by Nicola Marsh
The guy’s a lunatic. But when I see genuine bewilderment creasing his brow, uncertainty makes me pause. Is he as crazy as half his patients or is he a sad, pathetic guy who can’t tell the difference between talking and something more?
“There’s never been anything between us beyond friendship,” I say firmly. “If you’ve misconstrued, that’s on you.”
“I’m not stupid.” His tone is low and oddly devoid of emotion. “Don’t imply that I am.”
He’s staring at me with obvious perplexity, like he’s completely mystified why I don’t return his interest. It creeps me out.
“This is inappropriate.” I square my shoulders, feigning defiance I don’t feel. “Don’t mention this again.”
Confusion gives way to a manic gleam in his eyes and I’m instantly on guard again, my pity giving way to panic.
“Fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut.” His doleful half-smile makes me want to rub the goosebumps off my arms. “And we both know you won’t say a word because Dane will go apeshit and he’s already feeling emasculated enough as it is.”
Damn him for being right. I can’t say anything. I would hate for my husband to feel worse than he already does because I’m a slow-witted idiot who should’ve backed away the moment I picked up on Griffin’s intent.
I scoop up an armful of bottles, hold them tight to my chest and stalk past him. “I’ll be civil at work when we’re on a case, but that’s it. Don’t come near me any other time.”
“Maybe you’ll be the one finding me? Wanting to talk?” His ingenuity infuriates me. “Seeking my advice. Being friendly.”
He makes ‘friendly’ sound ugly and dirty so I ignore him. Either that or fling a thousand dollars’ worth of Pinot at him and he’s not worth it.
“Just leave me alone,” I say, taking the steps two at a time despite the load in my arms. When I reach the top of the stairs I struggle with the door for a moment and then I’m through, back into the hallway. Free.
I drag in several lungfuls of air because my chest feels tight and I blink, willing the burn of tears away. I can’t believe I trusted that jerk, let alone been stupid enough to hesitate, giving him a few seconds to take advantage. I’m reeling from our infertility news but that doesn’t excuse my idiocy.
I didn’t want that kiss. I didn’t instigate that kiss. He misconstrued my hesitation and for that, I’ll have to pay. As if I didn’t feel guilty enough because of my past, now I’ll have this unwanted memory plaguing me.
I’ve fucked up. Again.
Giving myself a shake I head toward the back of the house, avoiding the kitchen. If Ris takes one look at me she’ll know something’s wrong so I skirt around the conservatory and walk down the back steps to deposit the wine bottles on the makeshift bar. That’s when I see him.
Dane.
He’s come back for me.
Eleven
Elly
My lover is here tonight.
I hate seeing him in social settings. It makes me uncomfortable and feel worse than I already do for perpetuating my revenge scenario. He’s with his wife, of course. I want to rush to her, grab her by the shoulders and shake her hard until her teeth rattle. Can’t she see what he is? Doesn’t she have the faintest clue?
I hadn’t. I’d been clueless until I’d seen the evidence of my husband’s treachery with my own eyes. A sucker punch that left me broken and I still haven’t recovered.
They seem on edge, tense when together, almost combative, then spending lots of time apart, a typical marriage. He vanishes for periods throughout the night, then reappears. I feel him watching me. Coveting me when he has no right.
So I flirt with Griffin, who took an eternity getting me another drink but has finally returned. He’s sweet and attentive with a great sense of humor. Best of all, he’s uncomplicated and that’s something I crave in my otherwise convoluted life.
“At the risk of driving you away because you’ll think this is a corny line, you’re absolutely stunning,” Griffin says, his smile genuine. “You’ve got this inner glow that makes you stand out in a crowd.”
“You’re right, I’m out of here.” I half turn away, pretending to leave and his hand snakes out to grab mine.
“Stay. Please.”
I bat my eyelashes at him. “Only because you asked nicely.”
He laughs and I marvel at how easy it is to be with him. I barely know this guy but he has an ability to make me relax. I don’t have that with my lover.
Griffin releases my hand when I give it a gentle tug. “Do you have family in Gledhill?”
I hate small talk and hate talking about my family more. But my lover is staring again so I flash a dazzling smile, like Griffin has asked me the most interesting question ever.
“I’m an only child. My folks are in LA. I moved here for college and never went back.”
An easy lie that tumbles from my lips, one I’ve used many times before.
“They must miss you.”
Dad does. I’ve always been his princess. Mom’s not maternal. I must get that gene from her. They don’t know the truth about my marriage. I told them my ex had been physically abusive and I’d walked away. They believed me, and it ensured they never wanted to see or talk to my husband ever again.
I’d gone home briefly after Chicago, before I was showing. I’d let them fuss over me for two weeks before escaping to New York to begin my new life. The only pang I’d experienced watching my swaddled baby being taken away had been for them. My folks were good people and they’d never know they were grandparents.
“We see each other at Christmas.” I shrug, like it means nothing, when in fact there are times I miss the only people in this world who genuinely care about me. I can count those on one hand, which is rather sad. “How about you?”
“Big Irish family in Brooklyn. I came out here to escape them.” He swipes his brow in mock relief.
“Gledhill’s not that far from the city.”
“Far enough they can’t do constant drop-ins.” He grins again and I’m infused with warmth, soon dispelled when I make the mistake of glancing at my lover over Griffin’s shoulder and he’s frowning while crooking his finger at me like I’m a dog at his beck and call. As if he expects me to come running. Good luck with that, buddy.
Griffin says something and I miss it. “Pardon?”
“Can I have your number?”
I bite back my instant response of ‘no’. I rarely date but with my lover looking on possessively, I’m increasingly tired of my ridiculous revenge fiasco.
“Why don’t you give me yours instead?” I slip my cell from my clutch.
He rattles it off quickly, like he thinks I may not want it after all. When I’m done, I look up and see my lover advancing on us, his glower formidable.
I touch Griffin’s arm. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I see an old friend who’s waving me over.”
“Sure.” In his sweetest gesture yet, he leans down and pecks my cheek. “Great meeting you.”
“You too.”
My lover is glaring at me. His wife comes down the back steps and he talks to her for a moment, enveloping her in a hug.
That poor, deluded woman; he has her completely fooled. How can she tolerate a demanding, egotistical and fickle man? The urge to tell her the truth right this very moment is strong but it’s too public so I swivel on my heels and head for the shrubs at the back of the property. In less than five minutes he’s there. Pulling me roughly into his arms, his mouth slamming against mine, his tongue thrusting and taunting as he pushes me up against the nearest tree.
“Is this what you want?” he murmurs in my ear as his hand finds its way into my panties.
“Go back to your wife.” I shove him away.
He laughs and nips the tender skin above my collarbone.
“Trying to make me jealous is beneath you, my darling.” He slides one finger inside me, another, as his thumb finds my sweet spot.
“Yet you are.” I bite his earlob
e and he growls, his fingers picking up tempo, thrusting into me with the kind of force he thinks gets me off but only serves to exacerbate the emptiness inside.
“It’s a petty, wasted emotion.” His thumb rubs harder. “We’re so much better than that.”
As if to prove it he claims my mouth again, his tongue mimicking what his fingers are doing until the friction is unbearable and I fake it so he’ll leave me the hell alone. I sag against the tree as he wrenches his mouth away and lifts his fingers to his lips where he licks me off them. His stare is triumphant, like he’s proved how much I want him and no other man. Asshole.
His smile is far from friendly and holds just enough malice to make me regret taunting him earlier. “What you did back there? Don’t do it again.”
It’s a threat and I don’t react kindly to it.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I tilt my chin up in defiance, staring him down, refusing to cower like he wants me to. “I’m not your wife.”
He hides his irritation beneath that chilling smile. “Thank God for that.”
He reaches for me again but I push past him and head back to the party.
I’m an idiot.
Trying to wreak havoc on this self-centered bastard can only end badly.
Twelve
Jodi
It turns out Agnes the librarian isn’t so helpful after all. I’ve trawled the length of Sunnyside Drive. It’s long, takes me thirty minutes from the highway to the end of the street, and most of the houses have sandstone and lots of glass. Pity I didn’t get a number from her.
I’m hungry, thirsty and my feet ache from walking. I should turn around and head back into town but I’ve come this far. I see a house, brightly lit, with cars out front. Music and laughter carry on the breeze. A party.
The smell of something savory baking hits my nostrils and my stomach gripes. I’m really starving now. A wave of dizziness swamps me and I lean against an ornate wrought-iron gate. Rather than doing another reconnaissance of the street I should ask someone where he lives and this seems as good a place as any. Besides, I’m so woozy I can’t walk another step.
I drag my feet up the driveway, stumble up the front steps and ring the doorbell. No one comes. I try again. This time, a forty-something woman wearing a pristine white silk strapless dress and matching high-heeled strappy sandals opens the door. Her make-up is immaculate and her hair is a sleek and shiny brown. She could be a poster girl for the rich and pampered Hamptons’ wife.
“Hi, I’m looking for—”
“I don’t see clients here.” She sounds kind rather than mad as her gaze dips to my belly. “I’d love to help but I’m busy right now. How about we meet at the center first thing in the morning?”
She thinks I’m here to see her. Ironically, I do need help but I need to find my meal ticket more.
I want to ask again where he lives, but my head feels foggy and when she asks, “Are you alright?” it comes from a great distance. I sway and lean against the side of the door.
“You poor girl, come in.” She slips an arm around my waist and I’m grateful. If she hadn’t done that I’d be on the floor. My legs have given out. I feel like puking.
She guides me into an alcove off the kitchen and pulls out one of the dining chairs with her foot. “Sit here and I’ll get you something to drink.”
I collapse into the chair and lean against the table when she releases me. I’m woozy so rest my forearms on the table and drop my head forward. I feel like an idiot intruding on a stranger like this, but I’m grateful she’s nice. I haven’t had anyone look after me in forever.
“Here you go. Drink this.” I lift my head and she places a frosty glass of orange juice in front of me, with a smaller glass of water. “The sugar hit will do you good.”
My hand shakes as I lift the glass to my mouth and I gulp it gratefully, the sweetness sliding down my throat a welcome relief. I follow the juice with the water, feeling better by the minute.
“When was the last time you ate?”
I frown, trying to remember. “I’m sorry for all this trouble—”
“You need to eat,” she says, a thread of disapproval underlying her tone as she glances at my baby bump again. “And you’re dehydrated. It’s not good for the cargo you’re carrying.”
I bite back my reply, I didn’t come here to be lectured. Instead, I nod and she heads back into the kitchen.
The dining alcove is enclosed in floor-to-ceiling glass. It must be beautiful in the morning with the sun streaming in, the perfect place to eat breakfast. I glance outside, at the people milling about on the lawn, the table laden with food, a makeshift bar at the bottom of the steps. A garden party, how quaint. Being in the Hamptons is like entering an alternate universe; so close to New York City in location but a world away otherwise.
The woman returns and places a plate in front of me. “I brought you a little of everything.”
I stare at the assortment of dainty cucumber sandwiches, baby quiches and strawberry tartlets, and my mouth waters. I manage to say thanks before devouring the food like I haven’t eaten in a month.
She chuckles and her laughter is like the rest of her: refined and sweet. “Seconds?”
I nod and hand her the empty plate. “Yes, please.”
As I start to feel almost human again, I take another glance outside and the fine hairs on my arms snap to attention.
It’s him.
My baby’s father.
He’s mingling, chatting and laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I half-rise before slumping back into the chair. Can I seriously barge out there, in the middle of this nice lady’s party, and confront him? I want to but I can’t do it to her. She’s been nothing but lovely and I don’t want to make a scene.
“Here you go.” She returns with another plate and I accept it gratefully. She sits and waits while I eat, watching me with open curiosity.
“I rarely have anyone from the center turn up on my doorstep,” she says, studying me. “It’s unorthodox but from the way you almost passed out I’m assuming they sent you here?”
It’s easier to agree than explain so I nod, stuffing another mini quiche in my mouth.
“You’re staying at the center?”
I have nowhere to stay. I hadn’t planned on sticking around in town longer than a day. But with dusk now falling I’ll have to find the cheapest motel in town.
“You’ve checked in, right?”
Her questions are starting to bug me. I shake my head.
She looks appalled, like I’ve made some grand faux pas. “I’ll drive you there now, get you settled, then we can meet in the morning, okay?”
Once again I nod, swept along in her wave of helpfulness, silently grateful I’d chosen her door to knock on tonight. I’ve found the man I’ve been searching for when I least expected it and I’ve found a place to stay for the night. I’ll meet the woman again in the morning, discover exactly where he lives, and confront him.
Easy.
Thirteen
Marisa
I’m on my way to find Avery, to tell him I’ll have to leave the party for a short time, when Ryan and Maggie waylay me.
“Great gig,” Ryan says, while Maggie forces a polite smile.
“Yes, thanks for having us.” Maggie sounds like she’s a recalcitrant teen who’s been dragged to a social event and is being forced to express gratitude.
“My pleasure.”
“An eclectic crowd as usual.” Ryan pinches my cheek like I’m a kid. “You sure are the hostess with the mostess.”
“Ryan, leave Marisa alone.” Maggie sounds like she’s swallowed cut glass.
I don’t think she’s jealous of me as such but tolerating Ryan practically fawn over me must be tough. I know what it’s like because I frequently have to do the same with Avery.
“Yeah, Ryan, listen to your wife,” I say, and to my relief Maggie and I share a conspiratorial smile.
She looks good tonig
ht: her eyes clear, her expression calm, her posture relaxed. Her blonde bob is sleek, her make-up understated and her sleeveless black shift skims her hips and falls in a classic drape to her knees. She always makes an effort when she appears in public with her husband, which is increasingly rare these days. I don’t think she’s obsessive-compulsive – I’ve dealt with clients like that at the Help Center – but her regular bouts with manic cleansing, both physically and in her house, border on bizarre. Ryan says she sees a therapist but I’m not sure it’s helping. If anything, her last detox went on for two weeks and she ended up so emaciated I almost force-fed her my famous protein shakes.
“Have you both had enough to eat?”
Ryan pats his stomach. “Must watch my figure.”
Maggie rolls her eyes and says, “The food is delicious. I must get the caterer’s number from you.”
“Actually, I made everything.”
I try not to boast because I know Maggie doesn’t cook and they have most meals delivered so they don’t have to exist on takeout. I sent across the occasional casserole and lasagna when they first moved next door but after I’d glimpsed one of my prized pies in the trash, I’d stopped.
Maggie’s eyebrows rise. “You’re very talented in the kitchen.”
I search her face for some sign she’s mocking me but I see nothing but admiration. Some of the tension I hold during our rare interactions dissolves.
“And in other rooms of the house according to Avery,” Ryan murmurs, with a wink.
“You’re disgusting.” Maggie elbows him hard and he doubles over with a mock oomph.
“I don’t know how you put up with this overgrown child.” I offer another smile to Maggie but this time she doesn’t return it. Too late, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. Maggie has never wanted kids and took surgical steps early in their relationship to ensure it. Ryan is happy with the arrangement because I think he wouldn’t like having any attention taken off him.