“I think you’re right, princess.” He smiles apologetically my way. “But then, Celine wasn’t the most intuitive woman I’ve ever met.”
“Who would that be, then?”
“You.”
“Maybe you should spell it out for her.”
“My wife is very jealous,” he says, as though imparting a secret.
“And it really could be a shame to spoil that dress.”
“Really?” she demands. “You’re going to let her speak to me like that?”
Raif barks out a laugh, and I swear I hear someone behind me mutter,“Bitch, please!”
“Off you toddle.” I make a walking motion with my fingers. “I think there’s a box somewhere waiting for you.”
“What? What is she talking about.”
“A suitcase, you mean?” Raif’s mouth twitches. He seems to be having fun.
“No. I was thinking she looks more like a Barbie doll.” Slutty Barbie.
“Well, really!” With a huff, she storms off, her heels clip-clopping across the tile.
Raif resumes his seat, ignoring prying eyes and smothered snickers. “How are your eggs?”
Like swallowing cement. “Fine,” I say instead. “I suddenly think I never want to see the color pink again.”
“It is a bit much,” he says, purposely misunderstanding me.
“Celine’s golden handshake must’ve been a good one.” I aim for blithe. What comes out of my mouth isshrew.
“There was no golden handshake.” His gaze flicks tellingly to Daisy.
“How are your pancakes, Daiz?”
“Yummy. But why would Uncle Raif paint his hand gold?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“I gave Celine nothing. We parted on unhappy terms.”
“She was certainly happy to see you.”
“The feeling wasn’t mutual.”
I feel like I can hear the ears round us straining, but I just can’t seem to help myself.
“Well, don’t expect me to go all Daphne du Maurier.”
Raif puts down his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “You’re gonna have to explain that one to me.”
“I’m not doing aRebecca.”
“Who’s Rebecca?” Daisy asks. “Is she expensive, too?”
“She’s not real,” I say. “Just a character from a book. One I have no intention of emulating.” Brave words from a woman who feels like Velma next to Raif’s version of Daphne.
