Well.
Now Daisy had the morning free. Most everyone else she knew was attending church services—that’s what people who still had something to believe in did in this city on Sunday mornings—so there wouldn’t be a pickup game to be had at the club, not yet. Tom would still be on the course, playing his weekly round with his buddies. She had no one. No one to be with. No one to count on.
She could go to the lake, take a walk around.
But even as she thought it, she aimed the car downtown. Ten minutes later, almost without thinking, she ended up on West End, across from Centennial Park, in front of one of her favorite restaurants, Tin Angel. Almost without thinking, because one small part of her knew that they had a lavish Sunday brunch with pitchers of delicious mimosas.
The valet greeted her like she was an old friend, even though she’d never seen him before in her life. There was a line—there was always a line; Tin Angel didn’t take reservations—but she bypassed the waiting horde and went to the hostess stand.
“I’m just going to the bar,” she said.
The girl, long brown hair with a deep purple streak, and innocent, so innocent, smiled winningly and waved her through.
The first glass of chilled champagne and fresh squeezed orange juice went down smoothly. The second followed on its heels like it was afraid to be parted from its friend.
When had this become her life?
She was getting light-headed, but she poured a third glass.
“Can I get you something to eat, ma’am?” The bartender must have noticed she was weaving in her seat a bit; he had his arms crossed disapprovingly.
The idea of food made her want to vomit, but she played along. “Just some fruit and toast, please.”
“What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“Just being friendly. No eggs? We have a great omelet on special today. Goat cheese and arugula.”
Arugula. Arugularugularugala.
Pull yourself together, Daisy.
“No, thank you. Just the fruit.”
When he turned away to put the order in, she hurriedly drank the rest of the mimosa, tossed a twenty on the bar, and left.
The valet had put her car in the slot closest to the door, well aware that if something happened to an expensive vehicle on his watch he’d be paying for it out of his own pocket. She took the keys from him in exchange for a five, got in the car, and locked the doors.
She hadn’t liked the way the bartender was looking at her.
As if he’d known.
The day was fine, the traffic somewhat light. She had another hour to kill before meeting her lawyer—he being one of those tethered to the confines of the pulpit on any given Sunday. She put the car in gear and pulled away, headed down West End toward Lower Broad, toward the river.
The Sunday morning streets teemed with visiting tourists, almost all families. It hurt her, stabbed her insides to see them walking along with their children in tow, so happy, so carefree. She wanted to scream at them: Don’t you know they could die? Don’t you know they can be stolen from you? How dare you not be worrying about keeping them safe?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You’re supposed to precede your children into death.
She consoled herself with the thought that sometime soon she’d have a hefty check in her hand. She’d fill a bag, gas up the car, and head onto the open road, without a word to anyone. She wasn’t sure where she wanted to go, only knew she wanted away. Away from Nashville, from her memories, her very life.
Daisy fumed and plotted and dreamed and wound around the downtown streets—Broadway, Church, State, Union, Broadway again, left on First—then turned left again and headed back out toward the capitol, careful to drive slowly and responsibly by the police station on 2nd Avenue.
She somehow ended up behind Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital. She’d driven in a big circle, and realized she was only a few streets away from Aubrey’s house.
This was all Aubrey’s fault.
Daisy turned off Blakemore onto 25th Street. She had no intention of stopping. But what would it hurt to drive past? Little bitch probably wasn’t home anyway. She was probably at brunch with her own group of friends. Daisy had seen her last week, with that woman who owned the coffee shop, their heads together, laughing over a private joke. Aubrey had moved on.
Aubrey’s house was at the end of West Linden, where it met the plain dead-end street. It should have been a cul-de-sac, but the builders had gotten lazy and there was no half-moon to delineate it, so the street ended abruptly in a dirty guardrail. Daisy turned down the road and could see the shabby little bungalow. Its dormer windows stared at her accusingly.
Aubrey was sitting on the front porch, the dog—Josh’s dog—frolicking off his lead in the dormant, nubby grass. There was a man sitting next to her.
Daisy drove closer. Her heart sped up. The way the man sat, his hands loose between his legs, his shoulders cocked forward, his head titled to one side . . .