“You did a great job,” Tiffani said earnestly.
Florence smiled. “Thank you, dear. Have another piece of shortbread.”
Martin counted the remaining pieces of shortbread, trying to make sure there would be enough for him to go back for more once he was done asking questions.
“So that was what you were trying to do, then,” he said. “Get people interested in the Society.”
“And we went through those brochures like hotcakes at a church supper, young man, so I think we did just fine. The two of you should come yourselves. People your age need clubs and causes so you don’t forget that there’s life outside of your work.”
To his surprise, that hit home. He had gone years without having a life outside of his work. Just because his work made for a good, full life didn’t mean that he hadn’t been missing something.
But now he was sitting side by side with exactly what—whom—he had been missing. He resisted the urge to touch the small of Tiffani’s back, since it felt too intimate to do in front of a stranger. Instead he indulged in watching her nibble around the edges of her cookie. She ate it in delicate bites, her eyes half-closed. She was clearly savoring it.
First he’d been jealous of a fish, now he was jealous of a cookie. What a strange night.
He said, “What made you choose this trial?”
“It’s the biggest one on the books, isn’t it? Everyone’s saying it’s the trial of the century, certainly the most important thing to happen in Sterling since—”
Florence stopped suddenly, her gaze fixed on Tiffani, and then she laughed.
“Oh, you’re that bad man’s wife, from our last big scandal! If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem to have traded up a bit. This one seems solid.”
“I don’t mind you saying so at all,” Tiffani said. “I completely agree.”
“And you’ve got a real smile on your face when you look at him, not like that chipmunky little grimace you had when you were with that crook.”
“Thank you. I think.”
Martin did actually know the smile Florence meant, even if he would never have described it that way. During Gordon Marcus’s trial, the news had taken vicious pleasure in airing photos of his blonde, beautifully-dressed wife, especially if they could dig up one of her in a bikini. They had all seen a lot of Tiffani during that time, even if the woman in those pictures didn’t really count as the real Tiffani.
And in the formal photographs, Tiffani’s smile was perfect. False, but perfect. Close-mouthed, so her gapped front teeth didn’t show, and glossy-lipped. The supportive wife.
It was only in the candid shots, when she didn’t know someone was taking her picture and she was just keeping Gordon company at some dull, excruciating event, that her smile took on the look Florence had mentioned. Tiffani had always looked nervous in those pictures, almost furtive.
Now that Martin knew her, he understood why. Her life at those dinner parties and corporate functions had been one long, tense series of lies and petty humiliations. He would be happy if he never saw that look on her face in person.
But now he did break with etiquette and put his hand against her back, just to reassure her that however she had looked in the past and however she might look in the future, he would never have used the word chipmunky.
“And why the flash mob, if you don’t mind me asking? Why not protest openly in front of the courthouse? Why get into the courtroom itself with the signs under your clothes?”
“Oh.” Florence brightened. “That was that other young man’s idea, and then he didn’t even show up. The youth can be so unreliable.”
Martin remembered Colby saying that everyone at the protest was a registered, regular member of the Sterling Historical Society, their interest old and documented. No one-offs.
Except, it seemed, for the person who had recommended that they crash the trial—and then hadn’t shown up to do it himself.
Almost like he knew someone might ask questions he didn’t want to answer.
Martin tried to keep his voice perfectly level. “He didn’t come to the protest?”
“No, and I have no idea why, because he seemed so interested. But occasionally you do get that, these flash in a pan bursts of attention—someone signs up and ooh, they’re going to volunteer at our little library for four hours every Saturday, they promise. You get them once and then poof, it’s like they vanished in a magic trick. No one knows how to honor a commitment anymore.”
“Well,” Tiffani said brightly, “you’ll just have to scold him about it at the next meeting.”
“If he even comes,” Florence said, with a darkness determined to squelch the faux-sunshine from Tiffani’s voice. “That was his first meeting before. He came in all full of big plans...”
“Did you catch his name?”