“I figured it out,” Sam said, sitting next to her on the porch after the realtor showed them around. “You can teach at the university, write one of those books you got in your head. I’ll open a private practice, make sure my mom’s okay. With my dad’s money on the way, we can take it easy for a few years. Make a home here. And who knows?” he said, bumping her shoulder. “Maybe someone will finally tell us how children are made.”
“Are you crazy?” she said. “I’ve known you for six months.”
“Six months and one day,” he corrected her. “You did it, Annie. You tolerated me longer than you thought you could tolerate a man.” He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. “I knew you could.” He let go of her then and pulled a thin silver ring from his front pocket. “Want to keep going?”
Her phone rings in front of her on the bar, next to her martini. It’s her aunt Therese, Maddie’s mother, calling from France.
“Annie,” Therese says, and as soon as Annie hears her voice, she starts to cry. Her aunt’s voice is identical to her mother’s, so much so that Annie can close her eyes and pretend it’s her mom on the other end of the phone. “How are you, honey?”
“Terrible,” Annie’s voice breaks. “I don’t understand what’s happening. I thought I knew him.”
“I know you did, sweetheart. We all did.”
Annie stifles a sob. Therese and Maddie were shocked when Annie and Sam FaceTimed to share the news of their engagement—and then so excited that, with Sam’s help, they showed up in New York the next weekend to surprise Annie, celebrating the engagement over a seven-course dinner at a small Italian restaurant in the East Village.
“Annie. I want you to come home.” Therese’s voice is firm. “Maddie is going to turn the restaurant over to the manager for a few days and come to the house. We’ll all be together.” The house, shorthand for the five-bedroom house on the olive farm where Annie’s mother and Therese grew up, and which they inherited together after their parents’ death. It was here that Therese, Maddie, and her uncle Nicolas gathered after Annie’s parents’ funeral, and where Annie spent three months hiding in Maddie’s room, before returning to start at Cornell and sell her childhood home.
“I can’t come home,” Annie says, pressing a bar napkin to her eyes. “I have a job.”
“You can take a break,” Therese says. “They’ll understand.”
“I know, but . . .”
“But what?” Therese says.
“But what if he comes home, and I’m not there?” Annie whispers, knowing how ridiculous she sounds. “What if they find—”
“Oh, Annie.” Annie hears the pity in her aunt’s voice. Silly girl, he’s not coming home. The police are barely even looking for him. “If that happens, they’ll call you immediately, and you’ll get on the next plane.”
Annie notices a woman at the end of the bar, watching her. She turns away. “I’ll think about it,” she says. “Thank you, Therese.” She drops her phone into her purse and throws back the rest of her drink.
Why wouldn’t she go? She’s useless here, showing up zombie-like to classes, finding it impossible to focus. In France her uncle Nicolas will cook her favorite meals and make sure there’s a good bottle of red wine open on the table at all times; she and Maddie will talk until they fall asleep in the king-size bed upstairs, in the room that was once her parents’.
As she waves at the bartender for the check, someone slides onto the stool next to hers. It’s the woman from across the bar. She’s younger than Annie thought—early twenties, probably. “Harriet Eager, from the Daily Freeman,” the woman says, offering her hand. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through.”
Ignoring her hand, Annie takes a twenty from her wallet. “Well, perhaps you can make yourself feel better by writing another article about my husband’s financial troubles.” She drops the money on the bar. “For what it’s worth,” she adds, “I thought the police would use that information to help my husband, not to make him look bad.”
“It wasn’t the police who told me about the debt,” Harriet says as Annie starts toward the door.
Annie turns around. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it wasn’t the police.”
“Well, then, who was it?”
Harriet shrugs. “A tip. Some reader, emailing to say there was a rumor circulating that your husband was in serious debt. I usually ignore these things, but I decided to call Chief Sheehy. It checked out.”
“A rumor? There was no rumor. Why would someone do that?”
“CSI,” Harriet says right away. “It happens all the time. Amateur detectives, raring to pitch a theory. One guy was particularly persistent in the beginning, saying he had it on good authority that your husband had run off with a patient.” She shakes her head. “There are some serious weirdos out there.”
Annie’s head is pounding. “I have to go.” She weaves through a crowd of people waiting near the door to be seated, smack into a man entering the restaurant.
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking her elbow to steady her. “How clumsy of me. Are you okay?”
He has graying hair and bright blue eyeglasses, and she doesn’t like the feel of his hand on her arm. “Yes,” she says, pulling away. “I’m fine.”
As she unlocks her car, she hears her phone ringing in her bag.
It’s Franklin Sheehy. “Good evening, Ms. Potter.” There’s a somber edge to his voice. “We need to talk. Any chance you can come down to the station?”
Chapter 43