same thing with your work.” I paused. What I knew about venture capitalism could fit into one of my mother’s tiny pinch-of-spice cups. Cautious, I asked, “Don’t you?”
“Oh yeah, I do.” He cleared his throat. “But hey,” he said with what might have been a smile, though it was small and tentative, “I’m not big on whatever it is they’re serving here, and I’m starved. I passed an Indian place down the block. It looked interesting, and it wasn’t packed, which may mean the food stinks, but at least it’d be quiet enough to talk.” He dipped his head, seeming a little unsure but genuinely hopeful, and asked, “Want some dinner?”
Meals were incidental in my life. I had assumed that dinner tonight would consist of whatever I munched on here, but there was no reason to stay. I had come for my friend, and for the gallery owner, whom I had met several times and who I dreamed would show my work one day. I had already talked with both. There were lots of other people here I knew; we could talk about art all night. But I always talked about art. Venture capital was different. So was dairy farming. So, frankly, was a man who could talk easily and, despite his appearance, came across as honest and unpretentious.
* * *
Oh yeah. Edward Cooper could communicate. Looking back, though, that wasn’t the very first thing that had drawn me to him. Honestly? What had first drawn me to him when I saw him on the far side of the gallery that night were his looks. I liked tall, and he was that. I liked dark, and he was that, too. I only saw his back at first, but he stood straight with ease. And when he turned? He wasn’t handsome in the classical sense; his cheekbones were too high, his nose too thin. But the attraction was instant and as electric as those weird, wonderful eyes.
That night was a pivotal one. Once we hit the street, he took off his jacket and, without asking, draped it over my shoulders. The warmth, the smell, the gesture—I loved it, even knowing he’d take the thing back as soon as dinner was done. But he didn’t. I wore the jacket until we were in his downtown apartment, when it came off with the rest of our clothes.
The memory was vivid. Feeling it deep in my belly, I slowly and deliberately inhaled. On an equally deliberate exhalation, I forced myself to remember my last view of him as his wife. He wore a suit, but the tie was bland. His hair was combed, but limp. His eyes were shadowed, like mine, and the shoulders that had once seemed so broad now sagged under a burden too heavy to bear. He was going to work, but I had no idea whether he got anything done there, or even whether he actually went. I didn’t ask. We were closed down to each other by then. When he went through the door, he didn’t look back.
Nor did I. After the movers finished loading my things in their van that morning, I climbed into my new truck, headed for Vermont, and stopped thinking about the past.
His showing up now screwed that. It was the last thing I needed, on top of the rest of the chaos in town.
But I had a job, I had friends, I had a home of my own.
Focusing on those things, I consciously eased my hands, stretching the fingers of first one, then the other, until they sat less rigidly on the wheel. The scents of my new life were a drug. I drew them into my lungs, held them there, and released them—drew them in, held them, released them. With each cycle, my tension eased. It was callous of me, for sure. Edward was reduced to nothing, and Grace was going through hell, while I was starting to relax. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t go back. Just couldn’t.
A vibrating came from deep in my shoulder bag. I didn’t imagine it was Grace or Jay—way too early, but as soon as I turned off the main road, I pulled over just in case. There were two texts, but they were from other friends. Word was spreading. I knew it would. Devon wasn’t into petty gossip, but news was news. Add Federal agents and the national media disturbing our calm, and there was bound to be talk.