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She nods toward the hallway, where the girls are chatting about nail polish colors as they fasten their Velcro tennis shoes.
“You know . . . Margaux reminds me a lot of Emma.” Theodora keeps her voice low as she toys with the infinity-shaped diamond pendant dangling from her neck. “Always smiling. A true people magnet. It’s why I always assign her to all our new clients. Everyone just adores her. They’re drawn to her like moths to flames. Just like they used to be with Emma. It’s like she’s never met a stranger.” Tossing her hands in the air, she adds, “Well, I adore her.”
I say nothing because I have nothing to say.
Comparing Margaux to Emma is insulting to both of them, but mostly to Emma.
I don’t know Margaux well enough, but I don’t think anyone wants to be set up with some widower simply because someone reminds them of a dead person.
“Oh, come on.” She rubs my arm and gives me a tender half smile. “It’s not healthy to always be so serious all the time. And I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh. Really laugh.” Theodora studies me with her trademark dissecting gaze. “We all know there’ll never be another Emma, but maybe you can find someone like her? No one should spend the rest of their life in mourning. She would hate that for you. Emma would want you to be happy.”
Theodora is right.
That’s exactly what Emma would want.
But it isn’t what I want.
I’m not ready to be happy.
I’m not ready to find some Emma knockoff.
“You should get going.” I check my watch.
“You’re right, I should.” Leaning in, she kisses my cheek and gives me the same melancholy smile she always does when she’s around. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours, painted piggies and all.”
I see my daughters off, and then I retreat to my study to check a few work emails and occupy my time until they return.
It’s all I can do to keep from looking at the clock every other minute—or thinking about Margaux, her apartment building, and that damn Halcyon key chain.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SLOANE
“Hey, hey,” I call to my sister when she gets home from work Monday evening. “I’m thinking we should order Thai tonight. Saw an ad this morning and spent the rest of the day craving pad see ew. Thoughts?”
She hangs her classic Burberry mackintosh jacket on the hat tree by the door and drops her keys with a heavy clink in the bowl on the console before carefully slipping off her black Chanel ballet flats.
It’s like I’m not even here.
“Hello?” I call out. It isn’t like her to ignore me. Glancing up from my phone, I check to see if she’s on a call.
She isn’t.
Returning my attention to the magazine in my lap, it isn’t until I feel the sinking weight of her pointed glare that I look up and find her shooting daggers my way. For a moment, I’m taken back to our childhood, when I used to borrow her favorite markers and forget to put them back. Those days are long gone, though. I can’t remember the last time I ticked her off about anything.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did something happen at work?”
“Yeah, actually.” She breaks her silence, straightening her blouse and heading toward the living room with sure-footed steps. Stopping short in front of the leather wingback chair we bought at an antiques flea market two summers ago, she folds her arms across her chest. “Theodora pulled me aside today.”
“And?” I swallow a lump in my throat. Did her plan for me to bore Roman Bellisario to death backfire? Is she losing her promotion because the date didn’t go well?
“Care to tell me why Roman wants to see me again?” she asks with a single, angry arched brow. “Supposedly he told her he had a wonderful time, and now he wants my phone number.”
I clamp a hand over my mouth, though it’s a futile move, seeing as I’m rendered speechless at this revelation.
“What did you tell her?” I finally ask after I have a second to process this.
“What do you think I told her?” Margaux’s voice is raised, which is never a good thing. Once she loses her cool, it tends to only get exponentially worse. “I had to play along. I had to smile and tell her I felt the same. Next thing I knew, she was on her phone, texting him my number.”
Margaux makes her way around the chair, collapsing in a crumpled heap like an exhausted southern belle in a heat wave.
“I don’t want to date this man,” she says, enunciating every syllable. “I don’t want to risk losing my promotion or my job or my reputation in this industry if this thing blows up in my face—and you know it will. It always does.”
