The Husband Hour(17)
And then he realized he’d done exactly what Ms. Boutine had warned him not to do: he’d left his keys inside. He turned back and tried the door, though he already knew it would be locked.
“Damn it!” He paced impotently for a few minutes before calling Ms. Boutine. “Sorry to bother you,” he said. It was so loud wherever she was, he could barely hear her response. “I seem to have locked myself out.”
Chapter Eleven
Nora’s party grew rowdier as the sun set; there was less grilling and more cocktail-shaking. That’s when April, decked out in a floor-length spaghetti-strap sundress in pastel pink, tapped Lauren on the shoulder.
“Lauren, I wanted to introduce you to my stepson Connor. He’s in town for a few days looking to buy a beachfront house.”
April had more stepchildren than she had fingers. According to Nora, she apparently kept in touch with almost all of them.
Connor was tall and blond and could have been April’s own son. He was handsome in a 1950s-movie-star kind of way. He was also at least ten years older than Lauren, and she’d gotten April’s not-so-subtle hint that he wasn’t exactly hurting for money.
“Nice to meet you,” Lauren said, trying to find the balance between polite and discouraging. God, she hated attempted setups. Hated the fake casualness of the introduction, the way the introducer would drift away (as April did immediately) and the way the guy would look at her intently, ask a barrage of superficial questions, and then, when Lauren made her getaway excuse, say something about getting together sometime.
Connor didn’t even have time to ask a question before Lauren excused herself with a quick “Just going to get some air.”
Outside, seagulls squawked. A stray cat dashed across Nora’s small front lawn, rustling a bush as it made its hasty retreat. The bay-side houses in Ventnor, two towns over but just ten minutes from Longport, felt secluded because of the narrow side streets buffering them from the busier throughway avenues.
Lauren settled onto Nora’s front-porch rollback bench swing. She inhaled deeply, enjoying the solitude.
Headlights caught her eye as a car rounded the corner onto Nora’s street. It moved slowly, clearly steered by a driver who was searching for an address. Then the car turned into Nora’s short driveway. A door opened and slammed shut; she heard footsteps on gravel.
Lauren dragged one heel on the ground, stopping the swing. The visitor approached the house, but the angle of the porch light did little to bring the lawn and front walkway out of the shadows. It wasn’t until he reached the front door that she could see it was a man.
“The doorbell’s broken,” she said, startling him. He looked at her, squinting against the overhead light, and then it was her turn to be startled. “What are you doing here?” She gasped. “Are you following me?”
The filmmaker gaped at her. Lauren jumped up from the swing.
“Are you following me?” she repeated.
“No,” he said, clearly as surprised to see her as she was to see him. “I’m—the woman I’m renting a room from gave me this address. I need to pick up keys.”
“What woman?”
“Ms. Boutine.”
Oh my God. He was staying at Henny’s?
She pressed her face into her hands, then looked up. “I can’t believe this. This is a joke.”
He smiled. “I’d rather look at it as the universe giving us the chance to get past the awkwardness of the last time we met.”
“You corner me at my job and call that awkward? I call it stalking.”
“Lauren, I’m not trying to upset you. I really respect Rory. I think his story is one that deserves to be told. Don’t you feel that way at all?”
“What I feel is none of your business.”
“Give me one hour to talk about your husband.”
She stood, swelling with indignation and a fierce sense of pride in and protectiveness of Rory. “That is never going to happen.”
Two strikes and you’re out, Matt thought, heading back to his car with Henny’s keys in hand. Back to plan B.
He drove to the house, retrieved his own keys, and left hers under the porch mat as she’d instructed him to. Then it was a ten-minute walk to Robert’s.
The bar felt like a different place than it had been just twenty-four hours earlier; it was packed end to end, every table full. Waitresses weaved through the crowd carrying red plastic baskets of chicken wings and fries. On the jukebox, Steve Miller’s “The Joker.” Matt smiled. It would be okay. It had to be.
He edged his way to the bar, ordered a bottle of Sam Adams, and hung back to wait. A table opened up near the kitchen, and he nabbed it. He checked out the plaque on the wall, an award from the Philadelphia Basketball Old Timers Association. Directly above it, a framed photo of a group gathered in front of the bar. A banner hung above their heads: POLARIS FOUNDATION FUND-RAISER 2014. He scanned the shot, and there was Lauren in the center, wearing a black-and-white Polaris Foundation T-shirt, smiling at the camera.
An hour passed. He didn’t have an appetite but felt some pressure to order wings and the fried-shrimp special to hold on to the table. And it wouldn’t hurt to temper the alcohol with something.
And then he spotted Stephanie’s blond ponytail, waving like a flag, in the middle of the bar crowd. Had she just walked in, or had he overlooked her? He slipped away from the table, leaving his drink to hold it. The crowd, as if sensing his approach, closed thickly around her. When he was within shouting distance, he called her name, but she didn’t respond. He reached out and tugged playfully on her hair. She whirled around with a dirty look and then, recognizing him, gave a half smile.