He took a slightly different route, forgoing the obvious. “Do you remember the time we decided at noon on a Friday that we needed a vacation?”
She sipped a glass of wine, unable to keep from smiling at the recollection. “Of course I remember; I booked us a last-minute flight to Miami.”
“But we never checked the weather, did we?”
“Well, let’s be honest. I never checked the weather,” she admitted. “We spent the entire weekend in a hotel, bracing for hurricane-force winds and watching the Weather Channel,” she said, taking in the silky sky and high clouds of this day. “We couldn’t figure out why we were the only people going out of the airport.”
He reached across the table, fingers linking with hers. “We did a lot more than watch TV, Mia.” His hand tightened. “It was really a wonderful trip.” She tensed, pulling back, breaking away from his grip. “You cried, Mia, the next month, when the little arrow didn’t turn blue and you weren’t pregnant. You wanted that baby.”
I wanted to give in to fate. It would have been a reason to let go . . . and it didn’t happen. It had occurred to Mia, not long after, that needing a new human being to cut the ribbon on your future probably indicated a flaw in your plan.
“You can’t dismiss those memories, and we have a lot of them.”
There was no point in hurting him with any more truth. “But you were right, Michael. You said it was too soon. We were barely married six months. It wasn’t meant to be.”
They sat in silence, Mia taking in the view, Michael surely taking an inventory of their life together. She could see him debating the next heart-rattling memory, swallowing down the scotch he’d ordered. A calm drive and pleasant scenery aside, it was proof of his state of mind. Michael barely drank beer with his buddies. Hard liquor was reserved for hard-nosed business dinners and tough negotiations. She braced for whatever he brought up next, aware that no memory would trigger the feelings for which he searched. There was one, however, guaranteed to make her squirm in her seat. My thirtieth birthday, now there’s a kicker. A surprise trip to Athens, a football game. Thought you’d thrill me with a fun-filled nostalgic weekend. It was all I could do to keep my head from exploding. Everywhere I looked, there was Flynn.
Thankfully, he abandoned the past, opting for generic conversation. “I think the vacation crowd has cleared out,” he said, his gaze scanning the sparse collection of boats on the bay.
Mia shrugged, finishing the glass of wine. “Or just haven’t arrived for the Labor Day weekend.”
“Maybe,” he said, also downing his drink. Glad for the waitress’s interruption, they ordered, the food arriving mercifully fast. It did look fabulous; Mia recalled the cuisine was exquisite. “It looks wonderful,” she said, ordering another glass of wine. “You, um, you never did say. Did you accomplish everything you needed to in Vegas?”
“Vegas,” he said, poking at a plate of pasta. “Seems like a light-year ago instead of yesterday.” They exchanged a wary glance, Mia keeping the rhythm of food moving toward her mouth. “No, not really. I may need to fly back later this week, take another meeting.”
“That’s fine, Michael, you do what you need to.” She meant it as no more than a benign comment, the kind of thing she always said, never wanting to get in the way of his work.
He took it as a direct dismissal, his fork dropping onto the plate with a resounding crack. “I guess that would suit you fine. Maybe you’ll get lucky, maybe the plane will wreck. Damn, it certainly would go a long way to solving your problems. You could come to my funeral, stand by me, continue to play the devoted wife. Then the two of you can quietly cash in the life insurance. Take that European vacation we’ve always talked about. When you get back he can just move right into the house—the neighbors might talk a little, but what the heck.”
“Michael, I . . .” She could only stare, stunned by his train of thought. A plump shrimp stopped midway to her mouth, which was gaping wide at the accusation. “I’d never . . . That’s . . . that’s a horrible thing to say!” She lobbed the shrimp, fork and all, onto the table. The cooked crustacean broke free and he watched it bounce, jumping the rail and falling back into the sea. Mia reared back in her seat, doing everything she could to keep a civil tone. “Understand something, Michael. I didn’t go looking for this. You can think I’m an unfeeling, self-centered bitch, think I’ve wanted him back since the day he left, but don’t think I’d ever wish anything like that on you.”
He pushed the plate away, shuffling back in his chair, distancing himself. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m just really angry and frustrated. I don’t even know who to be angrier with—you, him . . . or myself.”
Scrubbing a hand over her face, Mia had to agree. Anger would be the least of her emotions had the scenario been reversed. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Last year, at a Christmas party, Mia watched as a beautiful young lawyer from Michael’s office cornered him by the pastry table. He was friendly but unaffected by the woman’s flirtatious advance, which was clear from across the room. Naturally, nothing came of it. But as they drove home, on the seat next to Mia sat a pesky guilt. Instead of politely approaching, introducing herself as Michael’s wife, she stayed on the opposite side of the room, considering what a lovely couple they made.
There was even less conversation on the way back to Silver Spring, Michael having spent the majority of the ride on the phone with work, Mia looking out the window. She wasn’t sure what the afternoon had accomplished, other than driving something sharp and unbendable farther into his wound. They pulled into the driveway as Michael discussed a business matter that did sound urgent. “I have to get some paperwork, go into the office for a while,” he said, flipping closed his phone. “Are you—”
“I’m going to my meeting with Hough . . . and then, yes, I’m going to the hospital.”
“It’ll be late,” he said, getting out of the car.
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” He stopped, a hand clasping around her arm. “Then what?”
“Then . . .” Mia took a tumultuous breath, wishing there was some way to fast-forward, allowing Michael to glide past his immediate future. At the moment, she had no answer that didn’t convey his worst fear. “I guess we talk some more.” She meant about an amicable end to their marriage; she guessed he was still thinking of ways to reconcile it.
They walked toward the house, the two of them stopping at Mia’s car, which had a flat tire. He shook his head, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Damn, I suppose you’d like me to change that.”
She stared at the deflated tire, realizing the depth of humiliation it would require for him to do so. “Of course not.” She glanced at her watch, seeing that time was short. “I’ll call for a cab.”
Inside the house, Michael changed into business attire and disappeared into his study. He left moments later, without a word. Mia had no more time to wallow in outcomes or think of words to soften the blow. She had to switch gears fast and get to her meeting with Aaron Hough. Flipping through the phonebook, she called a cab company, gathering her things as she spoke, sketches and her portfolio. It was a magic-act change, grabbing a suit from the closet and negotiating the stairs while tugging on high heels. Looking into the foyer mirror, Mia pulled a brush through her hair and applied a hint of lipstick, a layer of guilt draping over her grim expression. It was almost comical after the hours spent envisioning the preparations for such a meeting. A FedEx driver was on his way up the walk as Mia opened the door. As he delivered a slim envelope, she considered asking him for a lift. But as she was tucking the envelope into her portfolio, the cab pulled into the driveway.
Flynn exhaled a restless breath, tapping his head against the window in short, terse strokes. Late afternoon sunlight pulsed in, and he saw his pale eyes reflected in the glass as he stared into the distance. The sun inched toward the Potomac, its baking rays penetrating the window. He could tell it had been a hot day for September. Heat always caught up with him. An aimless
smile crept across his face. He now leaned his body against the glass. Maybe he’d move to Alaska when this was over. The smile vanished, raw nerves riding him like an addict on his third day without a fix. If he had to wait one more minute for Mia, he was absolutely going to lose it.
A nurse had come by after lunch and told him he should be resting in bed. Flynn ignored her, firming up a shaky stance. He’d gladly continue to endure pain for his freedom. It belonged to him now, the ability to say what he wanted, be where he wanted. And he was ready to make good on everything he’d promised himself and Mia, even if she didn’t know it.
Worse than any nightmare, he’d endured a sticky, heat-filled vision. Mia and her husband making up for lost time. Had Roxanne been lying about that? It could very well go that way. Mia might tell him, thanks, but she’d made other plans with her life. Who could blame her? Michael Wells surely didn’t have the kind of past that hung on post-office walls. He’d seen Mia for ten lousy minutes. Twelve years and it was all he got, ten hazy minutes. Even so, the conversation was seared into his mind. He had replayed it endlessly. Everything about her said she was something more than an ex-lover who’d come by to hold his hand. When she learned the truth, maybe it would make a difference. Or maybe he was just setting himself up for one horrific fall. Who was to say it wasn’t exactly what he deserved? Maybe punishment for the past went far beyond time served.
Flynn sipped cold coffee. The lunch went untouched; it had an unsavory kinship to prison food. Didn’t matter, he wouldn’t have eaten it had a four-star chef prepared it. He thought about the fried chicken Mia had cooked, that silly dinner with Roxanne. She hadn’t come back yet, didn’t bring the letter. She was probably waiting in the shadows, figuring the police would show up sooner rather than later. Go ahead and wait, Roxanne. Bet it all on your damn DNA.
Flynn left the coffee, returning to the window. He couldn’t help it; there it was again. Mia and this man to whom she was married, he couldn’t force it together in his mind. All those years, he knew it was possible. Hell, it was probable. It didn’t make it easier though he’d prodded himself with countless reminders. Mia didn’t know; she thought he’d walked out on her. And this man, did he pick up the pieces? Was he the comfort at night? Did he help her through it? Maybe Mia realized what a mistake he would have been before he hit the state line. Wasn’t he the one telling her all along that he’d hold the door open, applaud her if she decided to leave? Maybe she had taken his advice. Maybe she would have rolled her eyes at the letter and said, “He’s got to be kidding . . .”
The IV was gone, not so gently yanked out by the same nurse who came back at three. The stronger he felt, the more uncomfortable the hospital attire became. Flynn gingerly paced the room, moving awkwardly on unsteady legs. Then he stopped sharply, as if he’d hit a wall. Kids, what if they had kids? It could change everything, no matter how she felt about him. Surely Roxanne would have mentioned that, thrown it in his face. Maybe not. Even Roxanne would protect a child. She wouldn’t want him to know. He was back at the window, knocking his knuckles against the glass. God, let her come soon. Either way, let this be finished. A take-charge voice broke into his thoughts and he turned from the window.
“Excuse me, you’re Flynn, aren’t you?” The man was all confidence, coming right at him, never hesitating as he extended a hand. Without thinking, Flynn automatically shook it. “I’m Michael Wells, Mia’s husband. I’d say nice to meet you, glad you’re feeling better, but . . .”
“But that would be a load of bullshit,” Flynn said, assessing the sudden, if not polite, ambush.
“Something like that.”
He turned back to the window, not affording Michael the courtesy of eye contact. There was no point to this conversation. He’d learn everything he needed to from Mia. Yet there he was, standing in front of him in his thousand-dollar suit, clean shaven, dripping with success. Even his aftershave had the scent of a born winner. “Where’s Mia?” he asked, speaking into the window. The reality of it disgusted him, needing this man to tell him where Mia was as if she belonged to him.
Flynn heard his contemplative sigh. “Ah, Roxanne said you could be . . . abrupt. I’d like to speak with you about Mia.”
“Roxanne’s a fucking lying bitch. How’s that for abrupt? If you’ve been talking to her, I already know what you’re thinking. I’ve got nothing to say to you about Mia.” Cold, impassive, Flynn turned, demanding again, “Where is she?” It was reflex, that defense mechanism. The one that guarded against society, against the assumptions people made. Flynn returned his vacant stare back to the window.
Michael cleared his throat. Evidently blistering hostility didn’t enter into his usual high-stakes negotiations. In the reflection, he could see Michael’s stance shift, looking as if he was trying to figure Flynn out. Perhaps it was dawning on him that this man was not approachable from within the norms. “Look, this is a difficult situation. For everyone. But Mia is my wife . . .” Flynn’s head whipped around as the words lashed into him. He understood that Michael was prepared for the challenge. “And if you want her, you’re going to have to go through me, you son of a bitch.”
“Not a problem.” Flynn turned away again.
“I see. I suppose that answers my first question. Do I understand you correctly? You can just grunt once for yes. You want her back? You came here to find her, after all these years? My wife is not delusional?”
“Yeah, bad weather in Cleveland, took a little longer than I thought.”
“Hey, why don’t you lose the fucking attitude,” Michael snapped. “This gets more absurd by the second. I can’t believe this is what Mia wants.”
“What Mia wants.” He wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want me. This guy is about two seconds away from ripping my head off. Flynn drew strength from the hint Michael unknowingly offered. “Look, Mike, don’t take it personally. I’m sure you’re a great guy. Under any other circumstance, you and I might have . . .” He took in Michael’s well-groomed but appalled expression. Flynn shrugged. “Might have passed each other on the street without incident?”
“Except for this one very unlikely thing we seem to have in common.” Michael shoved his hands into his pockets and tipped back on his heels a little, examining the floor for a moment. It was as close to civil conversation as they were going to get. “Mia will be here this evening.”
“Good, the waiting is really getting tedious.” Flynn shot him a contemptuous glare, shifting his weight. He didn’t dare sit down.
“And arrogant. Roxanne mentioned that too. Look, I don’t have time to negotiate with you, so I’ll just say my piece. A couple of days ago you were nothing more than a vague college memory, and now you’re in a position to blow my life apart. I’m usually more prepared, so you’ll have to understand, I’m at a significant disadvantage here.” Flynn didn’t buy a word of that, staring steadily out the window. “Generally I’m afforded more time to gauge an opponent,” he said, equating Flynn to a challenging business maneuver, “evaluate his assets, exploit any weaknesses.”
Flynn turned slightly. “Let me help you out. I don’t have any fucking assets, and even fewer weaknesses—which, from your perspective, gives me an unknown value. My guess is that’s not a position you’re used to finding yourself in.”
“Hardly,” Michael said. “Either way, it’s an unsettling circumstance, so you’ll forgive me if I’m blunt here.”
“Blunt? I was wondering if you’re always this polite when somebody shows up to claim your wife. Must work for you though,” he said, scanning his polished appearance. Flynn guessed he was the kind of man who couldn’t fathom loss. “You don’t look like you’re wanting for much.”
Michael ignored the remark as he folded his arms across his chest, moving closer. “Everything I have is nothing without Mia. It might be the last thing you want to hear, but I love my wife. All I’m asking for is the opportunity to be heard, before she gets here. Look, you don’t owe me a damn thing. But regardless of what you b
elieve, Mia has been happy these past few years. It’s something you might want to consider before incinerating the life she has.”
The guy was shrewd. No wonder he was wearing a thousand-dollar suit. Apparently he’d earned every thread. “I’m listening. But like I said, if you’ve been talking to Roxanne and you’re about to accuse me of knocking off college coeds, we can all just take a time-out until the DNA gets back.”
“First of all, it wouldn’t solve my problem. Secondly, I doubt that DNA will show much of anything.”
“What makes you say that?” Flynn said, surprised by his generous assumption.
“Mia, mostly. I can’t believe she’d be that wrong about someone she feels . . . Well, I’m sure as hell not going there. Listen, even if Roxanne saw you in the library, standing over Professor Plum with the candlestick . . . well, in Mia’s eyes it would only hang you higher on the cross. Besides, I’ve known Roxanne a long time. There are a lot of things that drive her . . . Not all of them are easy to understand.”
Flynn glanced back. “Her sister . . . I know.”
Michael nodded, crinkling his brow. “Roxanne confided that to you?”
He shook his head. “Mia did—eventually.”
“Anyway, I want to show you something. Like I said, I don’t have time for long negotiations. If you could just take a look, maybe you’ll understand how solid, how safe Mia’s life is.”
Flynn watched as Michael pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. If they’re fucking baby pictures, I’m throwing myself out the window. It was close. Inside were a dozen or so pictures of Mia looking as happy as he’d promised. Flynn hid short, nervous breaths as he passed by each photo. At first he was just mesmerized. She was as beautiful as every memory he carried with him. When he left Athens, he took a few pictures with him, but once she didn’t come, it was only on rare occasions that he looked at them. Michael moved closer, obviously feeling the need to narrate.
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