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Donni, who had tensed at the mention of Christophe’s name, jerked back and said, “What’s that supposed to mean? A woman like me?”
Opal’s eyes widened. “Well, you were nearly a child yourself when you married Marco. A boy needs his natural mother growing up. Or he turns out strange.”
“I was twenty. Hardly a child.” Donni folded her arms. “And I don’t think his mother could do muchnaturalparenting from her room at Bellwether. Doyou, Opal?”
“Erm, no.” Opal backed away. Then hesitated. “By the way, there was a man out there with a camera, taking pictures. I assume you didn’t hire a photographer.”
“No.” Her tone was still frosty. “I didn’t.” She remembered the news van outside.
“Well, I sent him away for you.” The other woman stood a little taller. “I think I see Poppy.”
Donni watched her go, wishing she could leave as Rafe had. But no, as the grieving widow, she would be forced to stay until the better end—unless she could will herself to fake a complete meltdown. But the idea of making a spectacle of herself in front of these people who would have been glad to witness her fall made her misery pale in comparison. She grabbed a glass of sparkling raspberry lemonade from the buffet table and tried to convince herself it was rosé as she brought it to her lips.
“People Are Strange” by The Doors was playing now, another one of Marco’s favorites. The mood was still subdued, but now that the coffin was out of sight, people seemed more inclined to talk and every now and then, she’d hear a burst of guilty laughter.
“Hey, Donni. Really moving ceremony.”
Donni had to fight back a cringe at the reedy sound of Christophe’s voice. He was wearing the promised suit, ill-fitting but expensive. She found herself thinking that it must have been his father’s because the build was all wrong.
At twenty-eight, the boy was a carbon copy of his pinch-faced mother, from the wet-looking lips to the too-slick hair. There were already damp circles blooming under the arms of the pale gray wool, which wasn’t his fault, really, but added to the overall picture of unpleasantness that he managed to convey.
She’d heard he had a trust from his grandfather—in fact, he’d told her as much himself—but despite his fabulous wealth, he was still living at home, clutching his awful mother’s apron strings, which probably meant something was wrong with him. At night, he ran the bar circuit, trying to pick up women. He’d done it to her, once. She had been angry and vulnerable, just like she was right now, and he had sidled right up to her and said, “I hear you like younger men.”
At first, she thought she’d misheard him, because the music had been loud, and there was no possible way he could have been saying what she thought. But then he had repeated his words. “You should know I always thought you were a real fox. Aged to perfection, as they say in wine country, although with a body like yours, you’d put any of our wines to shame.”
“I’m married, Christophe. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She had looked around the bar at the patrons who were pretending like they weren’t listening to this conversation with great interest. “Go back home to your mother.”
One of the men had laughed at that and Christophe’s smile had turned mean. “Come on, Donni. When was the last time your fat old husband really got you off? A woman like you needs a light touch. Like an expensive car. I bet he handles you like a beater.”
He had reached for her then and Donni had sloshed her drink into his face and walked out without paying, to a chorus of male laughter. It took every ounce of her acting skills not to grimace when he took her hand in his, remembering how dirty he had made her feel as she replayed that encounter for weeks.
I hear you like younger men.She remembered the look he’d given her when she’d been in Rafe’s arms. And then there was that note on her car.I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
Had someone overheard them at the restaurant? Donni suddenly felt sweaty and sick, like she’d been standing under the sun too long. But there was no sun now, only gray skies and a chill that wouldn’t leave. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “But I need to make the rounds.”
“I was serious,” he said. “About wanting to talk. Things are going to be different now. You’re going to need someone in your corner, now that your husband’s gone. I could be that someone.”
“I’m sure you’re my biggest cheerleader,” she said flatly.
“Perhaps not the biggest,” he said, giving her a deliberate once-over. “But someone like you tends to make men rise to the occasion.”
Donni forgot to breathe, she was so angry. “Are you serious? At my husband’s funeral? What thehellis wrong with you?”
“From what I hear, you didn’t even love him. Plenty of accounts say that you were seeking comfort elsewhere. I’m just suggesting that you might find it more favorable if you make nice with the people who actually want to help you.”
“I don’t need your kind of help,” she snapped.
“We’ll see.” His grip tightened. “I saw Rafe, by the way.”
“Saw him doing what?”
“Skulking outside your bedroom window.”
What?Donni paused, momentarily derailed. And maybe that saved her, the shock, because Christophe seemed somewhat surprised by her reaction—or lack thereof—to his news. She jerked her hand out of his grip. “And how would you know that?” she asked coldly, when she was finally able to speak. “Were you there with him?”
“I was just out for a walk. But I live in this neighborhood. As far as I know,hedoesn’t.” He looked at her, as if for confirmation. She kept her face blank. “You should keep an eye on him. There’s a reason we’re not friends anymore. He’s got a twisted mind—you can see it in his books.”
Donni laughed bitterly. “They’re fiction, Christophe. That means they’re not real.”
