He hesitates. “It was sort of sketchy.”
“Sort of?”
“I really do think it could’ve been a work meeting.”
“In Seattle? On Valentine’s Day? At a restaurant that’s supposed to be special to the two of us?”
“Maybe he’s seeing a client who lives close by. And you said so yourself—he likes the Yellow Door, too.”
“Or, maybe he was on adate. He kept looking at the bathroom. Did you notice that?”
“No, Sherlock, I sure didn’t.”
I know he’s trying to nudge a smile out of me, but I’m in no mood for jokes. A gust of wind lifts my hair, and I shiver. “He’s having an affair, Max.”
He rubs his hands briskly over my arms. “Let’s go to the truck. You’re freezing.”
“Oh! Your jacket! I left it with the hostess.”
“I’ll get it. You wait here.”
“No. I’ll get it.”
“Jillian, let me. Don’t torture yourself.”
“I just… I need to know for sure. Besides, I’m not standing on this corner alone.”
He surveys the darkened street. Down an alleyway, a man in layers of filthy clothing emerges from behind a Dumpster, pulling a wagon of worldly treasures behind him. Max grimaces. “I’ll come up with you.”
“The two of us will attract too much attention. Please, go get the truck. I’ll be right back.”
He looks torn, but then he lays a kiss on my cheek and jogs down the sidewalk in the direction of the parking lot. I hurry up the stairs to the Yellow Door.
Max’s jacket hangs from the corner of the hostess’s podium. She hands it to me. “I thought you might be back for this.”
“Thanks so much,” I say, keeping my voice low. I scan the faces in the glowing restaurant as I pull Max’s jacket around my shoulders. Stranger, stranger, stranger…
They all go blurry, save one distinct and very significant man. What I see, theonlything I see, is my father. His smile is enchanting—he hasn’t appeared so happy in months. He slides his hand across the table—free of the notepads and documents and pens that might indicate a work meeting—to cover his companion’s.
Her back is to me, but I gather every observable detail, greedily stashing data for future analysis. Only the crown of her head is visible over the top of her tall seat, but I note her sunrise hair. A high-heeled shoe—black patent leather, pointy toe—peeking out from beneath the tablecloth. Her hand, small and manicured, turning over, opening, accepting my father’s. Her fingers, wrapping around his palm.
My stomach heaves.
Dad looks up, right into my eyes. He stares for a second, like he’s trying to reconcile my presence with the backdrop, and then his mouth forms a perfect circle of shock. He snatches his hand from the woman’s, reeling backward, moving to stand.
I whirl around.
I run.
30
MAX’S TRUCK IDLES AT THE CURB, ENGINErumbling.
When I throw the passenger door open, I find Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” blasting from the stereo—a fitting soundtrack for the last few minutes.
“Go!” I say, and he does.
When we’re safely on the freeway, I tell him everything.
