As spent as I feel, I’m not ready to lie beside Guy in bed. I sit in the den instead, reading a book without really absorbing the words. Finally, at close to midnight, I head upstairs. The master bedroom is dark, and through the half-open door I can see the shape of Guy’s body lying facedown in bed, his arms stretched above his head.
I crawl silently into bed, staying closer to the edge than the middle. The time I spent alone tonight hasn’t helped me sort out my feelings. I’ve been trying to weigh Guy’s words and judge their veracity, but I realize I have nothing to use in my calculation other than my two-year-long sense of him as an honest and faithful man. That may not be enough.
In the morning I wake to the soft thud of the closet door closing. I start to open my eyes but don’t, and my stomach quickly cramps as memories from last night piece together in my mind. Guy’s footsteps recede from the room, and I hear him descend the stairs. Only a few minutes later I pick up the muffled sound of his car pulling out of the driveway on the other side of the house. He clearly didn’t bother with breakfast today.
I dress and go downstairs. Not surprisingly there’s a note from him on the kitchen table: “Please let’s talk tonight, Bryn. I’ll be in Albany until after lunch, home early. I love you.”
We’ll have to talk, I realize, as I make coffee. I can’t go on indefinitely parking myself rooms away from Guy and clinging to the edge of the bed. I’m going to have to either accept his explanation as completely true and let him off the hook for being na?ve, or believe that there’s more to the story than he’s let on, that he’s confessed to the drink rendezvous only because that information could leak out now that Eve’s former life is under scrutiny.
And if I choose the latter, then what?
To distract myself, I wander into my office, open the reinvention file on my laptop, and start to type. It’s not proposal-worthy bur rather simple stream of consciousness, ideas I’ve been noodling over in the last day or so, as well as a few observations based on what Barb shared yesterday about her decision to leave banking and open her shop. At least there are words on the page.
My cell phone rings right as I’m closing the laptop. It’s Sandra. I’m grateful for yet another diversion.
“I’m so sorry I never called yesterday,” she says. “I should have made sure you were okay; I ended up in swag-bag hell for most of the afternoon.”
“Don’t worry about it. I actually should have called you and said thanks for the tea . . . How did the bags turn out?”
“They’re not exactly red-carpet caliber, but they’ll do. I’m sure you’ve been given your share of swag at events, and it’s never quite as good as you hope, is it? Gift certificates for places you won’t ever set foot in. Cheap pens. At least these each have a nice candle.”
“A girl can never have enough candles.”
“Very true. So tell me, are you feeling better today?”
“Yes, much. I appreciate you checking up on me.”
“My pleasure . . . There’s something else I wanted to mention. It’s about the chef, Eve Blazer.”
My heart skips. Am I ever going to be done with this?
“Yes?”
“I decided to do a little snooping after all.”
“About the murder?”
“No, about Eve. Remember I mentioned that an acquaintance of mine who used Eve was unhappy with her, and you asked what the problem was. I thought I’d try to find out.”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” I say hurriedly. “It was just a momentary curiosity.”
The last thing I need at this point is for the cops to find out I’ve enlisted a pal to go trolling for details about Eve.
“I already tracked down the information. And frankly, I was curious, too. It turns out this woman walked in on Eve being extremely flirtatious with her husband. That’s why she decided never to hire her again.”
I take a deep breath, processing the revelation.
“What exactly was she doing, did your friend say?”
“Eve was giving the husband a taste of one of the dishes, and she was not only leaning extremely close to him but talking provocatively—and the husband was lapping it all up like a pathetic puppy dog. The wife’s words, not mine. I thought it was interesting in light of what happened. You can’t help but wonder if something like that caught up with her. That she set off a jealous wife. Or a jealous lover.”
I warn myself to dump the topic, but I can’t.
“Did your friend suspect that something more than flirting was going on?” I’ve tried to say it casually, though I worry that my tone betrays me, hints at my neediness for hard data on just how far Eve liked to take it.
“She didn’t say, only that she gave them both a withering look that she hoped scorched their eyelashes off, and later that night she read her husband the riot act. Want me to see if I can find out anything else?”
God, no.
“Oh, that’s not necessary. I appreciate you sharing the information, but I’d like to put the whole matter out of my mind at this point.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve just been hoping it was a crime of passion so I wouldn’t feel so freaked out. I actually had new locks put on both my doors.