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“Don’t you dare, you little wench.”
“Feisty. I love it.” After a few seconds, she narrowed her eyes. “Look, in all seriousness, you deserve to find someone. Tristen died four years ago, honey. Four years.”
“I know that. Four years ago today.”
Frowning, she looked away briefly. “I didn’t realize that. You should have said something.”
“For what reason? As you said, it was four years ago.” I wasn’t certain why after so much time had passed, his death continued to bother me. Maybe because there’d been no opportunity for closure. Or maybe because I felt guilty. I’d planned to have a discussion with him and suggest a break for a couple of months. I’d never been given the opportunity before getting the call from an Atlanta police officer.
“I’m not trying to be insensitive. You know that but I do care about you, which is why I’m bothered. I only met the man once in the year you were dating. But I know you cared about him. He’d want you to find happiness again.”
One year of my life. Our romance had been like a whirlwind. He’d come into the shop and we’d started talking. Then he’d asked me out on a date. He’d lived in Atlanta, but we’d found time for each other, even if only a couple of weekends a month. His death had been tragic, pushing me into a bleak darkness, leaving me with far too many questions. “I know and I want to, but I’m not certain this is the right time.” I looked away, hating the apprehension and anxiety. I’d felt that way since Tristen’s death, even without the mysterious phone calls adding to the anxiousness.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked, her eyes imploring.
“No, it’s just…” I hated lying to her.
“I can’t imagine the grief you feel, but you have to move on.”
What was strange was that I’d mostly allowed the grief to dissipate. I hadn’t been a real part of Tristen’s world. We’d created one that never made sense, almost as if pretending we could live in a bubble. But he’d become so engrossed in his business that even our phone calls had lessened until we were speaking to each other maybe once a week if that.
After he’d died, the funeral had been another eye-opening moment. He’d barely talked about his family. The subject had just never come up. Seeing his mother and father had been disturbing, especially since they’d had no idea who I was or what I’d meant to Tristen. That wasn’t normal.
“Is this mystery man of yours really that good looking?” I teased, trying to plaster a smile on my face.
Clarice used her hand as a fan, her lips forming a perfect O. “Girl. If I wasn’t offering him to you, he’d be on my silver platter, Sadly, I think he’s the take what he wants kind of man, and you know how I feel about those.”
“Uh-huh. Little Miss Domme in the making.”
“So what? We can’t all be hungry to submit to a powerful man.”
“Very funny.”
“I speak the truth. Take the man his wine. That’s all I ask.”
I took a deep breath, allowing my eyes to sweep across the expansive room. The reason I’d been able to expand was because of Tristen’s untimely death and the generous sum of money he’d left me. Four hundred thousand had gone a long way into grabbing the empty store next door, refurbishing the interior of both, finally able to purchase specialty wines. There were times I’d felt guilty, but this was where we’d met on a cold October day five years before. I’d seen other couples meet here as well, returning again and again to rekindle their romance. Why not me?
“Okay, but don’t expect miracles.”
“Fantastic. I’ll pour the wine. Go freshen up,” she directed, giving me a loving shove.
“What’s wrong with the way I look?”
“You look harried.” She never failed to tell me the truth.
I resisted giving her the finger, instead heading to my private bathroom inside my small office. My home away from home. At least being in the bistro had given me a sense of purpose.
As I headed into the bathroom, flicking on the light, I realized how little time I’d actually been able to spend with Tristen. He’d always been busy traveling for work, as his client base had covered parts of North America as well as at least three countries abroad. We’d argued over where we’d live once we were married, my refusal to shut my shop down fueling our weekly fights, even though he’d offered to help me get one set up in Atlanta. The expense would have been three times as much. It was obvious I had been ready to move on.
Maybe I didn’t need to feel guilty any longer.
I yanked the pin from my hair, allowing my long locks to drift across my shoulders then studied myself in the mirror. Even though I appeared as tired as I felt, the vivid cerulean hue of my blouse accentuated the color of my eyes. I was presentable, nothing more, but it would have to do.
Clarice had filled the wineglass, which made heading to the table an exercise in balance. When I approached the rear door, I hesitated, peering out and scanning the patio. There were four tables full of customers, then one other with a single gentleman sitting in a relaxed position, still wearing dark sunglasses even though the sun was waning. I took a deep breath and moved outside, heading in his direction with deliberate steps.
The first thing I noticed about the mystery man was his dark charcoal suit and white shirt, the intense turquoise tie a direct contrast to the dark color of his jacket. While most of my customers were dressed in jeans in order to be comfortable for the Saturday event, the sexy stranger appeared totally in his element, unfettered by the fact that he was overdressed. As I walked closer, I allowed my gaze to fall to his long fingers, his left hand holding the book he’d selected.
Bentley Little was a favorite author of mine, his sadistic view of society lending itself to the perfect horror story, a mixture of the surreal with tantalizing aspects of terror. The newcomer was so engrossed in the book that until I’d placed the glass in front of him, accidentally tipping the rim until several drops slipped ever so slowly to his trousers, he hadn’t lifted his head.
