You done shopping til you drop?
I miss my wife.
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.
Three months ago, a text like this would’ve seemed impossible. These days, it makes my heart flutter like a lovesick teenager.
I’m typing out a response when I happen to glance up and out the window and realize we’re passing by Chantal’s art gallery.
The lights are on inside, which is strange, because Chantal told me she and Greg were going on a couple’s retreat to the Maldives this week. She’d been gushing about it fordays leading up to their departure, showing me pictures of the overwater bungalow they’d booked and the spa treatments she had scheduled.
There’s no way she’d cut that trip short. At least not voluntarily.
“Hey, Sean,” I say, leaning forward in my seat. “Pull over for a second. I want to stop in here.”
He glances at me in the rearview mirror but doesn’t question it, easing the Rolls-Royce to the curb in front of the gallery. I tuck my phone into my purse and step out onto the sidewalk, the cool winter air drawing a shiver out of me.
The displays in the window are tasteful and attractive thanks to Chantal’s impeccable eye for curation. But it’s a little eerie to see the place lit up when she’s supposed to be out of town.
Unease churns in my stomach as I push through the front door.
“Chantal?” I call out, my heels clicking against the sleek flooring. “Girl, you better have a good explanation for why you’re back early and didn’t even text me?—”
I stop short, cutting myself off mid-sentence.
Chantal’s not back early from her trip to the Maldives. Her wealthy, older boyfriend, Greg LaMalfa, is.
He’s the one who’s come by her gallery—and he’s not alone. He’s accompanied by two bulky men in black, who are currently in her private office, rummaging through the desk drawers.
I’m so thrown by what I’ve walked in on that I linger for a moment, struck speechless.
“Greg?” I choke out finally. “What are you doing here? Where’s Chantal?”
His thick white brows lift, clearly surprised I’ve turned up like I have, then the rest of his features settle into an even-keeled expression. “Simone,” he says aloofly. “I didn’t realize you’d be stopping by.”
“Where’s Chantal?” I repeat. My gaze travels from him to the ajar door of Chantal’s office, where the two men he’s with are looking through her desk drawers. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your couple’s retreat in the Maldives?”
“We… err, came back early,” he says vaguely. He fusses with his tie as if unconcerned by my questioning, then adds, “There was a change of plans.”
“Okay, thenwhereis she?” I ask for the third time. “Why isn’t she here?”
“Jet lag. She’s exhausted from the trip and wanted to rest. You know how she is. Quite the pampered princess.” He flashes a grin, though it never reaches his eyes. Those remaincool and detached. “She asked me to stop by and pick up something for her. Which… it seems we have found. Let’s go.”
He beckons his head, gesturing for the two men to follow. The three of them head for the door as if gallery guests no longer interested in admiring the art on display.
“You have a nice rest of your afternoon, Simone. Give my regards to your husband.”
The gallery door snicks shut behind them, leaving me standing alone in my best friend’s gallery with a pit in my stomach.
The first thing I do is pull out my phone and call Chantal. It sends me straight to voicemail, where I leave a message. Then I type up a series of texts.
Hey, you’re back from the Maldives?
I just ran into Greg at the gallery and he was acting a little weird.
Call me when you can.
Or text back and let me know you’re okay.
