The Swap - Robyn Harding Page 0,58

his order to come.

“I’m going to grab a table,” I said. “I’m on my lunch break. I need to order some food.”

“Good to see you, Jamie.”

“You too,” I said as I backed away. “Take care of that eye.”

Alone at the quiet table, I tried to compose myself. Max still made me feel nervous and guilty and attracted and confused. But today, he roused something else in me. Concern. Even pity. What had happened to his eye? Was it really an accident with an oar? I thought about those puncture marks on his chest, healed to a four-pronged scar. How had that happened? Was someone hurting him? Was he hurting himself?

My mind couldn’t fathom a situation of abuse or self-harm. Not with this gorgeous couple who looked so perfect from the outside. But Max’s injuries were odd, their explanations unsatisfactory. He was still at the bar; I could sense his presence. I considered going back to him, to discern if he was really okay. But I couldn’t bring up the scar on his chest without addressing the taboo subject of our night together. My face got hot just thinking about it. And then my phone buzzed.

I picked it up thinking it was Low. We must have gotten an unforeseen rush of business. But it was Freya. My heart pitter-pattered as I read her words.

Sorry for the delay. Misplaced my phone.

I’ve missed you. Would love to see you.

Come for lunch next week?

Relief flooded through me, and the corners of my mouth twitched into a smile. Freya had missed me, just as I’d hoped. She wanted to see me. I was back in.

I’d love that!!!

Three exclamation points was too much. I deleted two and hit send. Freya’s text had instantly dissipated my funk, and I couldn’t hide my delight.

The waitress dropped a menu on the table, then, but I didn’t need to look at it.

“I’ll have the Buddha bowl, please.”

“Sure, hon.”

I looked toward the bar. Maxime Beausoleil was gone.

41

low

Freya wanted to do a live video in her pottery studio. “I want to show off my artistic, wholesome side,” she said. “I’ve had some nasty comments saying I’m too shallow and superficial to be a mother.”

It was a form of virtue signaling, but it was an effective one. Freya was always beautiful, but when she was at the wheel, her delicate hands creating art, she was magical. No one could watch her work without becoming mesmerized, almost hypnotized. And no one would say an unkind word when they saw her talent. I knew that Freya craved the acceptance and validation of strangers. Despite her many gifts, her life of privilege, she needed it.

My digital camera did not record video, so I’d have to use Freya’s iPhone. It was newer and better than my phone. But I brought my tripod for stability. And I’d cleaned out my bank account and ordered a portable studio lighting kit online to ensure the most flattering environment for the video. It came with two lights on stands that I could set up in the dim space. We were filming in the afternoon when the light was low. If I did my job right, I could get a sensual, Ghost kind of vibe.

As I drove to her house, I felt a giddy sense of anticipation. We would spend the day in the studio again, where our friendship had been born. That space would always hold a special place in my heart. Jamie had asked if I missed making pottery. I’d shrugged off the question, but I did. Photography was my creative outlet now, but it wasn’t tactile like pottery. I missed getting my hands dirty, missed the earthen smell of the clay. Unlike traditional film, digital photography meant no waiting, no surprise at the end. When I dipped a vase or a bowl in glaze, fired it in the kiln, I never quite knew what would come out. My mind flitted to my beloved pinch pots, their crushed bodies in the garbage bag, but I shook off the memory. I should never have made Freya so angry. I knew better now.

I parked at the bottom of the drive and lugged my equipment toward the pottery shed. Freya had asked me to meet her there at three, but when I tried the door, I found it locked. Peeping through the windows, I saw that the space was dark, the wheels covered in canvas, the clay sealed away in plastic bags. At first, I thought I had gotten the date wrong, but