He peeled off from the group without ever being noticed and walked the several blocks to where he’d left his pickup in a busy supermarket parking lot. He got in but sat behind the steering wheel, banging it with his fists and swearing.
He’d thought that when he’d said good-bye to her, he had cut himself free, that he could move on, adrift and unhappy, but at peace for knowing that he’d done the right thing.
Hardly.
* * *
Jack Connell awakened hopeful that morning. But one glance out his hotel room window, and he knew he wouldn’t be completely drying out anytime soon. The rain continued. In torrents. He couldn’t even see the marina across the street through the downpour.
It took him ten minutes to shower, shave, and dress. Twenty more, and he was back on the street where Rebecca Watson lived. He parked at the opposite end of the block from where he’d been yesterday.
He’d seen Rebecca only that once, when she came out onto the porch to get her mail. He never caught sight of her daughter, Sarah.
Munching on peanuts saved from his flight, he’d watched the house through the dinner hour and into the rest of the evening. Night fell. Through the fogged windshield, he’d kept surveillance on the house until all the lights inside were out, then he’d stayed for another hour. Nothing happened. No tall brute sneaked into the house under cover of darkness. Drat the luck.
On his return trip to the hotel, he’d picked up a heart-attack-in-a-sack at a fast-food drive-through. He’d eaten the meal while catching up on e-mails, then went to bed.
Now he was back, anxious to see what the day would bring.
At seven forty-two, the garage door came up and the minivan was backed out. The door went down. The van came in his direction and drove past. In the passenger seat was a preteen girl, texting on her cell phone. The driver was a blur through the rain-streaked windows, but the white hair was unmistakably Rebecca’s.
He waited until they had rounded the corner and then followed, keeping several cars between them.
After a short drive, Sarah was dropped off at a parochial middle school. The girl stopped texting long enough to lean across the console and kiss her mother’s cheek before getting out.
From there, Rebecca drove to a Starbucks. She went inside with her laptop tucked under her arm. A few minutes later, he saw her sit down at a table near a window. Observing from a parking lot across the street, his mouth watered for a hot cappuccino, but he didn’t want to chance going into the store and being recognized by her.
She remained engrossed in whatever was on her laptop. No one joined her at the table. A few minutes to nine o’clock, she left, taking a coffee with her.
The town center reminded Jack of New England villages. Trendy shops and restaurants occupied older buildings that had been attractively renovated. Rebecca Watson’s shop was one such enterprise.
At nine thirty, she flipped the OPEN sign on the glass door of Bagatelle.
Jack called Wes Greer. After exchanging good mornings and giving each other recaps of the previous day, he asked if Wes had obtained the information he’d requested.
“She does all right with the shop,” his colleague reported. “Especially in the summer months during tourist season. It slows down this time of year, but she enjoys a brisk holiday season. And June’s good.”
“What happens in June?”
“People get married.”
“Huh. What does she sell?”
“Stationery, glassware and china, gifts. Like that. Stuff your wife clutters up the apartment with.”
Jack wouldn’t know. He didn’t have a wife.
Not for lack of trying. Although his ex-fiancée would dispute the effort he’d put into nurturing the relationship. Vehemently. You’re not even trying to make this work, Jack. If I left, it would take days for you to realize I was gone.
It had taken three.
Before hanging up, Jack asked, “Anything else shaking?”
“Pretty quiet. How’s the weather out there?”
“It sucks.”
Despite the rain, Bagatelle did a respectable weekday business. All except one of the customers were women, and the sole male who went into the store wasn’t the one Jack sought.