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At the restaurant, she’d discovered that the spark was still there, more, actually, like an electric current this time,but she’d felt suddenly tongue-tied and ill at ease. Toward the end of the meal, she knocked over her water glass and watched in horror as half the contents splashed into Tom’s lap. He laughed it off good-naturedly, but she’d been mortified.
When Emma returned home that night to her Manhattan studio, she’d told herself that maybe it was all for the best, that her nervousness was proof that itwastoo soon, that it might be ages until she felt less emotionally stunted. And yet as the hours passed, she found herself resenting that conclusion. Her marriage had been joyless, nothing to grieve over, so how long was she really supposed to wait?
A few days later, she sent Tom an email:If I promise to bring a plastic tarp for your lap, can we try another lunch? My treat this time.
He’d suggested a Saturday afternoon bike ride instead, and other little excursions followed after that, including several walks on Compo Beach along the Long Island Sound. It was during one of the first outings that Emma told him about the murder. Tom listened sympathetically, and she could tell he now understood her tentativeness and respected her need to let things between them evolve slowly.
When they made love for the first time, they’d been seeing each other for more than two months. She was crazy about him by then, in an intense, ecstatic way she’d never felt with anyone else, and she already knew so much about him—his essentially happy childhood, the crazy years of getting the agency off the ground, the grief over losing Diana that had taken longer than expected to ebb.
And he knew almost everything about Emma, too. Except how deeply troubled her marriage had been and the fact that she had faked her tears over Derrick’s death. She hadn’t dared to tell him.
“Hey, I’ve got a thought,” Tom calls out from just ahead of her on the path. They’ve been biking for close to two hours now and are headed back toward Westport. “There’s one of those little hot dog stands near here with outdoor picnic tables. Want to eat there instead of in town?”
“Sure, why not?” she says. “It’s too nice to be indoors.”
They end up ordering tuna melts instead of hot dogs, along with huge plastic cups of Coke, and devour their meals at a table outdoors, with the sun pleasantly in their eyes.
“Man, this is good,” Tom says, grinning.
“I know, I feel twelve years old again—in a good way.”
These are the kind of easygoing moments Emma relishes with Tom, even more than their date nights at fancy restaurants, dinner parties at the homes of his impressive friends, or the long weekend trips they’ve taken to places like Nashville, Montreal, and Savannah. In the first months of their marriage, she’d waited for the other shoe to drop, for a sharp retort or out-of-the-blue insult, but Tom turned out to be the Tom who’s sitting across from her now, exactly who she thought he was.
As she wipes grease from her hands, she notices Tom’s staring at their bikes, leaning up against the clapboard building.
“I’ve never asked you this,” he says. “Who taught you to ride a bike?”
Emma smiles. “My grandfather on my mother’s side.Griff and I used to stay with him and my grandmother when my parents took off for Europe in the summers. It was always heavenly. How about you?”
“My mom did, actually. Though overall she was a really good mother, she could be a little distant at times, so when she volunteered for the job, I was thrilled.”
He starts to ask another question, but his phone rings, a shrill tone disrupting the tranquil moment. “Ugh, work,” he says, glancing at the screen.
“Taylor?” If Taylor Hunt, his chief of staff, is calling him on a weekend, there must be a fire to put out.
“No, it’s Justine.” He taps the phone and asks her what’s up.
As Tom listens patiently to his number two’s explanation, which seems complicated, Emma studies his face, appreciating not only how attractive her husband is but also how open and amiable he looks in neutral. Over the years, Derrick’s default expression became an ugly scowl.
Eventually Tom interrupts, asking, “Where are you, Justine?” Emma can see some consternation in his eyes now, but he doesn’t let it leak into his voice. He nods. “All right, I’ll swing by in about an hour and we’ll get it straightened out.”
He shakes his head in frustration as he disconnects from the call.
“Is it about the Chicago pitch?” Emma asks.
“No, there’s a problem with one we’re doing later this week. Apparently, part of the data is flawed, and it invalidates some of our proposals.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry. Justine’s in the office?”
“Yeah, and I could probably figure this out remotely, butit means I’d be back and forth with her for the rest of the day. So I need to drop by. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, Tom,” Emma says sincerely. He never makes her feel like she takes a back seat to his work. “I’ve got plenty to do this afternoon.”
They ride back to the house, and after Tom helps Emma mount the bikes in the garage, he quickly changes into jeans and a polo shirt.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he says and kisses her tenderly on the mouth. He starts for his car, and then turns back. “You feeling a little better now, sweetheart? I sense being out on the bike did you good.”
“Yes, much better.”
Which isn’t really the truth. All during their ride Emma had tried to focus on the fresh, bright green foliage and the hypnotic sound of their bike wheels kicking up stones along the path, anything but Webster, but she hasn’t been able to drive the detective from her thoughts.
Is Webster making calls right now? she wonders. Probing around, digging through her past, flicking through paperwork? It is a Saturday, but don’t some cops work on weekends?
Whatever the case, Emma feels the need to take more control of the situation. As soon as she’s back inside, she shoots Dunne another email:
If it’s at all possible, can you call me this weekend instead of Monday? I really need to talk to you.
After changing her clothes, Emma makes a quick run to FedEx to mail a gift for her friend Bekah’s daughter, who’s about to turn one. She’s only been home a few minutes when she hears a vehicle slow in the street outside the house and guesses that Tom must have handled the work crisis faster than anticipated. But the car never pulls into the driveway, so she makes her way to the front of the house and peers out the window. To her shock, Kyle Rand, her former brother-in-law, is striding across the lawn toward her front door, in that imposing way that reminds her so much of Derrick’s stick-straight posture and decisive gait.
What the hell ishedoing here?
