Hadley was observing this exchange from behind her desk with great interest. When I glanced up at her, she quickly dropped her head and pretended to be absorbed in paperwork.
I reached out and placed a tender hand on Lexi's shoulder. "Honey, I'm not going to send someone to test your father. I'm sorry. If you're really that worried about your dad's behavior, you should talk to your mother."
"I'm not leaving here until you agree to take on my case," she grumbled as she planted herself back into one of the waiting room chairs.
I raised my eyebrows. "And what happens when you don't come home for dinner, won't your mom get worried?"
Lexi grunted and crossed her arms over her chest, attempting to make some kind of statement. As though she were sitting in for gay rights or something.
I simply sighed and turned back in the direction of my office. If my fourteen-year-old niece, Hannah, had taught me anything about kids her age, it's that they thankfully have very short attention spans. And I fully expected her to be gone by lunchtime.
What I wasn't expecting, however—and what I never could have predicted in a million years, despite my knack for making predictions— was for my cell phone to ring at two-fifteen that afternoon and for Jamie's name to appear on the caller ID.
I held the phone in my hand and stared helplessly at the screen for a good five seconds, not knowing whether I was supposed to answer it or just let it go to voicemail.
I had already made the decision to move on. That was a done deal. But I was still desperate to know why he was calling. What if he wanted to apologize? What if he thought he had overreacted and wanted to work things out between us? How would I respond to that? Would I even want to work through it?
In the end, my curiosity got the better of me and I decided to answer the call. But by the time I came to grips with my decision, the phone had stopped ringing.
The voice mail chime dinged a few moments later, and I immediately jabbed my finger against the "Listen" button on the screen.
The voice mail lady announced the message with her usual introduction. Time, date, etc., and then Jamie's voice came on the line. The first thing I did was try to categorize his tone. "Hesitant" was the only word I could come up with that seemed to fit.
"Hey there, it's, um . . . me. Jamie. I just wanted to let you know that I was planning on stopping by your place later on today. Maybe around four."
My pulse quickened and my death grip around the phone tightened until I could swear my fingers were bleeding. I pressed it even closer to my ear as I drew in another breath.
Jamie's hesitant message continued. "I still have a few things there. Some clothes in the closet and, um, some stuff in the bathroom. I figured it would be easier if I picked them up while you were at work. Please let me know if this is a problem. Otherwise, I'll assume that it's fine. Oh, and I'll leave the key behind when I go. Okay, well . . . bye." There was an awkward pause, and then he added, "Take care," as if the "well . . . bye" wasn't painful enough. Then the line clicked.
Well, I guess that answered the question of whether or not he wanted to get back together.
After being in a relationship for over a year, things belonging to the other person automatically start to accumulate around the house—most of the time without you even realizing it. A DVD on top of the television, a few books on the shelf, coffee mugs in the kitchen cabinet. These things don't necessarily stick out as foreign or out of place; they sort of just naturally assimilate into the environment, blending in effortlessly over time, until you forget whom they initially belonged to.
Which is why I couldn't even picture the stuff he was referring to. After the boxes disappeared from the hallway and his clothes disappeared from my closet, there was nothing left that particularly stood out in my mind as uniquely his. But I knew that the moment I walked through the front door later that night, the absence of those items would call out to me like a spotlight in a dark room, drawing my attention to the empty spaces that had once housed all evidence of my life as half of a couple. And those vociferous voids would insist on being acknowledged, forcing me to recognize the fact that no matter what I tried to fill those empty spaces with, it would never replace what had been there.
I listened to the voicemail lady ask me what I wanted to do with the message. Apparently, there were only two options, delete it or save it for later. When I didn't respond right away, she repeated the question. I knew that her voice hadn't changed—that it was just a computer program designed to sound like a human being—but the second time around, she sounded just the slightest bit more persistent.
And I suddenly felt as though it wasn't just the voicemail she was asking me to delete.
I was struck with an overwhelming influx of emotion that seemed to be oscillating between sadness and anger. And since the two felt so inherently different, I had trouble deciding which one to feel at any given second.
As more tears fell down my face, contrasted darkly by the fuming smoke I was sure was coming out of my ears, I searched for something to erase it all. Something that would dull both emotions. A magic pill that would swallow it all down to a place where I couldn't feel it anymore.
I glanced around my office and was immediately reminded of my purpose for being here. The very reason all of this marriage stuff wasn't meant for me. Because let's be honest here, you can't break up relationships by day and try to keep one together by night. Somewhere along the line, you're going to run into . . . well, this.
Then my eyes fell upon something in the trash under my desk. It was the printout Lexi Garrett had handed me earlier that morning. The details of her dad's scheduled trip to Palm Springs. I had thrown it out the moment I'd entered my office. And before my mind was given the opportunity to start dissecting everything all over again, I sprang into action. I pressed the number 7 on my cell phone and listened as the voicemail lady confirmed my irrevocable decision: "Message deleted."
Then I dropped the cell phone on my desk and buzzed Hadley over the intercom. I didn't even bother with a greeting after she answered. I simply said, "Is Lexi Garrett still out there?"
Hadley sighed. "Yes. I've tried to talk some sense into her, but she won't leave."
"That's okay," I replied hurriedly. "Would you please send her in?"
There was a baffled silence on the other end, and then Hadley confirmed, "Into your office?"
"Yes," I replied. "Tell her I've changed my mind."
She didn't respond right away, and I had a feeling she was taking some time formulating a reply. Or maybe a round of questions to verify my sanity. But I didn't want to take the chance that whatever she came up with might cause me to second-guess my decision, so I quickly added, "Tell her I'll take on her dad's assignment myself," and then shut off the intercom.
I grappled for a half-empty, week-old bottle of SmartWater that was left on my desk and downed the last of it in one ferocious gulp. Praying that the imaginary pill I had just swallowed was strong enough to do what I needed it to do.
25
a twelve-year-old's intuition
I wasn't looking forward to testing Lexi Garrett's father. And I went back and forth several times on my decision to take on the case. But I finally convinced myself that there was no harm in finding out the truth about Dustin Garrett's intentions. If he passed the inspection, then there was nothing more to do. And then at least I could put this little girl's fears to rest by assuring her that her father is a devoted, caring, and loyal husband to her mother. Something I wish I could have been assured of at age twelve. Hell, at any age, really. On the other hand, if he failed the inspection, at least I could offer his wife some valuable information that she otherwise would never have known.
So after much deliberation and a short fifty-minute flight into the desert, I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror of my hotel room in the Hyatt Grand Champions Resort in Palm Springs. The same hotel where Dustin Garrett and his buddies were shacked up for an innocent weekend of golf, martinis, and ci
gars. Or so Dustin had told his wife and two children.
I suppose I would deliver the final verdict on the accurateness of the word innocent.
I finished applying a coat of jet black eyeliner around the inside of my lower lid and touched up my mascara. Tonight I was wearing a vapor gray strapless dress that fell to just above my knees and strappy black Manolos.
I adjusted the bobby pins that were holding my sophisticated updo in place, then took one final glance in the mirror before grabbing my hotel room key and my bag and heading out the door.
As I walked down the hallway toward the elevator, I felt confident and self-assured. My legs glided steadily underneath me as if they already knew exactly where to go, what to do, how to cross. Tonight marked my first official assignment as an unretired, unattached, full-time fidelity inspector. But the way my body moved and my head stayed clear and focused, it felt as though I had never left. I had spent almost a year sitting behind that desk, watching as my five trustworthy associates took on assignment after assignment, and I'd actually managed to convince myself that the life I had traded in was a good exchange. I'd actually thought that I was done with this lifestyle for good. But really, it was only a temporary vacation. A short hiatus. A brief diversion thrown at me for the sole purpose of being able to realize for myself who I really am. And finally come to terms with what I'm supposed to be doing.
As the elevator doors slid open and I stepped inside, I was overcome with a familiar sensation. As if I were stepping onto a stage, assuming the role that I had been hired to play. A role that had been designed specifically for Dustin Garrett.
Tonight I would no longer be Jennifer Hunter, I would be known only as Ashlyn, an overworked executive assistant, traveling with her boss on business and trying to get away for a few hours of relaxation and a strong martini.
Everything felt natural. Instinctive, almost. Not forced and artificial like so many of the emotions I had felt with Jamie in the last couple of months. I knew that I was made to do this. Made to walk into that hotel bar. Made to follow Dustin Garrett's lead until I had reached a solid conclusion about the man I was about to encounter.
When I exited the elevator and made my way into the lounge, I searched the room for a group of early-forty-something guys who looked as if they were enjoying a weekend retreat away from their everyday wives . . . I mean, lives. Lexi had e-mailed me a photograph of her father, but as for the rest of the men on this trip, I was completely in the dark.
When I didn't spot them right away, I decided to head for the bar and take a seat. It would be easier (and less suspicious-looking) if I continued to survey the room from there. Lexi had sworn she had overheard her father on the phone saying that they would be grabbing a drink at the hotel bar before their eight P.M. dinner reservation. I checked my watch: It was almost seven-thirty. But then again, all of my intelligence had come from a person whose generation considered Facebook their primary news source. I decided to give it until eight before I modified my strategy.
The bar was fairly crowded. After I had ordered my martini, I swiveled around in my chair so I could get a better view of the clientele. I took a sip of my drink, knowing full well that I would have to pace myself if I was ever going to get through a night of drinking with a bunch of middle-aged golf buddies. I supposed it was time to start building up my tolerance again.
As I sipped, I systematically scanned each of the tables in the room, numbering them in my head from left to right and making mental notes. It was the game I always used to play when waiting for a subject to show up.
Table 1: Middle-aged married couple. Probably celebrating a relationship milestone. Fifteen-year anniversary, maybe twenty.
Table 2: Two young men in their late twenties. One straight, one pretending to be straight. The man on the right has no idea that his friend is gay. Nor does he know that his friend will do just about anything to hook up with him.
Table 3: Girls' night out. Six total. Possibly a bachelorette party. But without the visual confirmation of a white veil or any other conventionally identifying bridal trademarks, it's difficult to be certain.
Table 4: Early-forty-something male with embarrassingly younger (looking) female. With her back facing me, exact age is only a guess at this point. But given her hairstyle (long and blond), dress choice (tight and pink), and body type (thin and shapely), my guess is mid-to late twenties.
Table 5: Mother and daughter bonding . . .
Wait a minute.
I suddenly stopped and jerked my head back a few inches to Table 4. As I glimpsed past the blonde in the tightly fitted pink dress and focused my attention on the man she was with, I narrowed in on his gray dress shirt, black slacks, and half-empty wineglass sitting in front of him. Why did he look so familiar? Did I know him from somewh—
Oh, God.
My eyes widened and my jaw almost dropped to the floor. I could only imagine how I must have looked to everyone else in the room, staring . . . no, gawking at a perfect stranger on the other side of the room.
But that was just the thing. He wasn't a perfect stranger. I knew exactly who he was. That was Dustin Garrett! I was certain of it. I hadn't recognized him when I first walked in because I'd assumed he'd be with a large group of middle-aged men with beer guts hanging over their khaki golf pants. But that wasn't the context of this situation at all, was it?
He was with a woman. And from the looks of it, a young one at that.
Okay, I told myself as I forced my mouth shut and struggled to appear normal again. Maybe she's just a friend. Or a work colleague. Or a manager at the hotel, and they're discussing the unsatisfactory condition of his room and how she's going to make it up to him.
Just because a man is sitting at a table across from a blond woman nearly fifteen years younger than him doesn't automatically mean he's—
And just then, Dustin leaned in and rested his hand on the girl's leg as he whispered something in her ear. She started giggling flirtatiously, tipping her head back and letting her long blond hair cascade down her back in soft layers. Then, as he pulled away, he allowed his lips to playfully drag against the side of her neck. She grabbed his face in her hands and pulled him in for a deep kiss. When they finally broke apart, she reached out and seductively wiped her lip gloss from his bottom lip.
Okay, well, that settles it.
There was no way Dustin Garrett was here with a bunch of amateur golf players. That was clearly a ruse to get out of the house. These two had come here together. And judging by the girl's sultry designer dress and the hint of lingerie straps underneath, she had packed for the occasion. This was not a random meeting in a bar. This girl hadn't beaten me to the punch by just a few minutes—she had beaten me to the punch by at least a few weeks. If not more.
I spun my chair around and faced the bar again, taking a long, much less inhibited swallow from my martini glass and grimacing as the chilled, bitter liquid oozed down my throat. So Lexi Garrett was right. In fact, she was more right than she even knew. She had a feeling something was off, something wasn't right, and she assumed that her dad was capable of cheating on her mom. As it turns out, he had already been doing it. And for God knows how long.
I marveled once again at the keen perception of that little girl. How could she have known that? How could she have seen something that her mom has been missing for quite some time? She was supposed to be focusing on clothes and gossip and shirtless boy bands. She was not supposed to be worrying about things like this. And she was certainly not supposed to know about them.
But now she would have to know. I would have to tell her. Because she was, after all, the client. And although I had refused to take her money, no matter how much she'd persisted, she had still come to me for an answer, and therefore I was obliged to give it to her.
I took another sip of my drink.
But what if she didn't have to know? I speculated suddenly.
What if I refused to tell her and instead insisted that I break the news directly to Mrs.
Garrett? Clearly, that would be the responsible way to handle this. She may have had the awareness of a ninety-year-old soul, but there was no way Lexi Garrett could know about her father's affair before her mother did. Or worse yet, bear the burden of having to tell her mother what she knew. I knew from firsthand experience that this was definitely not an age-appropriate responsibility to bestow upon a child.
I had to admit, though. As confident as I felt walking into this bar tonight, I was extremely relieved that I wouldn't have to go through with the assignment myself. The intention to cheat had apparently been confirmed long before I was even brought into the picture.
I downed the last of my drink and set down a twenty-dollar bill for the bartender. At least now I could enjoy a nice, relaxing evening on my own. I would order room service, take a hot bath, curl up in one of those fluffy white robes they hang on the bathroom door, and spend the night watching pay-per-view movies. And right now, nothing sounded more appealing.
I spun around on the chair and adjusted my dress as I stood up. Dustin Garrett would never even know that I was here, yet my presence tonight would undoubtedly change his life forever.
As I passed by Dustin's table on my way back to the lobby, I took one final glance in his direction. He and his date were gathering their belongings and preparing to leave. I checked my watch: It was five to eight. They were probably heading off to that eight o'clock reservation that Lexi had overheard him talking about. If only she had paid a bit more attention, she might have caught on to the fact that the reservation was only for two.
As the blonde in the pink dress slowly stood up and turned to pull her cream-colored pashmina off the back of her chair, I finally managed to get a glimpse of her face. And it was at that exact moment that she happened to glance in my direction as well.
Our eyes met and both our bodies froze, her cream pashmina slipping from her grasp and floating gracefully to the ground.
The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men Page 25
