“Right here.” Nick tapped his heart. Then he paused before he left. “Be careful what you say to Jarret. I don’t trust him.”
I shut the door behind him and used the half bath downstairs to freshen up. Then I headed upstairs to solve the wardrobe dilemma. What to wear? Though I couldn’t care less about impressing Jarret, dining at the Daily Grill required an upgrade from my grubby T-shirt and jeans. I twirled and pinned my hair off my neck in a knot. Lipstick, the porcelain-and-pearl earrings Nick gave me last Christmas, a red linen shift, and sandals. Good enough. Better than good enough.
The Daily Grill, located on the second-floor balcony of a small mall at the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Ventura Boulevard, was a five-minute drive west into the cool purple and golden red sky behind the evening sun. Cars jammed the mall’s street-level parking lot. Apparently everyone in Studio City had come out to dodge the stifling heat or to kick off the weekend. At six fifty-six, I found a space in the underground lot and rode the outside escalators up to the second floor.
A small crowd waited outside the revolving glass door to the restaurant. Jarret, in a white shirt, khaki pants, and black sunglasses, waved me over to a table at the farthest end of the patio dining area. As I approached, he stood and pulled out a chair for me.
“I’d rather not sit out here in the heat,” I said. “Let’s get a booth inside. We’ll have more privacy.”
“This is private,” Jarret said, sweeping his hands at the empty tables around him. “Look around. There’s no one out here.”
“Exactly. No one is sitting out here because it’s too hot. I’d like to eat inside.”
“It’ll cool off as soon as the sun goes down.”
In less than two minutes, our egos tangled in the dance familiar to both of us. Jarret refused to lose; I refused to give in. Compromise wasn’t an option, never was. At the beginning of our marriage, our quarrels ended with makeup sex. Toward the end of our marriage, Jarret ended every argument by slamming the door behind him as he left. He made a mockery of my psychology training by goading me into childish behavior. We knew each other too well. This time, I wouldn’t care if he left.
I turned toward the entrance. “It’s already cool inside.”
He mumbled a curse then followed me through the revolving door into the restaurant’s din. Dishes clattered and conversations echoed through the early twentieth-century décor of high ceilings and low wooden booths. We stopped at the dark wood lectern near the door and waited for the hostess.
White-coated waiters bustled from the kitchen carrying large black trays of food. Diners filled tables and booths, surrounded by windows framing a view of the flats of Studio City and the mountains beyond. In the noisy bar area to our left, a strapping bartender poured drinks for patrons mingling shoulder-to-shoulder.
Jarret shuffled from foot to foot, gazing over the dining room. “Where the hell is the hostess?”
“Take off your sunglasses. She’s coming down the center aisle,” I said.
A pretty, salt-and-pepper-haired hostess in a black pantsuit carried an armful of menus through the restaurant toward us, smiling. “Was there a problem with your table?”
“My wi—we decided to eat inside instead,” Jarret said.
She stacked the menus on the side of the stand then scanned the reservation book. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper. I only have patio tables available right now.”
Jarret gave me a pleading look. I shook my head. “We’ll wait for a booth.”
“It’ll be about fifteen minutes,” she said. “If you want, you can wait in the bar. I’ll call you as soon as your table is ready and have the waiter bring in your drinks.”
“That’s okay. We’ll wait here.” Jarret edged me to the corner between the door and the dining room. He stared out the window, jangling keys in his pocket. I glanced aimlessly through the crowd, eager to sit down and get this over with.
Someone from behind jostled me roughly aside and I tripped into Jarret, circling my hands for balance. Forrest Huber, reeking of booze, thrust his chin in Jarret’s face.
“You son of a bitch.” Forrest’s voice carried over the clatter of plates, causing a hush at nearby tables. “What did you do to my wife, Jarret? What did you do to Laycee?”
Towering over Forrest in height and strength, Jarret put up a calming hand and said quietly, “I’m sorry, man. It wasn’t what you think.”
“How do you know what I think?” Forrest shoved at Jarret’s shoulder. “You don’t have the balls to return my messages. You used her and left her to die, you bastard.”
“Forrest, please.” I touched his arm, moving toward the door. “Let’s talk outside.”
“Get away from me.” He brushed me away. “You lied to me, too. You deserve each other.”
The hostess and two waiters rushed over, forming a shield around us.
“Sir,” the hostess said to Forrest, “I have to ask you to leave.”