“Can I ask you why you enjoy horses so much when you aren’t much of a rider?”
The easy expression on Adam’s face tenses a bit, and I’m worried I’ve pried too much. Adam shakes his head. “It’s something my wife always wanted,” he says and clears his throat. “But she was never able to have.”
Wanted? “Oh, Adam, I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to make it seem like the fact that he’s a widower is so much of a surprise.
“Target was originally for her. But she was in an accident, and, well, Tara asked to keep him with her here at school, and I didn’t have the heart to say no.”
Our conversation is cut short when Adam stops the car outside of a brick building. A valet attendant runs to open my car door.
“Good evening, miss.”
I smile as he helps me out of the car. “Good evening. Thank you.” Mac was right, I would’ve felt horrible had I shown up here in my turquoise sundress and cowboy boots.
Adam comes around from the driver’s side and I want to say something, want him to know how sorry I am and apologize for bringing up the sore topic of his wife, but he smiles at the hostess as we walk in and I decide to leave it alone.
Gazing around, I’m pleasantly surprised to see that although it is an upscale place, it’s casual-elegant with festival lighting on the terrace outside and chaises surrounding a fire pit, and the waitstaff are professional but comfortable, wearing dark denim jeans and matching black polos. There’s nothing about this place that makes me feel too terribly out of place, and what little tension in my body remains, desists.
The hostess shows us to our table, which is happily situated by a window and illuminated by the outside lights. A soft glow flickers inside a frosted votive holder on the table, and a basket of bread and what’s no doubt house-made butter with a sprig of lavender awaits us. “Wow,” I say, grinning from ear to ear, excited to be on my first real date as an adult.
I think Adam senses my amusement and winks at me as we take our seat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to sit outside.”
“This is great, really. This place is amazing.” Smile lingering, I peer down at the menu and nearly choke. Not only am I unsure what half of the items listed actually are, but even the appetizers start in the double digits. Clearing my throat, I ask, “So, what’s good to eat here? It all looks so amazing, I’m not sure what to order.”
Folding his napkin in his lap, Adam leans forward, as if he’s going to whisper something for only me to hear. “Do you like wine?” he asks.
I tilt my head, allowing a small, secretive smile. “Perhaps.”
“Perfect,” he whispers again. “Let’s start with a vintage red and we’ll see what the specials are tonight.”
Although I’m not used to a man ordering for me, I don’t mind it in a place like this, a place where gésiers de canard, haricots verts, and winter chicories sound like French double entendres that make me blush just thinking about them rather than a delectable food.
“Adam,” I say. Gently scooting my silverware off the napkin, I unfold it and lay it across my lap. “Is this menu in French?”
His eyebrows draw together and he shakes his head. “I apologize, Sam, I wasn’t thinking. Yes, it is, and unless you enjoy eating duck gizzards—which are quite good, actually—I recommend the monkfish.” He says it as if I’ve ever eaten monkfish before, as if I even know what the hell a monkfish is.
Unwilling to let my country-bumpkinism show, I smile and nod, praying I’ll like monkfish. If I’m lucky, I tell myself, the portions will be small and I can fill up on dessert. My stomach is suddenly rumbling with hunger, and I open the basket of bread. It’s still warm, fresh out of the oven.
Adam orders a bottle of wine, and while we’re waiting for the waiter to come back to take our dinner orders, we somehow get on the topic of his investment company.
“Hedge funds are trickier than most people realize,” Adam starts to explain, and I try to stay focused. I find the green in his eyes less striking than I had remembered, the curve of his mouth less intriguing. At least compared to a certain someone I refuse to think about while I’m on a date.
“People who bracket between well-heeled status and the average American aren’t so keen on the ways of investing as they probably should be. Regulations are totally different and . . .”
I smell his aftershave wafting off of him as he sits back in his chair. Or is it cologne? Is there a difference? It almost smells familiar. It’s not subtle, like what a masculine scent should smell like, more ostentatious and less natural.
Adam’s laughter interrupts my quiet musings. “Isn’t that unreal?” He shakes his head, like he’s entertained by whatever he just said, and I hate that I wasn’t even listening.
I know I should feel guilty for paying no attention, but I’m too busy scrambling for something to say. I simper and nod as I reach for my glass of water. “Well, I guess that’s why they have you,” I say. I feel a tinge of relief when the waiter walks toward us, the bottle of red wine in his hands.
“Mademoiselle,” he says with a thick, French accent. He shows me the embossed label, then shows Adam.
Adam nods for the waiter to open the bottle and pulls his vibrating phone from his pocket. “Excuse me,” Adam says, an apologetic smile on his face. His brow furrows as he stares at the screen, and his gaze shifts to me. He presses his index finger to his lips, as if I’d try to talk to him while he’s on the phone, and he accepts the call.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says. His voice is a bit somber, like he might be sad or angry. I try not to pay attention as I busy myself looking through my clutch. Lip gloss, mints, my cell—
The waiter pours a splash of wine in my glass, and then he stands there as if he’s waiting for me to try it. I set my clutch aside and reach for the wineglass. I stick my nose over the brim and inhale, because I think that’s what he’s waiting for me to do, and then I take a sip.
The smile on the waiter’s face broadens, so I allow mine to as well. He holds out the bottle. I set my glass back down, allowing him to pour more inside, and exhale in relief that I seemed to do alright, that the waiter doesn’t think me a complete idiot.
Adam shakes his head and mouths “sorry” as Sweetheart talks to him on the other end.
Smiling, I take another sip of my wine, surprised by how smooth and smoky it tastes.
“Well, maybe we need to get you a different therapist, then.”
I glance at him, though he doesn’t notice, more curious this time. Is he talking to Tara?
“No, I didn’t pick up your prescriptions. Tara was supposed to do that after her study group today.”
An internal alarm starts buzzing, and the more his brow furrows, the more uneasy I am. I find that I’m paying more attention to his conversation, and I wonder why he didn’t step away to take his call.
“I didn’t receive your call earlier. I’ve been in meetings all day.” His voice turns frustrated and a little edgy. “Fine, I’ll come home. I’m not mad. I was trying to have dinner with a business associate.”
And just as I’m reduced to a business associate, it hits me. It’s not men’s cologne I smell on Adam, but women’s perfume, or lotion, or something I’ve smelled a hundred times at Mike’s house. It’s what his mom always smelled like. I liked it at the time because I told myself I liked her, but now it’s too pungent and the scent makes me nauseous.
I’m about to rise from the table when Adam sets his phone down.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says. “I was hoping to be able to have a night out—a night away, but—”
I lean forward. “Are you trying to justify being with me when you should be home with your wife? I thought you said she was dead.”
He plucks the napkin from his lap. “I never said that,” he starts, and I feel my cheeks burn. “And I wasn’t lying when I said she was in an accident.” He drops his unused napkin on the table. “I’m her caregiver now, nothing more. She lives here with my sister most of the time so sh
e can take care of her, since I’m travelling so much.”
I watch him, astonished and dumbfounded that he doesn’t even feel the need to lie to me—to try to make himself look better.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says again. He stands and fishes out a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “Unless you feel differently, I want you to know that this doesn’t change anything—with the horse, I mean.” He points to the vintage on the table. “Enjoy the wine.”
And just like that, Adam Naser walks away, leaving me to stare at his empty chair, my mind reeling. He has a wife. Mr. Exotic Dreamboat—who wasn’t really as dreamy as I thought—ditched me at a fancy restaurant with a full bottle of wine embossed with a name I can’t even pronounce. Suddenly, Tara’s busy schedule starts to make sense.
When the waiter shows up to take our order, after already waiting patiently for Adam to finish his call, he looks at Adam’s empty seat, confused.
I take a greedy gulp from my wineglass. “Mr. Naser won’t be coming back. Apparently his wife needed him.” I flash the waiter a disgusted smile.
The waiter eyes me wearily and then his expression softens. He holds up the bottle of wine. “More wine, Mademoiselle?”
I smile. “Yes, please. It’s the best part of the whole night.”
The waiter asks if I’m still hungry, but I shake my head. I hand him the $100 and tell him to keep it, all of it, and hope it’s enough to cover the cost of the wine.
Assuming hysterical laughter in the middle of a fancy restaurant would be problematic, I decide I should call Mac to come get me. The line doesn’t even ring once, but goes straight to voicemail. “It’s Mac. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.” I look at the display on my phone. It’s only 7:30. She can’t possibly be asleep already. I hang up, wait a few seconds, then try again. “It’s Mac. Leave me a—” I hang up. Where the hell is she? Taking a few more sips of wine, I tear off a piece of bread and slather it in butter. Then, I try her cell again. Same thing.
Leaning back in my chair, I know calling Alison is pointless. She’d be in no shape to pick me up, so that leaves Nick. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey, Sam, what’s up?” I can hear music in the background and a mob of voices. I hate that I’m bothering him while he’s at work.
I swallow a mouthful of bread. “Um, I’m sorry to bug you, Nick. I didn’t realize you’d be working. It’s no big deal.” I wipe the corners of my mouth and sit back in my chair.
He’s quiet a moment. “Sam, what’s going on? I thought you had your date tonight.”
I lean my elbows on the table and laugh-sigh. “Yeah, well, he’s sort of married, apparently, and he left.” I catch myself as my laugh loudens, and I glance around the restaurant. “His wife just called and he had to go home, or to the hotel or whatever. I don’t know.”
“What?” I can hear the anger in his voice, and I wish I hadn’t called him. “You’re fucking joking me. Tara’s brother asked you out, and he’s married? Like that’s not going to be awkward at all later.”
“I’m trying not to think about that right now.” I tap my fingers on the table. “I called Mac, but I keep getting her voicemail. I’ll figure something out though, okay? I don’t want you leaving work or anything. I can always walk to Lick’s and wait for you to get off.”
“Where are you?”
I tear off another piece of bread and shove it in my mouth. “I’m downtown, at the Apple and the Pear.”
“Just stay there. That’s like four miles away and Mac told me she was going to make you wear heels.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“Gee, thanks, but I think I can manage,” I say flatly.
“Just hang tight, Sam. I’ll be right there.”
“Take your time,” I say. “I have a whole bottle of wine to drink until you get here . . . it’s vintage,” I say, as if it matters.
Twenty-Six
Reilly
I’m painting my empty, old bedroom, which the realtor wants to list as an office with a bath, when in reality they aren’t even attached. It’s not like it matters to me, I guess. I’m just trying to get out of here as soon as possible.
It’s a weird feeling, though, trying to picture a family living in this house, everything shiny and smelling like fresh paint, so different than before that it’s barely recognizable. It even feels different. I peer around my old room, wondering how the next owners will decorate it, oblivious to the lives of the people who lived here before them.
I drop the paint roller in the tray, deciding a break from the fumes is probably a good idea. The house creaks as I walk through it, but the hardwood floors are sturdy and new, the ceiling is painted and the roof is fixed. The windows and the porch are replaced, the living room decorated with basic furniture, enough for staging, and the master bedroom and bath are done. All of which makes me hopeful that I can sell it sooner than I thought.
Walking into the kitchen, I try to ignore everything I still need to do in here, and I grab a cold soda out of the fridge. This is the one room in the house that still needs to be completely gutted, but while it means that there’s light at the end of the tunnel, it’s still too far off to get excited yet.
I head out to the porch, inhale the fresh night air, and as I sit down in a teakwood rocking chair, facing the direction of Sam’s place, I realize this is probably counterproductive.
I want to forget about her so bad it hurts. I don’t want to care, I don’t want to think about her, and I can’t be just her friend, not after I’ve tasted her again, not after I’ve held her and felt her against me. Not after I’ve seen the pain in her eyes that I want to cure or soothe or even just be present for so that she doesn’t feel so alone. I know the feeling—being alone. It was my life until I met her. Everyone thought they understood me and my life, but they didn’t. Somehow, Sam did.
But she doesn’t want me or my help. She’s too stubborn to admit it anyway, and I’m tired. Distance is the only defense I have left. A temporary stay was the plan all along for a reason, something to remind myself of the next time I try to get beneath her false smiles just for her to push me back out again. A part of me hates that I care so much, but then I think about her jumping from the rock last weekend and the light in her eyes after. She was different, alive. She slipped up and showed me a hidden part of herself, and I want more.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I fish it out. Nick’s number flashes on the screen. I know he’s at the bar, working. Reluctantly, I answer. “Hello.”
“Hey, I have a favor to ask you,” he says as I crack open my soda.
“That doesn’t sound good.” I take a swig from the cold can and rock back and forth, waiting. “Well?”
“I know she’s not your favorite person right now, man, but I need you to pick Sam up for me. It’s a long story, but she was ditched by her date, and I’m not off until two. It’s just me and Savannah, I can’t leave her right now. It’s crackin’ in here tonight.”
I lean my head on the back of the chair and stare up at the moths and bugs fluttering around the porch light.
I know I’m probably going to regret this. “Where’s she at?”
Moth to a goddamn flame.
Twenty-Seven
Sam
Where is he? I groan and stare at the half-empty bottle of wine I’m turning around in my hands. This wine, from Bordeaux, is quite delicious, and luckily for me, it helps to lessen the sting of being ditched within the first twenty minutes of my date.
I reach for my wineglass, realizing that it’s empty. Instead of pouring myself a new glass, I reach for Adam’s, still untouched. “You don’t mind, do you?” I ask his vacant seat. Smiling at my cleverness, or the fact that I’m losing my mind, I lean back and watch the red wine swirl around and around. Around and around. Just like my thoughts of Mr. Joshua Reilly.
Surprisingly, Papa comes to mind too, and no matter how adamant I am that I need to keep my distance from Reilly, that we won’t work, I know Papa would be disa
ppointed with me—the way I’ve handled it, the way I know I’ve hurt Reilly. I know he probably never wants to see me again, not after yesterday. His eyes dulled, almost deadened right in front of me and I can only imagine what he thinks of me now.
Taking a hearty sip, I realize I’ve probably ruined everything between us. I count how many horrible things I’ve said or done to him, and when I run out of fingers, I take another drink.
The minutes tick on as I wait for Nick. Couples come and go, and the waiter checks on me a couple times, refilling my glass when he realizes it’s empty. I can tell by his drawn brow that he feels sorry for me, so I smile at him, just happy he’s not kicking me out since I’m not ordering anything else.
I’m about to call Nick again when I hear a familiar voice coming from the doorway.
“Sam?” A chill licks up my spine, and I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and exhale before I turn around. Mike’s walking toward my table, a tall brunette hanging from his arm. Of course this is one of Mike’s pretentious hangouts. Why wouldn’t it be? I flash him a pretty smile and wave as if his sudden presence doesn’t bother me in the least. And I guess it really doesn’t, it’s just annoying.
His eyes lock at my cleavage for a heartbeat before shifting to my face, and his tall, slender date, with double D’s and enough collagen in her lips to make it look like she is permanently smiling, looks me up and down, too.
“How are you, Sam? You look . . . different.” He flashes me a smile that a year ago, hell maybe even six months ago, might’ve left me feeling uneasy, but given the amount of wine filling my veins and the more pressing matters in my life right now, it just seems repugnant and pathetic.
I scan his attire, from his loafers and khakis to his predictable button-collar polo. “Well, you don’t, Mike.” Feeling strangely steady in his presence, my false smile broadens. “How many women are you screwing at once these days?” I look to his date. “Are you number two or three?”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 25