thirty-minute lead time.

A few minutes later, my order is taken and I’m left all to my lonesome. The couple at the table beside me hold hands, staring deep into one another’s eyes in a nausea-inducing display of young love. Across from them is a group of middle-aged women with oversized diamonds, carefree laughs, and colorful cocktails. To the far left is a segmented area set up like a party room, and two staff are setting the table with meticulous detail while one is posting a RESERVED FOR THE BEAUMONT PARTY sign.

Jolie returns with my house salad—a soggy, weedy mix strewn with shaved parmesan. I’ve seen bowls of ranch-drenched iceberg presented better than this.

“Can I get you anything else, miss?” Jolie asks, hands clasped behind her back.

“Yes, actually.” I lean in. “Could you send Luca Coletto over here?”

A flash of panic colors her face, but I intervene.

“I’m an old friend of his.” I offer a well-meaning smile. “I saw his car outside, just wanted to say hello.”

At least I assume the blinding-white Maserati coupe with LCOLE86 on the plate is his . . .

“Of course.” Her expression softens as she strolls to the back of the restaurant and disappears down a hallway.

I stab the kale and dandelion greens with my fork before pushing them around and to the side, like a kid trying to trick their parent into thinking they ate their veggies. A moment later, I glance up to find Luca emerging from the dark hallway, Jolie two steps behind him.