A group of four men came over and asked for his autograph and a photo. He chatted with them until his phone pinged, then he excused himself and found a quiet spot near the patio doors.
Camille
I invited Remy over to my house for lunch Friday. I’m dropping the kids off at my parents’ place that day, but I’ll be back by 12:30. I figure you can come by while she’s at the house under the guise of giving Anton something.
Jeremiah
Perfect. Thank you.
ChapterTwenty-Six
Across town, Fiona was consuming the one generous glass of wine she allowed herself daily at a faster rate than usual. Typically, she savored the glassful to prolong the pleasure. This time, pleasure wasn’t the goal. She needed the alcohol to steady the shakiness inside.
Burke had invited her to stop by his house after she got off work. Upon arrival, she’d found him wearing a fleece and battered jeans, watering his assortment of indoor plants. She liked his modern, three-bedroom house despite that his masculine design aesthetic was the opposite of her ultra-feminine one. Instead of manicured grass, he was surrounded by five acres of trees and a forest floor of pinecones and pine needles.
From her current position on his mission-style sofa, she could see most of the open-concept living area. Hundreds of books stocked the shelves surrounding the fire smoldering in his fireplace. Muted shades of red, dark blue, and beige melded on his Persian rug. The chair he sat in was a high-quality Eames imitation.
She got the sense that the furnishings were a hodge-podge collected by him and Kay during the stages and locations of their marriage. Even so, the overall effect worked.
She drained the last of her wine—very sad occurrence, that—and leaned to place her glass on an end table.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
He gave her a wise expression. “You know what I mean. Has something happened with Isobel?”
Mind reader. He was the only person she’d told about the letter she’d sent to her sister. She blamed the fact that she’d confided in him on his calm, non-judgmental personality. He was just so blasted supportive.
She rustled around in her purse, then extended a piece of mail to him.
He accepted it, examined it quickly. “This is the letter you sent her?”
“Yes.”
“Unopened.”
“Yes. Do you see how she wroterefusedon the front?”
“I do.”
“The post office returned it to sender. I received it today.” When she’d seen the letter in her stack of mail at work, it had been like spotting a coiled rattlesnake. Fear had hit her first. Then, when she’d realized Isobel had returned it unopened, the same nausea/anxiety combo she’d felt when she’d mailed it had overtaken her. “I didn’t put my name or home address on the letter. She must have recognized my handwriting.”
“And we’re sure she was the one who wroterefusedon the front? It wasn’t one of her family members or an employee?”
“We’re sure. After all this time, I recognize her handwriting, too.”
“I’m sorry.” He placed the letter on the coffee table. “What are you going to do next?” He hadn’t asked whether she was going to give up her quest to reconcile with Isobel. Which proved how well he’d come to know her.
“I'm not sure. I need time to strategize and regroup. I knew this process was going to be difficult. I really shouldn’t be so disappointed that this first bid didn’t succeed. But for some reason . . . I am.” She slipped off her high heels and rubbed her sore instep. “This is a one-glass-of-wine-isn’t-enough day. But don’t let me have another, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Can I have another, though?”
“No.”
“Very good, Burke.”
