by Elka Ray
Finally, Grace answers: “Stephen Buxley, Daphne’s new boyfriend. I figured they’d gone off for a romantic escape. To a B&B, maybe.”
I look at Isobel, her eyes now as thin as her lips. Is it the mention of Stephen Buxley that’s made her so tense? Or does she dislike her mom’s jolly housekeeper?
Flip-flops flapping against the stone path, Lukas saunters over to join us. “Yo, Grace,” he calls out. “I needed a ride. I’ve been trying to call you!”
Grace looks worried. She starts to apologize but Lukas cuts her off. He eyes her shopping bags with a hopeful look. “Ooh. I’m starving! You cooking?”
She beams at him, then clicks her tongue. She sets down her bags. “Oh, Lukas. You’re not dressed warmly enough for this cold weather!”
Lukas shuffles closer and hugs her. Grace gives him a bear hug. She steps back to study his face, then shakes her pom-pommed head. “You okay? You look tired.” Perhaps remembering the rest of us, she clears her throat. “Your trip went well?” she asks, brightly.
“Oh, great,” says Lukas. He nods manically. “I learned so much about, er . . .” He shrugs. “Meditating and stuff. Thanks for asking.” He nods toward his sister. “But Izzie’s freaking out here. She thinks Mom’s missing.”
“Who’s this guy, Stephen?” I repeat, before Isobel can snap at Lukas.
Lukas rubs his eyes. Isobel glares at me, like she wishes I’d mind my own business.
“Her new . . . friend,” says my mom, hesitantly. “She was very excited when they first met, but then seemed rather . . .” She pauses to find the right word. “Private. Because it’s so new, I assume.” She directs her next words to Grace. “I haven’t met him yet. What’s he like, this man, Stephen?”
Grace’s smile slips a notch. “I, ah . . . I barely know him. He’s from England, I believe. Ex-RAF. Or maybe SAS? Something military.” She nudges a spray of snowy hair behind one ear. “They’ve only been dating for a few weeks.” While Grace’s tone is neutral, it’s clear she’s no fan. She described a flooded apartment with more enthusiasm than she’s describing Stephen Buxley. Her voice trails off. “He’s younger . . .”
When no one responds I have to ask. “How much younger?” I’m picturing Daphne with some hot toy boy stud. Like JLo and her backup dancer.
“He’s about fifty,” snaps Isobel. “So it’s no big deal, really.”
I bite my tongue. It seems like a big deal to her. And Daphne must be at least seventy, so it’s a twenty-year age gap.
Lukas wheezes out a peeved snort. “What? Mom’s just run off with some strange man?” He looks petulant, clearly put out that his mom’s not here to welcome him home with open arms, lend him her car, and do him all the other favors he obviously expected. He turns to his sister. “Mom’s got a boyfriend?” He sounds incredulous. “Why didn’t you say so, Izzie?”
I study Isobel, too. Her arms are tightly crossed. Lukas asked a good question. Why didn’t Isobel mention Daphne’s new man to the cops? Does she hate the guy and hope he’ll just fade away? Is he embarrassingly awful?
Isobel’s eyes slide down and left. “I . . .” She shuts her mouth and changes tack. “So Mom’s dating again? So what?” she snaps at Lukas. “They only just met. I didn’t think he was important!” The tight chords in her neck belie this statement. “Does everyone need to know our family’s business?” she continues, shrilly.
She spins on her heels and calls out: “Gerard! Gerard! It’s late! Let’s go! Chéri!”
He comes bustling down the walkway.
Seeing Grace, his frown deepens. “Ah,” he says. “Where have you been?” Then, before she can answer. “The floor in the front hall. It is scratched! It will need to be polished, maybe resanded!”
While Grace’s smile doesn’t change, her eyes narrow. “Resanded? I don’t—”
Gerard cuts her off. “From now on, that pig stays outside. Understood? It is ruining the house! Outdoors only!”
Short as she is, Grace looks down her nose at him. Her smile has a dangerous edge. Gerard doesn’t seem to notice.
“Ah, bon,” he says, as if she’d agreed. He reaches for his wife’s hand and turns to go. “We must be gone. Good night, all.” They bustle off toward the street. The rest of us watch them go in silence.
My mom gives Grace a sympathetic smile. “You won’t really leave Kevin outside all night long?” she asks quietly. “Will you?”
The housekeeper snorts. “I’d sometimes like to,” she admits. “He makes such a mess. But no, of course not.” She casts a pointed look toward the gate through which Gerard and Isobel have just vanished. Her smile rights itself. “Luckily, that man’s not my boss.” She winks at Lukas. “And neither is your bossy-pants big sister.”
Lukas shakes his head. “Just ignore them,” he tells Grace. “They have some nerve.” He eyes the groceries on the ground. “What you got in there?” He bends to peer into the closest bag. “I’m starving.”
“Well, we’re off,” says my mom. “Grace, if you hear from Daphne, please call.”
“Sure thing,” says Grace, cheerily. “But don’t worry, Ivy. I’m sure she’s off somewhere nice with Stephen.”
Lukas mumbles goodnight. My mom and I walk toward the gate.
As it clicks shut behind us, I feel glad to be out of there, but also troubled. “Mom?” I say, as we turn toward our cars. “Don’t you know some way to contact this guy Daphne’s dating? Do you have his phone number? Or are you like, Facebook friends, or something?”
My mom sounds vague. “Daphne’s not on Facebook. And neither is he, so far as I know.”
Nor is she, really. I set up a profile and page to promote her business. I doubt she posts on it monthly. And when she does, it’s always something weird and random, like a GIF of square-dancing penguins, or a story about volunteer-tourism in the Amazon Basin.
My mother sighs. “Stephen Buxley. Maybe he’s in the phonebook? I really know next to nothing about him.”
That is weird, I think. But is it? They haven’t been dating for very long. Maybe they’re taking things slowly.
“I’m sure Grace is right,” says my mom. “And she’s off with Stephen.” I can hear her determination to be hopeful.
I agree. That’s most likely. But who is this guy? No one knows him—or his motives for dating Daphne. I think of Vonda and her soon-to-be ex, both hoping to land loaded spouses, both ending up disappointed. We think lots of dosh will protect us from harm, and bring respect, security, and comfort. But wealth and luck are double-edged swords that can also attract greed and envy.
CHAPTER 6:
UNFAITHFUL
My office at Greene & Olliartee is smaller than Daphne Dane’s walk-in closet, although at least it’s got a window. There’s a view of the office building across the street and—if you lean really far out—a sliver of ocean.
After days of rain and cold, the sun has broken through. Out of the wind, it’s surprisingly warm. With sunlight streaming in, my teeny room is stifling. Luckily I wore a black tank top under my turtle-neck sweater.
I’ve just shed my sweater when there’s a knock on the door. I smooth back my hair. My next appointment isn’t due until three. Pamela Powell, the firm’s past-retirement-age secretary, never knocks. If it were her, she’d already be owl-eyeing me around the door in her giant Tootsie glasses. Maybe one of my bosses, Mel or Philippa, have stopped by for some postlunch chit chat.
I sit up straighter and use my toes to feel around for my shoes, abandoned somewhere beneath my large desk. “Come in,” I say.
Pamela must be out powdering her already over-powdered nose because it’s a client, unannounced. Her perfume hits me first.
She looks around the door: “Hello, Toby Vong.”
As before, her voice gives me chills—that mix of fire and ice, wood smoke and cold vodka. I sit up straighter. “Hello, Vonda.”
I have to remember to shut my mouth as she sashays across the room. While it hardly seems possible, today’s black patent he
els are even higher than the red ones she wore last time. Her stilettos click like black lacquered chopsticks.
Clad in a red dress so tight it’s a wonder she can breathe, let alone sit, she twists into a chair and crosses her killer legs. With one eye overhung by a swathe of glossy curls she reminds me of a sexy pirate. “You said I must prove cruelty or adultery for a Fault divorce,” she begins. Her uncovered eye glints in triumph.
I nod, determined to do my duty. “Yes, but a No Fault would be cheaper and . . .”
She raises a hand and bats this point away. Her fingernails, now gunmetal grey, flash like knives. “No. I vill prove this is his fault.” I wait as Vonda leans closer. Just for a moment, her big grey eyes well with sadness. Then she rallies. Her perfect teeth grit back into a grin. “He is seeing someone else,” she says. “Another voman.”
“Oh,” I say. “How do you know?”
Vonda’s fingernails tap my desk. “His credit card statements.” Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Charges at Agent Provocateur, Victoria’s Secret.”
Seeing my blank look her top lip curls. “He is buying sexy lingerie,” she hisses. “And not for me. There is nothing he can buy for himself at those stores. Nothing! Vhich means he is shopping for another voman!”
“Maybe it’s your Christmas present,” I suggest. Some people actually do shop early, instead of waiting until the last second.
Vonda snorts. Both her eyes and her engagement ring glitter. “No vay! He is cheating on me!” While her ring is fake, it’s still eye-catching. She glares at me. “Can you believe it?”
Not easily, I must admit. If she’s right, her husband’s got balls, no doubt about it. I’d hate to make Vonda angry.
I open my mouth to ask who this other woman is but she’s off again. “There is more.” She swings her small red snakeskin purse off her shoulder and deposits it on my desk, then opens it with a click that makes me jump. “This!” Pinched between the blades of her fingernails is a matchbox. She tosses it to me.
I try but fail to catch it, which leads to an inelegant rummage beneath my desk. I’m about to give up when my sweaty fingers find it.
“It’s from L’Escargot D’Or,” says Vonda, as I resurface and regain my seat. I nudge my almost shoulder-length hair back out of my face, which is also sweaty.
I study the matchbox. Its swirly gold font and snail logo elicit a trickle of regret—this is the place where Josh was planning to take me last night. If only I hadn’t gotten stuck looking for Daphne.
“It is the most romantic and expensive restaurant in town,” continues Vonda, clearly convinced I’ve never been there. Her voice now has an angry swish, like the rustle of tall, dried grass as a cheetah glides through it. “He never took me there!”
“Okay,” I say, satisfied she’s probably right: Dennis Butts, her husband of just three months, may very well be unfaithful. “Do you know who she is?” I ask.
Vonda’s glossy hair tosses. “Not yet,” she says. “But I vill find out.”
I shake my head. What’s Vonda planning to do? Follow her husband? It’s not like she doesn’t stand out. Women like Vonda might blend in at the Playboy Mansion, but here, in Victoria, everyone else is in fleece and Hush Puppies. Maybe a private investigator would be the way to go, if she can afford one.
When I suggest this, a hand flies to her white throat. “No vay. It vill be easy to follow him, once he gets back.”
By now, I’m having to make a conscious effort to pronounce my Ws correctly. “What do you mean?” I ask. “Where is he?”
Beneath her swept-over bangs, Vonda’s scowl deepens. Her gaze turns to my window. Mine follows. In the red brick building across the street I can see into a dentist’s office. A white-robed lady dentist is bent over a guy with buzzed hair, his mouth open and his eyes squeezed shut, as if he’s screaming. My gut twists in sympathy. I look away, as does Vonda. There’s another dentist in my building. I can sometimes hear the drill, when my window’s open.
Vonda licks her glossy lips. “I don’t know vhere Dennis has gone,” she says. Her voice drops. “He didn’t come home last night. He must be off, vooing this other voman.”
“Er, okay,” I say. That’s suspicious. “Has he ever done this before?” I ask. “I mean, not come home?”
Her pout would make any trout proud. “He usually calls to make excuses,” she says. “Dennis has endless excuses. He vould tell me some story: he is off meeting VIP investors, blah blah blah.” She waves a hand. “But this time . . .” Just for an instant, her bottom lip quivers. “No call. No text. Nothing.” She wags a single, glinting finger and leans closer. “But don’t vorry. I vill find him.”
CHAPTER 7 :
DINING A DEUX
L’Escargot D’Or is smaller than I expected, with a cozy, almost homely feel. There are little tables draped in crisp white tablecloths and tea lights shining from cut-glass holders. The walls are covered in old Mucha prints and black and white photos of Paris. Since we got here so early, Quinn and I snagged a window seat. The facades of the old downtown buildings glow jewel-toned under the street lamps while the last office-workers scurry homeward.
Settling across from my best friend I feel a wave of happiness. Since Abby’s birth two months ago we haven’t seen much of each other. While I love my new goddaughter and am thrilled for Quinn, I fear we’re drifting apart. Quinn seems distracted these days, too consumed by new motherhood to know what’s happening in my life. I miss her, my best friend since kindergarten.
As I shrug off my coat, Quinn meets my smile with her own. She looks tired, dark dents beneath her blue eyes, her blonde hair, so full and glossy when she was pregnant, now dry and ragged. I know her husband, Bruce, had to talk her into coming out tonight. Both of us are concerned: Quinn hasn’t seemed her upbeat, confident self since Abby was born. Not having had a baby myself, it’s hard to know whether this is normal postpartum tiredness or something darker. Shouldn’t this be the best time of her life? She seems so down lately.
Hopefully, tonight will be what she needs—a chance to dress up and relax, with no breastfeeding or poo-talk. In a loose black dress and low heels, she’s even dredged up some lipstick, the first cosmetic I’ve seen her wear since we went to prom, a million years ago. While she rifles through her purse for her phone, I study my oldest friend. Despite her efforts, Quinn looks wan, her dress unironed and a splotch of what might be baby puke near her left shoulder. Her citrusy perfume has a faint undertone of sour milk, with notes of wet wipes.
After checking her messages, Quinn spreads her napkin over her still slightly rounded belly. She glances around the near-empty restaurant. Her eyes meet mine. There’s a brief uncomfortable pause, like she doesn’t know what to say, or would rather be elsewhere. Then she gathers herself and manages a smile. “I’ve always wanted to come here, but burgers and pizza are more Bruce’s style. Wait, didn’t you just come here with Josh a couple nights ago?”
“We were supposed to,” I say, grateful she remembered. “But it didn’t happen.” I tell her about my mom showing up at my door, all aflutter, and our failed attempt to find her friend and client, Daphne Dane.
“The cookie lady?” says Quinn. She stifles a yawn.
“Yeah, she’s one of my mom’s best friends.”
“Mmm, I remember meeting her,” says Quinn. “Tall woman.” This is coming from Quinn, who’s five ten. But she’s right, Daphne Dane is an Amazon, or rather Glamazon, like an eighties supermodel. Everything from her hair to her smile to her jewelry is larger than life. I wonder where she’s gone. Despite Colin’s reassurance, my mom won’t stop fretting.
“So what’s new?” asks Quinn. She toys with her phone. “You still out on hot dates every other night?”
I shrug. Dating-wise, things have slowed since September, when my relationships with Josh and Colin started to simmer. Colin is flat out at work. And Josh . . . I swallow hard. He hasn’t called to reschedule our date. Has he lost interest in me? A guy that rich, charming, and good look
ing must spend his days wading through a sea of interested women. Maybe he’s found someone better—or at least easier.
Rather than share this self-pitying thought with Quinn, who’s definitely on Team Colin, I focus on work. “I have a new client,” I say. I describe Vonda Butts—Russia’s sexiest export since that hot blonde tennis star. This reminds me why I’m here. Vonda gave me a photo of her husband, Dennis, who looks surprisingly nondescript, given his bombshell wife. When I get the chance I’m going to quiz the staff. Someone might remember seeing him here, getting romantic with some other woman.
As if on cue, our server appears—a skinny, shifty-looking young guy with a ghost of a mustache. His name tag identifies him as “Jean-Luc” and his accent as Anglo-Canadian. I bet he’s called Dave and inherited the name tag from some long-departed Quebecois. He’s bearing a wine list and a wicker bread basket.
“Evening, ladies,” he says. Quinn practically rips the bread from his hands. She starts to toss chunks into her mouth. The waiter passes me the wine list.
Keeping a wary eye on Quinn as she tears into her second slice, Jean-Luc launches into tonight’s specials: Moules Marinieres made with local honey mussels. Confit de canard, which I actually recognize, and something called Flamiche that Quinn has him explain. She orders that, plus three more dishes, before Jean-Luc can put shaky pen to notepad. His eyes goggle.
“Ah, maybe we can share?” I suggest to Quinn.
She looks aghast. “I’m starving,” she says. “Breastfeeding does that.” TMI for the waiter.
After ordering a carafe of red (no need to go wild and get a bottle, as Quinn won’t drink much) and my own helpings of mussels and Flamiche—a kind of puff pastry quiche, stuffed with leek—I whip out my photo of Dennis Butts.
“One more thing, Jean-Luc.” I hold the picture aloft. “Any chance you recognize this guy? He ate here about a week back.”
Jean-Luc peers at the photo, as does Quinn.
