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“I love it, yes.... Did you have a hand in picking it out?”
“No, it was all Tom’s doing, but he showed me a picture and asked my opinion. I wanted to be sure I hadn’t endorsed something that you secretly hate.”
“No, it’s beautiful.”
“Tom was pretty certain you would. He said you’re a big David Yurman fan.”
Her heart skips a beat before she answers. “Fan?”
“That you really love his pieces.”
This time her heart seems to lurch forward, ramming into her rib cage. “Tom said that?”
“Oops, did he have it wrong?”
“No, no, Idolike them. But I didn’t know he was aware of it.”
“Well, you know Tom. He doesn’t miss a thing.”
“Right... oh, sorry, I need to take care of something now. Thanks for checking in.”
Without giving Taylor time to respond, Emma ends the call. For a second she stays stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, her mind racing, and then upends her purse onto the island, shaking out the contents. She grabs her keys from the pile and races over to the studio.
After booting up her desktop computer, she opens thefile of Miami photos Eric emailed her and hurriedly scrolls through again to the ones from the Avignon dinner. She’s in a number of the images, wearing orange silk capris and a matching tunic—and on her right wrist, a gold-and-silver David Yurman cuff. It would have been hidden at times beneath the bell-shaped sleeve of the tunic, but not when she raised her hand to gesture, something she must have done at least a few times during her talk.
Next, she pulls up the shots from her Saturday breakfast keynote, and exactly as she remembered, she’d worn a hot-pink, sleeveless dress with a braided silver cuff—another Yurman piece.
Is it possible, she wonders, that Tom stayed longer at the dinner than he let on, long enough to get a good look at what she was wearing? Could he have also attended her breakfast keynote, sitting close enough to the front to see the cuff? Because, otherwise, how would he know she liked this kind of jewelry?
Only minutes ago she’d told herself to stop spiraling, to stop imagining the worst, but it’s looking like her husband hasn’t been straight with her. A warning noise has begun to sound in Emma’s brain, shrill and insistent.
What if he’d had his eye on her ever since Miami? She thinks again of Brittany’s comment from the other night, the one she’d told herself not to stew about—that Tom was the “master of the long game.”
Had he somehow played a long game withher—without her ever knowing it?
