He grins. “It’s rather cute. In a…reptilian sort of way.”
“Oh my gosh,” I say, mortified, sidestepping to the bathroom. “I’ll just go and…wash this off.”
I scrub my face, then swipe on a bit of lipstick before evaluating myself in the mirror. It’s not my best look—far from it—but I’m grateful that the living room lights are dim.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask.
He glances at my glass of red wine on the coffee table. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
I open a fresh bottle and pour him a glass, then return to the sofa beside him. I shift positions nervously, expecting him to resume the documentary-style interview of our first date, but tonight seems to be different, somehow. Our conversation takes a grand tour—his favorite London neighborhoods, my thoughts on the royal family, an old friend of his mother’s who is presently incarcerated, fir trees, life and death, and California.
He seems a bit nervous, too.
And then, suddenly, I feel his hand on my hand.
“Listen,” he says. “Can I just kiss you and get this over with?”
I laugh, unsure of how to answer. Do Liza’s rules apply to moments like this?
“I don’t know if I’m breaking the rules,” he says, making me smile, “but, damn, Valentina, do I want to kiss you. Is that”—he pauses, inching closer to me—“all right?”
I want to be kissed, too. “Yes,” I whisper.
I close my eyes as Daniel’s lips meet mine, and for a moment, I feel as if I’m practically levitating. In fifteen years, I’d only kissed one other man—Nick, obviously—but this is different, and new.
Daniel smiles, cupping my face in his hands, then kissing my forehead softly. “We should do more of that.”
“We should?” I say, a bit stunned. “I mean, yes, we should.”
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
“Good,” he says. “Then I’d like to take you to dinner at the club.”
“The club?”
“The RAC,” he says, pausing when I don’t connect the dots. “The Royal Automobile Club. My family has been members for ages. It’s a stuffy old London curiosity, but it can be pretty fun, if you like that sort of thing. They filmed a scene of Downton Abbey there a few years ago. Anyway, I’m supposed to meet a friend of mine and his girlfriend there for dinner tomorrow night at seven, and, well, would you like to join me?”
“A double date.”
“Yeah,” he says. “So, what do you say?”
“Well, yes—of course. I…can’t wait.”
“Good.” He kisses me a final time before heading to the door. “Sweet dreams, Valentina.”
The Next Day
I sat up and yawned as the morning sunlight filtered in through my bedroom windows. A moment later, Val barreled in the door, leaping onto my bed with her pink backpack strapped to her shoulders. “Good morning, Mummy!” she exclaimed, nuzzling in beside me. I glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand; Bonnie would be taking her to school soon.
“Don’t forget the flowers,” I said, “for your teacher’s birthday. I left them on the breakfast table.”
“Okay, Mummy,” she said, hugging me tightly. Soon, her childhood would be over and she’d blossom into a young woman. As much as I looked forward to knowing her in adulthood, I longed to keep her just like this—my adoring baby girl. “Hurry now, you’ll be late!”
She skipped ahead out the door as I sighed and got up for the day. I dressed, then pulled my hair back before reaching for the painting I’d bought the night before—for Frank. I planned to hang it near the entryway as a surprise for him when he got home.
“Good morning,” he said, startling me when I reached the base of the stairs.
“Frank,” I said, taken aback. “I thought you’d already left for the office.”
“I’m taking the morning off,” he said from the sofa, his arms folded across his chest. “Eloise, I think we should talk.”
“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully, eager to show him the painting. “But first, I have a surprise for you.” I sat beside him, setting the artwork on the coffee table for him to see, but he barely paid it any attention before his eyes drifted off ahead.
“I consigned a few of my old dresses recently,” I continued. “Anyway, I bought it last night, at the art walk—for you. It reminded me of Val, and our house a bit. Do you see the resemblance? Do you like it? I thought we could hang it over there, by the—”
“Eloise,” he said, “where were you last night, exactly?”
“Why, Frank, you already know—at the art walk. I told you.”
A shadow covered his face; I couldn’t make out his expression. “Why don’t you tell me what you were really doing.”
“Frank, what on earth do you mean?”
He handed me a manila folder. “Look inside.”
Stunned, I pulled out the stack of photos. On top was a closeup of Peter and me, talking on the sidewalk last night. I looked away, but Frank grabbed my chin, forcing my gaze back.
“Look at them,” he demanded.
I obeyed, flipping through the other photographs—some from months prior—of me walking in or out of homes in the areas where I’d visited estate sales. “Frank, this is ridiculous,” I finally said, my heart pounding in my chest. “You had me followed while I was shopping?”
“I just have one question, Eloise,” he said, his eyes filled with disdain. “Did you think you could fool me? Did you actually think I wouldn’t find out?”
“Frank,” I cried. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“I’ve lost my mind?” He laughed. “I’m not the one traipsing around the city in the night having romantic encounters.”
“Romantic encounters?” I shook my head. “I was at an art walk, Frank.”
He reached for a photo of Peter in the stack. “Exhibit A.”
“You can’t be serious,” I cried. “I don’t even know him!”
He smirked, tossing a scrap of paper in my lap. “Then why did I find this in your purse?”
I gasped, eyeing the note Peter left on my car that day at the beach with Val. “You went through my purse?”
“Say what you will, but I have the facts; my private detective confirmed everything. The man in the photos is the same man who wrote you the note you kept in your purse. I have all the evidence.”
“Well, the ‘evidence’ is wrong,” I said. “The photos show nothing, because there’s nothing to see! Frank, for the love of God, why are you doing this?”
“I’m the one asking the questions, Eloise.”
“So you’re interrogating me.”
“I’m presenting the truth.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re creating your own narrative, as you always have. I did absolutely nothing wrong last night. And the other photos that your brilliant detective took of me were from estate sales. You know it’s a hobby of mine!”
I felt cornered, out of options, but Frank was undeterred. He was in control now, and I couldn’t say anything that would change things.
“Look, your chin’s quivering,” he said. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”