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She cried in the shower, quietly sobbing and letting her tears mix with the water. These, she swore, were her last tears for a man who could lie and say he loved a woman without batting an eye.
When she finally turned off the spigots and shoved the wet hair from her face, she felt stronger. She would survive. Somehow she’d live each day without him and the pain would lessen, not quickly, but she would live with it and go on with her life. She’d learned long ago, during the pain of her parents’ divorce, that she was a survivor and that she could accomplish just about anything she wanted to. Right now, she wanted Trent out of her life.
Cinching the belt of her robe around her waist, she clamped her teeth together and unlocked the bathroom door. She paused, took in a long, bracing breath and, in a cloud of steam, walked through the door.
Trent was gone. She knew it before she even glanced through the shadowy apartment. From the atmosphere in the room, the lack of life in the air, she knew that he’d left. And she realized that she’d been wrong. Just when she’d been foolish enough to think that she was fresh out of tears for Trent McKenzie, she found a few thousand more.
* * *
“I just don’t see why I can’t meet that husband of yours.” Ted Carrothers touched the crook of his daughter’s arm and propelled her across the street. He’d called while Nikki was at work and they’d agreed to have dinner together.
“He’s busy,” Nikki hedged as
they threaded through the crowd of pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalks. Umbrellas, boots, newspapers and purses tucked beneath arms, raincoats billowing, everyone walked briskly, as if each person was in his own personal race with the world.
Unlike Salvaje, where the pace was slow, the weather warm and lazy, Seattle’s gait was brisk, in tempo with the winds that blew chill off the Pacific. Fog was rolling through the streets and a slight drizzle threatened. Ted shoved open the door of his favorite Irish pub, and the sounds of hearty laughter, clink of glasses, and noise from a television where a boxing match was being shown, greeted Nikki. Smoke hovered over the bar and the smell of beer was heavy in the air.
“In the back. Rosie has a table for us,” her father said as they moved past the long mahogany bar that had been a part of Rosie’s Irish Pub since the great fire. “Here we go.” Ted weaved through the tightly packed tables and, true to his word, found a booth in a corner near the back wall.
Nikki slid onto the wooden seat while Rosie, without asking, brought two frosty mugs of ale. Not believing that she could trust anyone to manage the place, Rosie worked day and night as a waitress and hostess. “Bless ya, Rose,” Ted said with a wink.
“Come here often, do you?” Nikki teased, scanning her menu.
“As often as possible. And don’t bother ordering. It’s already done.”
“Don’t you think I might like a say in what I’m eating?”
His blue eyes twinkled. “Not when I’m paying the tab.”
“This is the nineties, Dad.”
“But I like the old ways better.”
She wasn’t in the mood for another fight. “Fair enough,” she said, watching the small flame of a glassencased candle flicker as they talked.
“Now, about Trent. Who the devil is he?”
Good question. “I met him through a friend.” Not really a lie, just stretching the truth a bit. She took a long swallow of the dark ale. “You remember Connie Benson? I work with her, and she had her car stolen earlier in the year…” She perpetuated the lie and didn’t have the heart to tell her father that her marriage was over. Or even that it had never existed. Over bowls of thick clam chowder and crusty bread, she rationalized that her love life wasn’t any of her father’s business and she would have to deal with Trent on her own. Rosie cleared the empty bottles and bowls and arrived with a platter of grilled salmon and planked potatoes. The conversation drifted back and forth, and each time Trent’s name was mentioned, Nikki hid the quick stab of pain in her heart.
By the time she’d eaten half her salmon, Nikki thought she might burst.
“So where is Trent tonight?” her father asked as he pronged a potato and studied it. “Why couldn’t he join us?”
“He’s working late. Lots to catch up on.”
“A private investigator…. Ah, well, I thought you’d marry someone…” He searched for the right word, and Nikki felt her temper start to simmer.
“Someone more conventional?” she asked. “Someone like Dave Neumann.”
Her father lifted a big shoulder. “He’s not a bad guy, but, hey, since you’re married, let’s leave him out of the conversation.”
“Good idea.” Nikki picked at the pieces of pink salmon flesh, but her appetite had disappeared. She felt like a fool and a fraud, defending a man who had not one ounce of compunction about lying to her.
Her father asked about her amnesia, tested her and, satisfied that her memory was intact, nodded to himself. “Glad you’re feeling better. I was worried about you, Nicole.”
“I know. But I’m okay. Really.” They smiled at each other and some of the old feelings of love between them resurfaced. She remembered trusting him implicitly, never questioning his ultimate wisdom.
Finally, her father shoved his plate aside. Rosie, as if she’d been hovering nearby waiting, swooped down and swept up the dirty dishes. She asked about another round of drinks, but neither Nikki or her father was interested. When she finally left, Ted set his elbows on the table and tented his hands. “Aside from the honeymoon and the accident, how was your trip?”
