The Shadow Box(25)

“Hello,” she said, seeing his name on the caller ID.

“Are you at the boat?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, and I’m so sorry to be running late. In fact . . .”

She heard it in his voice: he wasn’t coming.

“Sallie, I’m so sorry. I thought I’d be there by now, but I’m stuck at work, waiting for a conference call with the other side. They’re scrambling to get documents together. Then tonight I have Last Monday Club.”

It was Dan’s club, too, but he had stopped going in recent months.

“I’d skip it,” Edward continued, “but tonight’s especially important. We’re presenting Griffin with a big campaign contribution. I can stop at the boat between the call and the meeting. Will you wait for me?”

Sallie’s heart fell. He wanted her to stay, so they could have sex, and then he’d run out to be with the guys. She made some sort of sound into the phone.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She hung up and checked the time again. The kids’ after-school programs would be letting out in an hour; she’d planned to be in the parking lot to pick up Gwen and Charlie, but now she wouldn’t have enough time.

She’d have to call Dan, make up an excuse. She would say she was stuck at a client’s—not a total lie—and ask if he could get the kids. He wouldn’t care that she was late. He’d take the kids to the tennis courts and then out for an ice cream.

She walked forward, into the owner’s cabin. She sat down on the bed, the fluffy comforter sheathed in the pure-white Sferra duvet cover, Elysian embroidered in cream-colored silk thread. Edward had told her that Sloane had not spent even one night aboard.

What was she doing? She had never thought this would be her life, yet she had created it. She had brought herself to this point.

She typed a message to Edward on her phone:

Can you tell me what this is? Is it love? It is for me.

She hesitated ten seconds, then hit send.

Tied to the dock, Elysian rocked gently on the tide, but she heard a thump and felt the boat jounce. Footsteps sounded on deck, and for a second, she imagined it was Edward. Someone stumbled down the companionway.

Ford Chase bumped into the stateroom door, steadied himself, and walked toward her. He was disheveled, unshaven, with bloodshot eyes full of pain.

“I didn’t want you to be here,” he said. “I hoped you wouldn’t be.”

“I’m not sure why you’d care or why it’s any of your business,” she said, her heart thudding. “The Hawkes are my clients. Just like your father and Claire were.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said, shaking his head. He stepped closer, smelling like alcohol and slurring his words. “That’s not why you’re here.”

“Ford,” she said.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“You don’t,” she said.

“Why are you with Edward? Why him? You don’t know him at all. He’s a bastard, just like my dad,” he said.

“If your dad is so bad, why are you working to help him win office?” she asked, challenging him and hoping the shock would sober him up.

“You think he shouldn’t win?” he asked.

“Not if he’s a bastard,” she said.

Ford just stood there, weaving, staring at her.

“Come on, Ford, you’ve had too much to drink. Let me drive you home.”

“Home? Where’s home? I live in someone else’s house making sure the pipes don’t freeze all winter and the sprinklers work all summer, with my goody-goody brother, while our father lives in our family home with a whore.”

“Claire?” she asked, shocked.

“I bet they started up before my mother even left. Cheating to be together, just like you and Edward.”

Sallie felt sick.

“Come on,” Sallie said. Her tone was gentle, but she was falling apart inside. She stepped toward him and took his arm. “You tell me where you’re living, and I’ll take you there.”

He started to nod, then lurched toward the head, using one hand to steady himself, projectile vomiting all over the sleek white wall and falling to his knees.

Sallie turned away, disgusted by Ford but, even more, devastated by what he had said because his words had rung so true.





12





CLAIRE


With just four days till my opening at the Woodward-Lathrop Gallery, I had jitters. I was most comfortable in nature or in my studio, and being the center of attention made me nervous.

It was six p.m., and Griffin was on his way to the Last Monday Club. He took it very seriously, but Sloane and I secretly laughed about the whole thing. All those men dressing in black tie for their secret society meeting—they got together the last Monday of each month, went hunting and fishing several times a year, and planned how to get one of their own, Griffin, elected governor. We wondered if they had a special handshake.

The group did have a philanthropic side. Each year they chose a local nonprofit, and the members donated $1,000 each. Last year’s charity was the Domestic Violence Prevention Center of Southeastern Connecticut. I wondered if Griffin had steered them to it as a private joke. I doubted most of them realized that emotional abuse was as devastating as physical—the scars were just as painful, but they were internal, where people couldn’t see. The abusers were so good at it that no one but their partners knew what they were doing. Or at least my husband was.