“One hundred sixty guests from Chicago.
“Eighty from NYC and LA.”
“What?” She asked.
“See below where it says rental cars? What are the figures?”
She flipped the page back and found more entries. “Two hundred sixty guests driving three hundred twenty miles Denver-Aspen.”
He hit enter with a flourish, then whistled. “One society wedding produces seven hundred and seven tons of carbon into the atmosphere to further choke our planet to death. The offset cost is $7,815.88.”
She thought about it for a moment. She was beginning to understand.
“What about the honeymoon?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you count that, too?”
He grinned.
She got it, and she felt her scalp crawl. “There won’t be a honey-moon.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Our global honeymoon is over, girlie. All for the best,” he said.
Then: “Stop looking at me like that. Carmen used to do that, too.”
6
WHEN PATTY JOHNSTON HEARD A SCRATCH ON THE KEYCARD entry on the outside of her door and saw the tiny yellow dot of the peephole blink out indicating someone was outside in the hall, she propped up on her elbow in bed and shook her hair so it cascaded into place but not entirely. When a strap from her nightgown didn’t fall casually over her shoulder as intended, she squirmed so it did. She tried to imagine what she would look like to Alex when he opened the door, but she was pretty sure she’d look sleepy, soft, warm, inviting—but not too hungry for him. The bathroom lights were dimmed and the door slightly ajar, so there was a soft glow of gold reaching across the bedroom. But not too much. It annoyed her that Alex shut his eyes when the lights were on, that he’d only look at her furtively in casual asides while they made love. She hadn’t been working out and dieting until her belly was rock hard for their wedding for him not to look at her.
She was still trying to get over the realization she’d had recently when they were having sex: that Alex closed his eyes because he was a kind of performance artist auditioning for the lead role in his own private movie about himself. The thought still haunted her, but like his tendency to tell his friends and relatives, “I’m getting married,” not “
She’d almost fallen asleep waiting. It had been over an hour since she’d slid her extra key under the door of his room so he’d find it when he came in. She’d gone to bed without taking out her contacts, without removing her makeup. Waiting. Her eyes burned but she knew he didn’t like her in glasses.
The key card slipped into the lock, was withdrawn, and there was a dull click indicating it was unlocked, but he was too slow grasping the handle—
Then she heard a deep male voice, not Alex’s, say: “Step aside. Let me do it.”
She shot up in bed, eyes wide, thinking the front desk had given someone a key to her room.
The door opened and there was Alex’s profile. Tall, square shouldered, bad posture, spiked hair. Wearing, as always, an untucked oversized Brooks Brothers shirt so starched it crackled like a wind-filled sail when he moved.
Then she saw the profile of the other man in the second it took for the two of them to enter her room and shut the door behind them. The man with Alex was tall as well, but beefy, rounded, thicker, older. His face, illuminated briefly by the hall lights, was jowly. Deep-set eyes, mustache—he looked like that famous writer she never liked. What was that guy’s name?
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “This is Stenko.”
She dug her heels into the mattress and rocketed back in the bed until her back thumped the headboard. She pulled the comforter up, clutching it under her chin.
Stenko said, “If you scream, you’ll both die.”
His voice was deep, harsh, but somehow apologetic. It took her a moment to believe what she’d heard.
She said, “Alex, how could you bring someone with you? What in the hell are you thinking?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. The second word was slurred,
“You’re drunk,” she said. To Stenko: “Get out now. Whatever he told you is
“Patty . . .” Alex said, stumbling forward in the dark as if pushed, “it’s not like that.”
