‘I knew you were here somewhere, so I looked you up. When I realized you were so close, I thought, why not?’
He stares back at her. ‘You’re not interested in the job at my firm, are you?’
She smiles. ‘No. I already have a job.’
He takes another big swallow of his drink, his unease growing. What is she playing at? ‘So why did you apply?’
‘I wanted to see if it was really you.’
‘You could have tried to get in touch with me in the ordinary way.’
‘I’m not sure you would have responded,’ she says. He doesn’t answer that. ‘When you left Colorado, all I knew was that you had talked to Greg about returning to New York.’
And there it is. He’d left Colorado rather quickly, after Lindsey’s funeral, with no forwarding address. He’d wanted to run away from everything. And he’d thought no one there – Erica included – wanted to stay in touch with him. It was all just too hard. Better for everyone if he left. Erica had been his first wife’s closest friend. Perhaps she’s here to apologize for the way she treated him afterwards, at the funeral. She’s had time to get her head on straight. They were all a bit out of their minds. It was a terrible time.
‘Yes, well,’ he says at last, ‘probably better for everyone.’ She looks back at him thoughtfully. He goes on. ‘With Lindsey gone, I just wanted to come home.’ He’d left a few months into his architecture internship; he’d had to start all over again in New York State. He didn’t care. He takes another deep drink of his Scotch and realizes that somehow he’s finished it. He leans forward a little and lowers his voice. He pauses for a moment and then says, ‘I was absolutely devastated by what happened.’
‘I know. So was I.’
When Patrick arrives home a little later than usual, he can tell Stephanie’s been waiting impatiently for him to help her with the twins. He pitches in, but his mind is elsewhere, thinking about his meeting with Erica. The conversation had remained fairly superficial. She hadn’t volunteered much about herself, but he’d noted the absence of a wedding ring. She’d flirted with him a little, but she was subtle about it. He hadn’t flirted back. He’d told her he was happily married, with twin baby girls.
After half an hour, he’d made a show of looking at his watch, and said he had to go. He thought that might be the end of it, but she’d insisted on exchanging cell phone numbers before he left. Now it feels … unfinished. And that worries him.
CHAPTER FIVE
CHERYL MANNING WAVES at her son, Devin, from the side of the soccer field. He’s almost nine years old, going into fourth grade in September. For the month of August, though, he’s spending his days in soccer camp. He loves the sport, he’s good at it, and she’s proud of him. She and her husband both. Devin, it turns out, is a talented athlete.
She watches him run out onto the field. They spend a lot of money on him. This speciality camp is expensive, and the gear is pricey, but they can easily afford it, and there’s nothing they won’t do to help their son realize his potential. They enjoy spending money on him; she finds it strange when the other moms she knows – who can also afford it – complain about how much their kids’ activities cost.
There’s nothing quite as satisfying, Cheryl thinks, as seeing your kid excel and feeling in some measure responsible. She stands on the edge of the field watching him for a moment. He’s a good-looking boy. His brown hair tosses in the wind as he runs. He grins as he manoeuvres the soccer ball skilfully with his feet. He waves at her, and she waves back. She’s pleased that he’s confident. He calls out to the other boys on the field, a natural leader. He makes friends easily. She knows she should go, not hover like this, but she stands a minute longer to enjoy the morning sun on her face, and to enjoy her son, appreciate his abilities.
The coach walks over to her. ‘Devin’s doing really well,’ he tells her. ‘He’s a natural.’
She smiles at him. One doesn’t like to brag. ‘So we’ve been told,’ she says modestly.
The coach smiles at her and heads onto the field, blowing his whistle. He takes attendance and starts lining the kids up for drills. It’s time for