The Wife Who Knew Too Much(10)

Nobody else ever called me that, before or since. I looked into his eyes. I put my hand momentarily on his shoulder. I didn’t have the willpower to refuse.

“Just one drink?” I said.

“If that’s all you have time for.”

“Okay. I get off at eleven.”

His smile lit the room.

“I’ll be waiting outside when you’re done.”





7





I finished my shift at eleven and stepped out into the darkness of the parking lot. The only cars that remained belonged to me and my coworkers. No Connor.

Disappointment hit me like a slap. That’s how messed up I was over him already. I should be glad that he’d decided not to show. After all, what good could possibly come of us having a drink together? Fighting tears, and mad at myself for it, I got out my keys and headed for my old Toyota. Just as I pointed the key fob at the door, that black sports car came roaring into the lot and screeched to a halt beside me. Connor lowered the window.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I was worried you’d be gone.”

I didn’t ask where he’d been, since that was none of my business. He leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. The sports car was sleek and sinuous and low to the ground, like something Tom Cruise would drive in a spy movie. I looked back at my old rust bucket, then over at his car, and thought, What’s wrong with this picture? What did he want with me after all these years? He was married to a famous beauty, a woman who traveled on helicopters and yachts, draped in diamonds. Was it because I’d seen him with that brunette? Maybe he wasn’t satisfied that I’d been joking? Maybe he was even upset. The thought made me uneasy.

“Should we just talk here?” I said.

“In the parking lot? That’s not a good idea. I’m staying at a friend’s ski house. It’s a ten-minute drive from here, with a great view. He stocks the best liquor. We can talk without worrying about who’s watching.”

Right. He was famous, and married, and I’d already rattled him by joking about selling a picture. He didn’t need paparazzi photographing him with a woman. Not just the woman from the restaurant. Any woman. Me.

“It would mean so much to me to catch up. Please, Tabby?”

He leaned on the please so winningly. That dazzling grin, that honeyed voice, the square jaw, the beautiful eyes. I knew this was bad for me. But if I could spend an hour with him, just talking, catching up, I’d have memories that would last for years. I nodded, and Connor pushed open the passenger door.

Sinking into the fragrant leather seat, I gawked at the intricate instrument panel and the lovely grain of the wood on the dashboard.

“This car is awesome. What is it?”

“Lamborghini. A gift from my wife,” he said, and his voice tightened when he mentioned her.

“I hope you wrote a nice thank-you note,” I said.

He hit the gas, and the car leaped forward. We zoomed out of the lot onto the road that led away from the lake, racing past the old country club, the defunct golf course, the ski resort with its lodge and lifts shuttered for the off-season. Everything was closed, deserted, locked up tight. He turned onto the narrow road that wound up Baldwin Mountain.

“I have to confess,” Connor said, his eyes on the road, “I was surprised to see you there tonight.”

“You were surprised? Imagine my reaction. Connor Ford at frumpy old Baldwin Lake? The place has gone downhill, big-time. And your family sold their house ages ago.”

“Yeah, after my grandmother died. How did you know?”

I know everything about you.

“Heard it through the grapevine. Why come back?”

“Business. The old golf-course land is on the market. I was thinking of buying it and trying to develop it into something.”

“That’s who the woman was?”

He gave me an uncomfortable look.

“We were discussing a project. Anyway, what about you? Why are you still here? You wanted to move to the big city. Become a journalist—a TV reporter, right?”

“That seems ridiculous now.”

“Why? You had the looks for it. And the smarts.”

“I decided to become a smart, good-looking waitress instead,” I said.

The bitterness in my voice was palpable. He glanced over at me, sadness in his eyes.

“Sorry if that sounded condescending. There’s nothing wrong with earning a living, as long as you’re happy.”

“Happy endings are for rich kids. You know that.”

He looked stung.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair,” I said.

“I can see why you might think that. If it makes you feel better, there was no happy ending in my family. We ended up broke and at each other’s throats.”

“Why would that make me feel better?”

“After the way my grandmother treated you, you’d be justified in hating her.”

“I don’t wish bad on anyone.”

“You wouldn’t. You’re too good. Most people would say we got what was coming. We were living off my grandmother’s money. My mom, my aunts and uncles, all the cousins. Me. The financial crisis wiped her out. She died not long after, and the battle for the estate was crows fighting over a corpse. It got ugly. Most of us still don’t talk to each other.”