“I blew them away, Claire. No kidding. Kent Ames was salivating over my future. He offered us a contract. Can you believe it?”
They were curled up in their suite’s window seat, both wearing the ultrasoft robes provided by the hotel. Bright morning sunlight pushed through the window; Bobby looked so handsome he took Claire’s breath away. “Of course I can believe it. I’ve heard you sing. You deserve to be a superstar. How does it all work?”
“They think it’ll take a month or so in Nashville. Finding material, putting a backup band together, that sort of thing. Kent said it isn’t unusual to go through three thousand songs to find the right one. After we make the demo, they’ll start promoting me. They want me to tour through September and October. Alan Jackson needs an opening act. Alan Jackson. But don’t worry. I told them we’d have to work out a schedule that was good for the family. ”
Claire loved him more in that moment than she would have imagined was possible. She grabbed his robe and pulled him close. “You will only have men and ugly women on your bus. I’ve seen movies about those tours. ”
He kissed her, long and slow and hard. When he drew back, she was dizzy. “What did I ever do to deserve you, Claire?”
“You loved me,” she answered, reaching into his robe. “Now take me to bed and love me again. ”
Meghann was not relaxed by her day at the spa. Between massages, facials, and Jacuzzi tub soaks, she and Elizabeth had talked endlessly. No matter how often Meghann tried to control the direction of their discussions, one topic kept reemerging.
Joe.
Elizabeth had been relentless. For the first time, Meghann knew how it felt to be pummeled by someone else’s opinions.
Call him. Quit being such a chicken. The advice had come in dozens of ways and hundreds of different sentences, but it all boiled down to the same thing:
Contact him.
Honestly, Meghann was glad to take her friend to the airport. The silence came as a sweet relief. But then Meghann returned to her silent condo and found that Elizabeth’s voice had remained behind and so, she’d kept busy. For dinner, she bought a slice of pizza and walked along the wharf, window shopping with the steady stream of tourists that came off the ferries and spilled down the hilly streets from the Public Market.
It was 8:30 by the time she got home.
Once again, the quiet of her home was the only greeting that came her way.
“I need to get a cat,” she said aloud, tossing her handbag onto the sofa. Instead, she watched Sex and the City, then a rerun of The Practice (Bobby Donnell was crying again). She turned it off in disgust.
Yeah. Male defense lawyers are a weepy set.
She went to bed.
And lay there, eyes wide open, for the rest of the night.
Call him, you chicken.
At 6:30 the next morning, she rolled out of bed, took a shower, and dressed in a plain black suit with a lavender silk shell.
One look in the mirror reminded her that she hadn’t slept more than two hours the night before. As if she needed to notice her wrinkles to remember that.
She was at her desk by 7:30, highlighting the Pernod deposition.
Every fifteen minutes, she glanced at her phone.
Call him.
Finally, at 10:00, she ga
ve up and buzzed her secretary.
“Yes, Ms. Dontess?”
“I need the number for a garage in Hayden, Washington. ”
“What garage?”
“I don’t know the name or the address. But it’s across the street from Riverfront Park. On Front Street. ”