The memory of that night at the bar still shocks my system. Stuart chuckling and talking about love. Stuart getting married... It literally blew my mind, and trust me, my mind does not get blown. I’ve seen too much.
Next thing I know, I’m challenging Marcus Merritt to a drinking contest. I was in full Amy Knight-mode: Sex kitten, claws out. I had no idea who he was, and I didn’t care. All that mattered was he was gorgeous. Perfect body—for someone ten years older than me—all lined and tanned. I would’ve assumed he was gay, but he fucked me with all the aggression of the straightest alpha I’ve ever known.
Naturally, I ditched him at the hotel.
What? You thought I was going to stick around after that? Best way to maintain my “no strings” philosophy was to get the fuck out of there. Fast. Sylvia needed to get back to our bed and breakfast anyway, and I was her ride.
Speaking of Sylvia, I’m outside Millie’s, and I can’t meet her flustered. A quick look at my watch tells me she’s inside waiting. Punctuality is in her breeding.
Pushing my long hair away from my face, I take a series of cleansing breaths, then I pull open the door and stride into the resto-lounge.
Millie’s is a liquor bar, but they serve classic French cuisine, which my mother loves. Sure enough, as I follow the host through the dim-lit and leather space, I find her at a booth table, an order of buttery snails and pomme frites waiting in the center.
“Darling,” she stands and gives me a brief hug. “I ordered escargot.”
She’s wearing black slacks and an oversized, two-button, hounds tooth vest over a white tee. Several chains are looped around her neck, and I want to take her photograph.
“I love the Annie Hall chic,” I say, sliding into the booth across from her, my Marcus-moment pushed to deep background.
“I’d forgotten how fun Millie’s is, and I didn’t want to look like an old grandma in here with all the kids.”
She laughs, and I reach across the table to squeeze her hand. “You never look like an old grandma.”
Even if I lied to Stuart in Wilmington and said my reason for coming home was to spend more time with her, I mean it now.
“So,” she says, picking up a three-pronged fork. “How did it go with Edward?”
The waiter appears, and I order a Chardonnay. “It was not Edward.”
My mother’s eyebrows shoot up, and I can tell she’s curious.
“Elaine’s brother is Marcus Merritt. Sparkling Edward is their father.”
Her mouth clear, she nods. “Oh, dear, you’re right. I remember now. Elaine calls him Marc. I can’t believe I forgot that.”
I try not to frown. Any time Sylvia references casual forgetting these days, a clutch of fear hits my stomach. “Regardless, he didn’t have anything on-hand, but he said he’d try to help me.”
“What a darling. I told you. Elaine is such a dear. She’s absolutely perfect for Patrick, and her family seems equally wonderful.”
“You’ve never met a person you didn’t like,” I mutter, pulling a skinny French fry from the pile.
“That’s not true. I despise that awful Pamela Blackwell, and for years, Linda Harwood...” She’s trails off when a familiar face is spotted crossing the dining area, headed straight for us.
“Amy?” Karen Philpot is dressed in a flared pink skirt and long-sleeved burgundy blouse covered in a white, windowpane plaid. A tiny pink clutch is in her hand, and her wine-colored strappy heels complete her deceptively innocent look.
“It IS you!” She’s practically shouting, and I want to slip under the table.
“Karen, Hi.” I try to put some enthusiasm in my voice, but I know this is going to lead somewhere I’m not interested in going.
“You look amazing! I can tell you’ve had a generous dose of Paris fashion, lucky duck.” Karen stands beside our table, and my mother smiles up at her.
“I was just telling Amy she needs to reconnect with the old group. You two should have lunch.”
Good god, Sylvia! “Oh! I’m sure you’re busy with your own... ahh... things.” Good god, Amy. I nearly said spies.
“Of course not! I’m never too busy to catch up with old friends.”
No shit.