The Marsh Madness

I glared at him. We had a pact never to speak of my former boyfriend. “We’re not going to be talking about Lucas.”


All right, from time to time, I might whine about the fact that Lucas maxed out my credit cards, plundered my bank account and left me with my self-respect in shreds and no chance of continuing grad school until I rebuilt my financial side, not to mention my credit rating. He was why I came slinking back to Harrison Falls and my uncles and ended up working for Vera. I do not need to talk about him or think about him.

“You were heartbroken then,” Lance said, apparently not remembering our pact.

“And who said I’m heartbroken now?”

He shrugged. “Good if you’re not, but I think you are. And these two have lots in common.”

“You can’t possibly compare them. Tyler is decent and honorable and—”

“And yet he broke up with you when you needed him. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is he wasn’t a lying, manipulative snake who cleaned me out, and by the way, I broke up with Lucas. There’s one really big difference. What’s more—”

“I’m saying there’s a pattern.”

Apparently, I used my outside voice. “It’s not a pattern.”

Lance shook his head. “You can do better.”

“But—” I stopped myself. Was Lance right? Was I attracted to men who wanted to take advantage of me? Could I do better?

I thought hard. There was no question that Lucas had been the worst thing that had ever happened to me, except for losing my mother. But Tyler hadn’t been. He’d been—if you overlooked the absence last fall—available, supportive. Funny. Kind. A good dog owner. He’d pursued me in spite of my family, um, connections. They couldn’t have done his ambitions any good. I might have been furious with him, but I knew he wasn’t a “bad boyfriend.” Of course, now he wasn’t any kind of boyfriend.

I said, “The topic is closed to discussion. We have other fish to fry.”

“Good. I’m starving. And we’re here.”


*

MR. GRIMSBY’S IS in an old brick house that’s been nicely done up. Modern décor, lots of charcoal walls and new muted gold accents. Their lunch specials had been written up by someone with really good handwriting on a chalkboard in a gold-accented frame. I sincerely hoped that this fresh and chic new spot survived in our town.

We were in an intimate corner by the gas fireplace. Our table, like all the others and the bar, was made of weathered barn board, with many layers of high-gloss varnish. No tablecloths. Our spot was very cozy—a good thing, as spring didn’t seem to be coming. Our server seemed new and nervous, despite her stylish topknot and sleek black tunic. She handed us menus and stepped back to wait. I think she may have been overcome by Lance.

We settled in, and I managed to smile at her.

“Now, can we talk about the photo?”

Lance leaned toward me and said, “Maybe we should look at the menu and order, and talk while we wait for our food.”

I gave a noncommittal nod. I was steamed at my good friend and his attempt to play Dr. Phil with me.

The server—our own one-person studio audience—lurched toward us and slid a basket of sliced bread and a small dish with three flavored butters between us. She recommended that we each choose three small plates for the meal.

It was hard to make that choice. Lance settled on the seared scallops with parsnip puree and a sesame drizzle, and I went with the mini steak frites. What are bistros for if not steak frites, however mini? He picked the cheese plate to start; I went for hot and spicy cauliflower soup.

While we were waiting, Lance produced the print of the photo. Under several of the faces he had placed small white labels. “Shelby Church” was one of them. No surprise there. He also had a thin ribbon of tape on the surface connecting some faces. Shelby had quite a few connections. I figured people in a place like the Country Club and Spa and people who attended charity cotillions would move in the same circles. Not circles that anyone I knew moved in.