Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

“Dinner’s on me,” he said. “It’s the least I can do. And you deserve to celebrate, now that they’re dropping the charges against your client.”

I knew that wasn’t the only reason we were doing this, but I said, “Damn straight. You owe me, Mardovich.”

So we had dinner together, like other nights—except I knew it was our last. At least, our last as lovers.

He took me back to my place.

I invited him in and we sat on the sofa together, holding hands. I knew what I had to do, but the words wouldn’t come at first. Finally, I opened my mouth and forced myself to say it. “I ... I can’t do this anymore, you know that.”

He nodded. He kept running his thumb over the fingers of one of my hands, studying them, as if for a test.

“I guess it hasn’t been easy for you.”

“It hurts. When you have to be with them, it hurts. When I couldn’t reach you, that hurt, too. I thought I could handle it. I knew it was just for fun.” I paused. I could feel my eyes getting wet and blinked to keep the tears at bay. When I trusted myself to speak again, I said, “But it can’t be anything ... more. We’ll never ... be able to celebrate our birthdays together or take trips together or ...”

I had to stop again. While I was gathering my wits, he said, “I know. I think of you. I know you must get lonely. I feel bad about that.”

“And it’s not your fault you can’t be with me,” I said. “You have a wife and kids.” I though

t about Skip and his father and how disappointed Skip’s mother must have been when she found out. His cheating on her all those years, having a child by another mother—it must have felt like her world had fallen apart.

“So, there’s more than just us to think about,” I continued. “And you love Helen, right?”

He didn’t say anything. He continued to stroke my fingers with his thumb.

I heaved a sigh. “So ...”

He nodded. Finally, he looked at me. His face was a mask, but his eyes were sad.

“I should go.”

“OK.”

I didn’t draw back when he moved in to kiss me for the last time. When we finally pulled apart, he ran his fingers through my hair. Through some tacit understanding, we rose in unison, hand-in-hand, and walked to the door, our hands linked.

Outside, he paused. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

I managed a smile. “See ya.”

Our hands slid apart as he walked away. I returned to the sofa, sat in the same place, and stared at the empty spot where he’d been. I must have done that for ten minutes before I allowed myself to cry.

f f f

Melanie, Donna, and I celebrated a few days later. Donna insisted on paying. We went to a French restaurant and ordered champagne. I tried escargot for the first time. And frog legs. They really do taste like chicken.

After dinner, we considered whether to have cherries jubilee for dessert or another bottle of champagne.

“Whoo!” Melanie flapped a hand in front of her flushed face. “I’m feeling that first bottle still. But what the heck, if you guys want more—” She fell back in her seat and giggled like a kid.

“Well,” I said. “After-dinner coffee might be preferable.”

“Oh, listen to you,” Donna said, her eyes bright. “Such a responsible adult. How about cognac and coffee? Or Irish coffee?”

“You think they serve Irish coffee in a French restaurant?” Melanie’s face scrunched into a mock-thoughtful expression.

“I’ve never had cognac,” I said.

Donna’s eyes widened. “Cognac it is.”