“What exactly did she do? This so-called come-on.”
He shrugs, as if bewildered. “She ordered a martini for starters. It just seemed, I don’t know, a little over the top for the occasion. When she said a drink, I assumed she meant a glass of wine. And then she let her hand sort of graze over mine. The first time I thought it might be an accident, but when it happened again, I could see she was up to something. I asked for the check right afterwards and said I had to head home.”
I stare at him. Guy and I became exclusive shortly after we met, and he has never given me any reason not to trust him. I’ve fretted at times, of course—I’d be a fool not to with us living apart half the week. He’s a charismatic, good-looking guy, and I know women check him out because I’ve witnessed it with my own eyes. But I’ve never seen him return a woman’s gaze, never noticed anything the least bit fishy about his behavior, never caught him being secretive.
Except he’s kept a secret about Eve, hasn’t he? I think of my early impression of her, that she came across as manipulative and contemptuous of other women, meaning she was probably perfectly capable of making a play for someone’s husband, including mine.
“You said a few weeks ago. You mean before I came up here?”
“Yes.”
“Where? Where did it happen?”
“At the Sorrel Horse Inn—just so you know, it’s only a restaurant, not an actual inn. It’s on the road to Schuylerville.”
“Schuylerville?” That’s easily twenty minutes out of town. “Why would you go that far away?”
“She said it would be a nice change of pace for the reception I was arranging and really worth checking out.”
A little voice inside me whispers: People meet out of town when they don’t want to be seen.
“And so why are you telling me this now?” But as soon as the question spills from my lips, I know what answer is coming.
“When those two detectives admitted they didn’t have a suspect, I knew they’d be looking into Eve Blazer’s life,” he says. “I thought they might get wind of the fact that I’d been at the bar with her that night and would raise it in front of you. I didn’t want you to feel blindsided.”
He shifts position finally, turning and stepping toward the sink. He pulls a glass from the cupboard and fills it with tap water, then takes a long swig. His dress shirt is usually still crisp at the end of the day, but not tonight. It’s limp from sweat, I notice.
I don’t know what to say or do. There’s a weird discordance to his words, like a song sung off-key. Is there more than he’s letting on? The question I’m about to ask sickens me.
“Did you have an affair with her, Guy?”
He spins around so fast the water jostles in his glass. His expression reads stunned.
“Bryn, honey, for God’s sake, no. It was one drink, which I assumed at the start was totally innocent. And when I could see that it wasn’t innocent in her mind, I took off.”
“You’re saying you haven’t been unfaithful.”
He looks off for a moment and then back to me, shaking his head.
“Absolutely not. You know me better than that.”
“But if you were so aghast at her behavior, why invite her into our home?” I say, my anger spiking again as this question forms in my mind. “And you took her side over those fucking flowers.”
“I’d already invited Nick and Jerry, and I couldn’t cancel on them. I asked Miranda to find another caterer, but no one else was available on such late notice. So I told myself to simply act as if it was business as usual. That’s why I barely said two words to the woman. And that stuff with the flowers—that wasn’t about her in any way. As I told you at the time, it was about my frustration over not being able to help you.”
For a few moments I stand there bewildered, my emotions in a hopeless tangle. The room is utterly silent except for a drip from the faucet into the deep apron sink.
“So what are you going to do about the police?” I ask finally. “Are you going to tell them this before they find out about it?”
He swipes a hand along the side of his head. “I already did. That’s where I’ve been, why I’m late.”
“You went to the police?”
“Yes, it seemed best to do it that way. To come forward and explain the situation for what it was in case someone from the bar saw us and reported it.”
His answer makes me catch my breath.
“But, Guy, shouldn’t you have consulted a lawyer before you talked to the cops? What if they think you were having an affair? What if they think you killed her?”
My whole body goes cold as I utter the last line. Guy could very well end up as a suspect.