Sophie (The Boss 8)

That made up my mind. “Okay. Maybe this is something we need. But let’s not get too excited until we know Molly can go.”

“Molly says she does have a passport,” El-Mudad said, slipping his phone into his pocket. “From a Spanish club trip she ultimately didn’t get to go on. The circumstances were...difficult to follow at the speed with which they were explained.”

“I guess I’ll call Sasha and make sure it’s okay,” I said.

“No, I’ll call her,” Neil said. “I told you, there’s nothing you have to do but show up.”

I screwed up my mouth for a moment. “Hello, woman whom I’ve met one time. Can I take your underaged daughter out of the country?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “You have a point.”

“I’ll call her. And see if she can overnight the passport.”

The Elwood-Scaife-Atis were going on vacation.

I met Rudy for lunch at Le Bernardin, a French restaurant I didn’t particularly care for due to its small portion sizes and the overall decor that reminded me of a fancy hospital cafeteria. I ordered some pricey caviar for my first course, and Rudy raised one immaculate eyebrow.

Of all the people in Neil’s life, his two closest friends were the ones most difficult for me to figure out. I never really knew where I stood with Valerie—until recently, at least—and I’d yet to discern whether or not Rudy actually liked me or just tolerated me. Some days, I thought he might like me but simply have a very low tolerance for everyone. Other times, he seemed to suffer the worst torment in my company.

I kept my face neutral as the waiter walked away. “What? I like caviar.”

“You’re going into that phase,” Rudy mused, lifting his water glass to his slightly glossed lips. Sometimes, I thought Neil was the vainest man in New York. Rudy might have been tied with him; over the years, I’d heard all about the tucks and fillers to keep his face taut, the bizarre regimens and treatments he employed to keep his lovely brown skin luminous and wrinkle-free. Once, Neil told me that Rudy had prescription eyeglasses to match every one of his outfits and I’d almost choked.

There were small black diamonds at the corner of the ivory rims of the pair he sported today. I made a mental note to donate to some kind of ophthalmological charity as soon as I got to the car.

“What phase?” I asked, though inviting criticism from Rudy was like inviting a shark to lick your arm.

“The one where you start to forget where you come from. I recognize it.” He made no secret of his beginnings which, while not precisely impoverished, definitely hadn’t guaranteed him entree into the social circles he moved in now.

I snorted. “Yeah, I forget where I came from.” I thrust my hand out to show him my hot pink nails. “That’s Sally Hansen gel polish. From Target.”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought you were still grounded from Tar-jay.”

“Neil can’t tell me what to do. I’m a grown-up,” I grumbled, fully aware that I had fallen into a pout. So, I’d gone a little bonkers with seasonal décor one time. But everything had been so super cute. “He doesn’t appreciate Halloween the way I do.”

“No, he does not. The man has put on his own damn tux and gone as ‘James Bond’ to every fancy dress occasion I’ve been to with him.” Rudy sounded so disgusted I wondered if he’d even be able to eat his meal when it arrived.

The waiter stopped at our table briefly to drop off our drinks. I sipped my vodka and sugar-free cranberry to calm my nerves before I told Rudy. “So, you’re going to be mad at me.”

He pursed his lips. “I knew it. It’s either Valerie and Laurence, or Neil is drinking again.”

“What—”

“We’re not friends, Sophie,” Rudy said bluntly. “Don’t look wounded at me. I am immune to white lady tears. I’m only being honest. You never call me unless you need something. You’re my best friend’s wife. I love you. But you know we’re not mimosas-and-chit-chat to each other.”

“Mimosas are for brunch,” I said quietly.

“Mimosas are for any time, and I’m not telling you a damn thing about Valerie, so keep your devious mind to yourself,” he warned.

“I’m not looking for secrets, Rudy,” I promised, folding my hands on the tablecloth. “I’m worried about her. We know she was behind that CPS call. And I know that’s not something she would do.”

He shook his head. “No. She wasn’t behind the call. That was him.”

Having my suspicion confirmed didn’t make me feel any better. “Did she know about it?”

“She knows about it.”

That wasn’t much of an answer. Did she know about it after the fact? Did she participate in planning this?

“Are you not able to tell me more because you’re worried about her, too?”