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Thinking about the way Aspen can turn her smiles on and off gives me the creeps.
The woman reaches us, and King leans down to kiss her cheek.
She’s probably old enough to be his mother but she still blushes. And I get it.
“Now what’s this I hear about a wife?” Her gaze moves to me, and her smile only grows. “Oh, aren’t you stunning!”
Now I’m blushing, which is probably better than theI’m going to be illlook I’m sure I was sporting a few seconds ago.
“This is Savannah,” King put his arm back around my shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
His action is followed by a shatter, and I glance past the woman, into the lounge looking room behind her, where Aspen is standing over a dropped martini glass.
“Oh my,” another woman hurries over, waving her hands. “Are you alright?”
Aspens waves her off with a smile. “Just being clumsy today.”
Mrs. Lucking is looking at me, and I realize I’m probably pale again, since I’m picturing Aspen picking up one of those shards and jabbing it into my heart.
I try to smile and sayI’m fineat the same time. But just end up opening my mouth and a garbledEineis all that comes out.
King clears his throat––and I swear to god, if he’s smothering a laugh, I’m going to smother him while he sleeps.
“Let’s take this as a sign and move into the dining room,” Aspen chuckles, and the two women nod their agreement before calling their husbands over. I hadn’t noticed the pair standing together on the far side of the room, but they stroll over amiably enough.
“Come, come.” Mrs. Lucking grips my arm and starts hauling me back across the main hallways and into an impressive room.
The evening sun rays are filtered through gauzy curtains, and the shades of white and taupe covering the room give the space a museum quality. It’s lovely.
A woman in a catering uniform hurries past us, to set another place at the table.Since no one was expecting me.
The two older couples take seats facing each other. And when Mrs. Lucking insists King sit next to her, he pulls me down into the open seat next to him.
Aspen strides into the room, new drink in hand, and takes the last open place setting across from King.
Me being here makes it an odd number, so I’m the only one staring at an empty chair. It might be rude, by polite standards, for King to put me on the end like this. But I will be forever grateful, hoping I can just melt into obscurity for the next hour.
Servers fan into the room, setting salads in front of each of us, and filling the glasses with red wine.
I debate the merits of getting drunk, as I bring the glass to my lips. Maybe it would be a good thing? Then again, maybe if I’m drunk, I’ll say something I absolutely shouldn’t. Like about how the host’s husband is dead and probably buried in the woods, or at the bottom of a lake. Or how I’m here against my will…
But these people don’t know me. They won’t help me. Not to mention they’d never believe me.
The sweet red liquid hits my tongue, and it tastes so good, I want to roll my eyes. But I only get through half the roll, when my body stops functioning. Because there, right fucking there, on the wall behind Aspen, ismy painting.
He didn’t.
Rather than try to swallow the wine––positive I’d choke instead––I tip my head down, letting the wine pour from my mouth and back into the glass.
I glance to the side, making sure no one saw me. But since my luck is nonexistent, I lock eyes with Aspen.
“How’s your wine, Savannah?” Her knife scrapes against her plate as she says it, cutting through a piece of endive.
“G––” I clear my throat. “It’s good. Thank you.” I hurry to set the glass down, dropping my eyes to my salad.
I can feel King turn to look at me, probably wondering why Aspen would voluntarily speak to me, but I can’t look at him. Not now.
Seeing that painting… It’s too much.
