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"Well," he said, "let's go have a cup of coffee together." He held out his arm for me to take, but I walked ahead of him. Mr. Updike had already arranged for the two booths, so when the hostess saw me she smiled and led Michael and me to ours.
"Just coffee for me," I told the waitress.
"Just coffee?" Michael said, looking at the menu, "I'm feeling a bit hungry. I think have the shrimp special, please, and a cup of coffee."
The waitress took our menus and left. Michael folded his hands on the table and smiled at me again.
"I hope you didn't bring it all in cash," he said.
"I can't believe you've come here to demand money from me, Michael," I began. He shrugged.
"You won't miss it."
"What if I don't give you this money?" I asked. His eyebrows lifted.
"You think I was kidding? I told you, I'll get a lawyer and start a legal action for custody of Christie," he said.
"You don't have a chance of winning."
"What is this? I told you, I don't care if I win. It's the publicity that will do the damage to you, but it'll help me."
"Don't you care what it would do to our daughter?" I asked.
"She'll get over it," he said. "Children forget."
"You don't know how wrong you are about that, Michael. She would hate you for what you'd done."
"What's the difference?" he said. "She doesn't know I exist. Look, Dawn, I'm not joking about this. This is the second time you've met me, and I'm sure you haven't told your husband." He smiled. "If I have to, I'll tell him, only . . . I'll add a few things." He winked. "Get my meaning?"
The waitress brought the coffee. I waited for her to leave. "No, Michael, I don't," I said. He lost his smile.
"I don't care if you do or you don't. Do you have the five thousand dollars?"
I shook my head.
"No, Michael. I would never give you money like this. It would never end."
"I'm warning you . . ."
I got up.
"I hope you have enough money to pay for lunch," I said, and I pivoted quickly, leaving him with his mouth open.
When I looked back from the doorway of the restaurant I saw Michael start to rise as Mr. Simons and Mr. Updike slipped into the booth and sat across from him. Slowly Michael sank back into his seat and listened, his face growing pale as Mr. Simons and Mr. Updike began. Then Mr. Simons produced the tape recorder.
Michael turned sharply to look my way. I didn't look back, I turned my back and left him—forever, I hoped.
The moment I returned to Cutler's Cove and entered the lobby I sensed something was wrong. It was too quiet and too still. A num
ber of staff members and a dozen or so guests were gathered in front of the reception desk speaking softly. Mrs. Bradly came out from behind the counter and hurried across the lobby to greet me. She wore a very troubled expression. My heart began to race in anticipation.
"What's happened, Mrs. Bradly?" I asked.
"Miss Clara Sue's been in a terrible truck accident somewhere in Alabama," she said, shaking her head, her tears flowing.
"Where's Jimmy? Where's my husband?" I cried.
"I think he's in your office, Mrs. Longchamp," she said. "I'm so sorry."
