He pulls into my parking lot and parks at one of the visitor spaces.
"You don't have to walk me to the door," I say as Gavin turns the engine off.
"I always walk a girl to the door, especially at night." He comes around to the passenger side and helps me out of the car.
We walk to the entrance.
"I'm on the third floor so we can just say goodbye here."
"But this isn't your door."
"I'm sure I'll make it there safely."
He glances up at my building, then back at me. "Then I guess this is goodbye. See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. What time?"
"Seven. I'll pick you up here, unless you want me to come up."
"Here is fine. See you then."
He smiles, that slight dimple peeking through. "Goodnight, Kate."
I watch him leave, my heart pounding from the mistaken assumption he was about to kiss me. But this wasn't a date so I guess that wouldn't have been appropriate. Still, I wouldn't have minded a kiss.
Hit with a burst of energy, I ditch the elevator and take the stairs, then quietly enter my apartment, assuming Megan's asleep.
"Finally," she says from the couch. "I was getting worried. I was just about to call you."
"You didn't have to wait up."
"I had to make sure you got home safe. In case he really was a killer."
"He's not." I toss my purse on the kitchen counter.
"So tell me about this guy."
"Can we do it tomorrow? It's late and I have to get to bed. I have to cater a brunch at ten in Westport. And I have to fix my tire. Shit, I almost forgot about that. I'll have to get up even earlier and see if I can get someone out here."
"So is he just a friend or what?"
"He just gave me a ride," I tell her, and leave it at that. If I tell her about the date I have with Gavin tomorrow night, she'll lecture me about how rich guys are trouble and then list all the reasons why I shouldn't go out with Gavin. But Kurt wasn't rich and ended up hurting me. So why not date a guy like Gavin? Being rich doesn't make him a bad person.
She gets up from the couch, yawning. "I have to get to bed. I'm falling asleep."
"Me too. See you in the morning."
***
The next day my alarms dings at seven. I quickly shower and dress, then hurry downstairs to assess my tire. It's the one on the front left, but when I look at it, it's no longer flat.
Maybe it was the back tire. I check and see that it's fine. I'm almost positive it was the one in front. I push on it with my thumb. The rubber doesn't give. It's completely inflated.
Weird.
I go back upstairs. Megan walks in the kitchen wearing her fluffy yellow robe, her long dark hair a mess. She yawns. "I shouldn't have stayed up so late."
"You didn't happen to fix my tire, did you?"
She laughs as she opens the fridge. "Me? Fix a tire? I don't even know how to use a tire jack. My dad tried to teach me once but I got bored and stopped listening so he gave up."
"My tire's fixed." I sit at the breakfast bar. "How could it be fixed?"
"Maybe it was never flat."
"It was definitely flat. I saw it. I touched it. It was flat. And now it's not."
She pours water in the coffeemaker. "Maybe some do-gooder came along and saw it and decided to fix it for you."
"Nobody would do that. It had to be someone I know."
"Kurt knows how to fix a tire. Maybe he did it. Maybe he was feeling guilty about what he did so he fixed your tire."
"I can't imagine him doing that. That would be considerate and he's not a considerate person. Unless, like you said, he only did it out of guilt."
"I don't know who else would've done it. He drives by here on his way home from work. He probably saw your car last night and noticed the tire was flat, then fixed it."
"You think I should call and thank him?"
"No. Just be happy he did it and move on." She starts the coffeemaker. "I'm gonna go take a shower."
While she's gone, I stare at my phone, wondering if I should call Kurt. He usually gets up around now to go work out at the gym.
I press the call button. It rings and rings, then I hear his voice.
"Hey, babe, what's up?"
He's still calling me 'babe'? And acting like nothing's wrong? God, I hate him. Maybe a small, tiny, minuscule part of me loves him, but most of me hates him.
"I just wanted to say thanks," I say in a cool, reserved tone.
He chuckles. "You don't have to thank me. I'm always happy to pleasure a beautiful woman."
"What?" I pause a moment, confused, then say, "What are you talking about?"
"Last night."
"I wasn't with you last night." I bite out the words, boiling over with anger.
"Wait. Who is this?"
"Kate, you idiot!"
"Oh." He pauses. "Hey, Kate. How's it going?"
"Ugh. You are such an ass!"
"What'd I do now?"
"You didn't even know it was me calling! We dated for eight months and you don't even recognize my voice?"
"All girls sound the same. How the hell was I supposed to know it was you?"
Pacing the floor, I shake my head. "I can't believe I dated you for so long. What the hell was I thinking?"
"I'm hot." He chuckles. "Girls can't resist me."
He makes me so freaking mad. Honestly, why did I date him? He couldn't have just changed overnight. He had to have been this way when we were dating, so why did I keep dating him? For the sex? The sex was good. I'll give him that.
"Did you fix my tire or not?"
"Tire? What are you talking about?"
I should've known he wouldn't do something nice like that.
"Never mind. I have to go." I hang up on him, then stand at the window, staring down at my car. If Kurt didn't do it, who did? I don't have any friends in the building, except for Megan. And I can't imagine a random stranger doing it. So who did it?
I'm still wondering this three hours later, while standing in a kitchen that's the size of the house I grew up in, pouring batter into muffin tins. I got kitchen duty today because the client, a bored housewife with too much time and money on her hands, requested the brunch be served by only male waitstaff. She even had the nerve to tell Carol to make sure the males are young and attractive. Seems like there should be a law against that, like some kind of discrimination law, but if there is, Carol would never report the woman. She wouldn't risk losing a client over that, especially this one because she hires us all the time.
The client is Victoria Sinclair. She's in her forties, tall and skinny with black hair that she always has pulled up in a bun. Before I even met her, I thought she looked mean. Then I heard her yelling at her staff and that confirmed it.
If Megan met her, it would just prove her point that rich people are mean, ungrateful, horrible people. I don't agree with that, but in the case of Victoria Sinclair, the stereotype fits.
At first, I gave Victoria the benefit of the doubt, blaming her behavior on her grief. Her husband, Royce, committed suicide, leaving behind Victoria and their four daughters. It was all over the news for months. Royce was running for President at the time so when he was found dead, everyone was shocked. The news reports said Royce couldn't handle the pressure and that's why he killed himself but that doesn't really make sense. If you're running for President, you know it's going to be stressful. You should be prepared for the stress. Some politicians thrive on it.
"We need more coffee," Victoria says as she strides into the kitchen, her nose in the air. "You!" She points to me. "Get coffee! Now!"
I'm holding a muffin tin but set it down and quickly turn back to the row of coffeemakers we have set up. They're all empty. Shit.
"I'll have to make some more." I quickly grab the bag of coffee and start pouring the beans into the grinder.
"It's not made?" Victoria yells in her shrill voice. Her voice gives me a headache.
"Is something w
rong, Victoria?" Carol asks, racing into the kitchen.
"There is NO coffee! People are waiting!"
"I'm terribly sorry." Carol uses the fake nice tone she reserves for hostile clients. They have to know it's fake and yet they never react to it. Or maybe they don't notice it because they use the same fake tone themselves. I can't imagine Victoria ever being nice, unless she was faking it.
"The coffee will be right out," Carol says.
"It should've been ready," Victoria scolds.
"We like to prepare it in small batches so it's fresh," Carol explains, but it's not true. We normally have it made ahead of time. Lisa, the girl in charge of coffee, just forgot to make more, and now she's on break.
"It is your JOB to anticipate our needs," Victoria says. "If you are unable to do so, I'll be finding a new caterer."
"I can assure you it won't happen again," Carol replies.
Victoria storms off, the clicking of her high heels against the tile floor echoing as she leaves the kitchen.
Carol walks over to me. "I'm sorry she talked to you that way. I've told her to discuss any issues with me, not my staff."
"Has she always been that way?"
"For as long as I've worked with her, yes."
"I thought maybe it was because she's still sad about her husband."
Carol lowers her voice. "Between you and me, I'm not sure they had much of a marriage. It's well known that Royce had women on the side."
"Then maybe that's why she's angry," I say, thinking of Kurt and how it felt to be cheated on.
Carol straightens up. "I shouldn't be gossiping like this. It's unprofessional." She points to the oven. "How much longer on the muffins?"
I peek in the oven and see the tops starting to brown. "A couple more minutes."
"Let me know when they're done. I'll be in the office."
There's an office off the kitchen for the staff. Carol's been in there all morning.
When the muffins are ready, I take them out of the oven and set them on a rack to cool. Then I go to the office.
"Carol, the muffins are done," I say.
"Arrange them on the tray in a circular design. Victoria is very particular about presentation."
"Okay." I start to leave but then turn back. "So um, did you think last night's party was kind of strange?"
"Strange?" She lifts her brows. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I just had this weird vibe. It's hard to explain."
"You were probably just upset about your boyfriend."
"Yeah, maybe." As she looks back at her laptop, I say, "How did you know about Kurt?"
"You seemed off last night. I assumed it was because of a boy."
"I broke up with him." I pause. "I um...found him with someone else."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." She clears her throat, seeming uncomfortable. She doesn't like talking about this stuff, especially at a client's house during a function.
"So back to last night, why did only the men have dinner?"
She gets up and meets me at the door. "I don't know. I assumed they were having some kind of meeting."
"About Niles' campaign?"
She shakes her head. "It wasn't a campaign dinner. Holton Kensington was there. He's a staunch Republican. Niles wouldn't dare discuss his campaign around Holton. But the two of them are friends, socially."
"Is Holton the old guy with the gray hair?"
"Yes. I'm sure you've seen him on TV. He's a frequent guest on business programs."
I haven't seen him on TV but I saw him last night. And I saw his son at an event I worked at last June. Pearce Kensington looks just like his dad, but younger, with a touch of gray hair. And I know Holton's grandson, Garret. Well, I've never actually met him but I used to see him around town. He went to Moorhurst last year but got into some trouble. Last I heard he moved to California.
"When I was collecting plates," I say, "I overhead that Holton guy talking to Niles. Niles made it sound like Holton was threatening him."
She laughs and pats my shoulder. "I think you've been spending too much time with Megan." She says it jokingly, but then purses her lips and tightens her grip on my shoulder. "How about you stop coming up with stories about our clients and do your work?"
I nod repeatedly. "Okay."
Her eyes narrow. "And stop eavesdropping. I don't tolerate that from my staff."
She finally releases my shoulder and steps back, a look of warning in her eyes.
She's making me nervous. I've never seen her act this way or use that harsh tone with me. But she's very protective of her clients and their privacy, so maybe that's why she scolded me like that.
I start to walk away.
"Oh, and Kate," she says.
I turn back. "Yeah?"
"I strongly suggest you keep your distance from the Bishop boy."
"Gavin? Why?"
"It's just some friendly advice." She winks at me. "Woman to woman." And then she goes back in the office and closes the door.
Okay, that was weird. What does Carol have against Gavin? Does she just not want me dating a client's son? She always tells her staff not to get involved with a client, but Gavin isn't a client. He didn't hire us. His mom did.
I decide to let it go and focus on making the rest of the baked goods.
***
After work, I go home and get ready for my date. I'm wearing a pink dress with a fitted bodice and tiny straps at top. The skirt is flowing and hits just above the knee.
I found the dress at a thrift shop in New York. A few times a year, Megan and I take the train to New York City and go to our favorite second-hand stores. You wouldn't believe all the great stuff we find. Clothing with designer labels at dirt cheap prices. And they look like they've only been worn once or twice.
If Megan saw me wearing this dress, she'd know I was going on a date tonight. This is definitely a date dress. Luckily, Megan went to a movie so she isn't around.
Just before seven, I go down to the lobby and wait for Gavin. I'm five minutes early because he seems like someone who wouldn't be late.
Earlier today he sent me a dozen pink roses with a note that said, Dinner is at Marcotta's. Reservation at 7:15. Might want to wear a dress. They don't allow jeans. Just wanted to let you know. Didn't have your number so sent the flowers to make sure you got my message. And because I thought you'd like them. Gavin.
I love the flowers. And the note. It's nice when a guy actually puts effort into a date, like making dinner reservations. And it's really nice when he tells you ahead of time so you know what to wear. Kurt would never do that, which explains why I showed up in a dress the other night when he'd planned to take me to a burger place.
Gavin's Audi pulls up beside me right at seven. He gets out of the car and comes around to open my door.
"Hi." He smiles, that dimple showing through his now clean-shaven face. I liked the stubble but a clean shave is good too. He looks even better today. Then again, it was dark last night and I couldn't see him that well.
He's wearing black dress pants with a white dress shirt and what appears to be a very expensive blue silk tie.
When we're in the car, I ask, "Any reason why you picked such a nice restaurant?"
I assumed it was because he's rich and either wants to impress me with his money or because he only eats at fancy places.
"You didn't get your anniversary dinner," he says. "I know I'm not the guy you planned to go with but since we've concluded he's an ass, I think you'll be okay with the fact that he's not here tonight."
I smile at him. "I'm kind of trying to forget that anniversary."
"Doesn't mean you can't have a nice dinner. Marcotta's is great. The food is amazing. You been there?"
"No, but I've heard it's good."
He glances at me. "You look beautiful. I love the dress."
"Thanks."
"I was going to wear a suit but it seemed too formal."
"Do you dress up a lot?"
"Only when
I have to. Or when I want to impress a girl." He glances at me again with that sexy smile.
"You impressed me last night. Not many guys would stop and help a girl who's crying."
"Then they're assholes. A guy should always stop and help a girl, or at least offer to help. It's the gentlemanly thing to do."
"There aren't many gentlemen left."
"Well, lucky for you, you found one."
We pass a guy changing his tire on the side of the road, which reminds me of my flat.
"The strangest thing happened today."
"What?"
"I went to check my tire this morning and it wasn't flat anymore. Someone fixed it but I have no idea who."
"It was me," he says casually. "I went over there this morning and did it."
I turn to him. "You fixed my tire?"
"I did."
"How'd you know which car was mine?"
"I saw it at another event you worked at. I didn't know it was yours until I saw it here last night."
"What event did you see my car at?"
"The symphony fundraiser last summer. I was late getting there and the lot for patrons was full so I parked where the staff parks and pulled into the spot right next to yours."
What an odd coincidence. And he remembers my car from that night? That's also odd.
Is he telling the truth? But why would he make that up? Unless he's trying to hide something, but what would he be trying to hide?
I shouldn't be questioning this, but when you grow up with a dad who's an investigator, you question everything. And trust no one.
Chapter Five
"You didn't have to fix my tire," I say.
"Are you mad that I did?"
"No. Not really. It's just..." I look out the side window. "I was just surprised."
"Hey." He reaches over and takes my hand. "I was just trying to help. When I see a problem I fix it. That's just who I am. But I should've asked first, or at least told you I did it."
"Yeah, that would've been good."
"Tell you what. Next time I get a flat, I'll let you fix it. That way we'll be even. You don't even have to tell me you did it."
I laugh. "Yeah, that's probably not going to happen. I don't know how to change a tire. Actually, I'm surprised YOU do."
He glances at me. "And why is that?"
Secrets Kept Page 4
