It wasn’t something I’d picked up on, but I’d only seen him twice, and at a distance. “How sad,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
Victor clears his throat but doesn’t elaborate, so I keep my questions to myself and file it away under information to keep track of. Information to remember.
We arrive outside an Upper West Side apartment building flanking Central Park. It’s the mirror opposite of Victor’s, only across the park.
I make the observation and he snorts. “Conway is newer money,” he says, as if that explains everything.
The nerves in my stomach are full-blown by the time we’re in the elevator and feeling it rising slowly to the top. “Show-time,” I whisper.
Victor doesn’t respond, a stone-cold, confident statue next to me, the way he’s always been. Impenetrable and as likely to ignore you as he is to lash out.
But then he reaches out between us and catches my hand in his. The grip is warm and firm, large fingers closing around mine.
“Remember,” he says, “that we’re not strangers now.”
My chest feels tight. “Yeah. I’ll remember.”
His thumb strokes in a slow arch over my wedding and engagement ring, tracing their solid shape over my ring finger.
And then the elevator pings and the doors slide open.
Victor escorts me into a modern apartment, decorated with beige and grey accents and smelling deliciously like Italian food. The first to greet us is a golden retriever, coat thick and tail wagging.
“Hi there!” I say, extending my free hand for him to sniff. “They have a dog?”
“No.”
“Well then, what are you doing here?” I scratch his ear and he sits back on his haunches, doggy-grinning up at me.
“There you two are!” a familiar voice says. “I thought Summer’s trusty guard dog heard something.”
Tristan Conway is walking down the hallway. My former boss, here in his own home, wearing a shirt with the sleeves turned up and a pair of navy slacks. Salmon on rye bread. That was his favorite lunch, and he liked it twice a week, delivered to his desk. My free hand curls around the dog’s fur.
“Conway,” Victor says. “Thanks for the invitation.”
I see the exact moment Tristan recognizes me. His eyes widen and drift down to my hand, resting in Victor’s grip.
“Look at that,” he says. “Miss Myers. Or I suppose it’s Mrs. St. Clair now?”
I smile at him. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
Victor’s hand tightens around mine and Tristan smiles. “No need for formalities.”
“You’re right. Call me Cecilia, then, please.”
“Cecilia,” he repeats. “Well, I’ll be honest with both of you. I’m surprised. Not just at the news.”
“It was sudden,” Victor says.
“Is it the happy couple?” A man strides down the hall. Tall and smiling with dark-auburn hair, he looks from me to Victor with twinkling eyes. “Hell, St. Clair, you couldn’t give us a heads up? Let us congratulate you?”
“We preferred a private ceremony,” Victor says. “This is my wife, Cecilia. Cecilia, this is Carter Kingsley.”
I shake Carter’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, I assure you, the pleasure is all mine,” he says. “I also have a million questions for you. How do you stand being around him?”
Victor snorts at my side and pulls his hand out of mine. “I need a drink if we’re to face an inquisition.”