who he is, not who you want him to be.”
“I like who he is. And on the other side of it, he makes me laugh, and he’s kind. The fact that he’s reluctant about it only gives the kindness more impact. He can’t be bothered to say what he doesn’t mean, and that makes him honest.”
“Does he love you?”
Fiona let her shoulders lift and fall at Mai’s question. “I don’t know, but I know if he ever says he does, he’ll mean it. For now, it’s fine the way it is. I need time to get used to the way I feel—and to be sure he’s not with me or getting involved with me because, well, I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”
“I bet he wasn’t thinking, Hey, this woman’s in trouble, when you had sex on the dining room table.”
She nodded at Mai. “Excellent point. And one worthy of more champagne. I’m going to get the second bottle.”
Mai waited until Fiona went back inside. “We’re right, aren’t we, not telling her about the murder?”
“Yes. She needs this. Apparently we all do, but she needs it most of all. She’ll have to deal with it soon enough.”
“I think he loves her, by the way.”
Sylvia smiled. “Why?”
“Because he told Davey to call you, not Fee, to suggest not telling her. We love her, and that’s why we’re not telling her—and I think we’d have decided not to whatever Davey said. But Simon had the same instinct. That’s a loving instinct, that’s what I think.”
“I think so, too.”
“It might not be the big one, but—”
“It’s enough for now, and what she needs. Honestly, Mai, I think they need each other, and they’re both going to be better and stronger together. At least that’s what I want.”
Mai glanced at the doorway, lowered her voice. “I told the concierge not to leave a paper at our door in the mornings. Just in case.”
“Good thinking.”
They heard the pop of a cork and Fiona’s shouted
“Put it out of your mind,” Sylvia murmured, “so we can keep it out of hers.”
Seventeen
Given what she did for a living, and the gardening she’d be working on throughout the season, Fiona knew manicures were a waste of time and money.
But this was Indulgence Central.
Their last day, too, she reminded herself. She might as well make the most of it—and go home with pretty fingers and toes even if she’d mangle them within twenty-four hours in reality.
Besides, it felt good.
She admired the breezy, beachy pink on her short but currently well-shaped nails as she slid her feet into the warm, churning water at the base of the pedicure chair. A chair, she thought, that offered a slice of heaven as it vibrated up and down her back.
Cindy, who’d given her the pretty nails, brought her a cup of water with thin lemon slices floating in it. “Comfortable?”
“I passed comfortable and am on my way to euphoria.”
“That’s what we like to hear. Do you want the same polish on your toes?”
“You know, let’s go crazy on the toes. The Purple Passion.”
“Fun!” She lifted Fiona’s feet out, patted them dry, then brushed on a warm green clay. “We’re going to let this mask set for just a few minutes, so you just relax. Can I get you anything?”
“I’ve got it all.”
Snuggling into her chair, Fiona opened her book and let herself fall into a romantic comedy that was as much fun as her choice of toenail polish.
“Good book?” Cindy asked when she came back to sit and rinse off the clay.
“It is. Exactly perfect for my mood. I feel happy, relaxed and pretty.”
“I love to read. I like crazy horror and gruesome murder mysteries. I don’t know why they relax me, but they do.”
“Maybe because when you’re reading the book, you know you’re safe, so it’s fun to be scared.”
“Yeah.” Cindy began to smooth Fiona’s heel with a pumice stone. “I hate listening to the news because, well, it’s real, and so much of it’s just awful. Accidents, natural disasters, crime.”
“Or politics.”
“Worse yet.” Cindy laughed. “But when you’re reading about bad things happening in a book you can hope the good guys are going to win. I like when they do. Save the girl—or the guy—or the human race. Catch the killer and make him pay. It doesn’t always happen for real. I’m scared they’re never going to catch that maniac who’s killing those women. Four now. Oh! Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Fiona willed herself to relax her foot again. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Four?”
“They found her a couple of days ago. Maybe you didn’t hear. In the Cascades, in Oregon. I know it’s miles and miles away, but it really scares me. If I have late appointments, my husband comes by to pick me up. I guess it’s silly because I’m not a college girl, but it just spooks me.”
“I don’t think it’s silly.” Fiona sipped the lemon water to ease her dry throat. “What does your husband do?” she asked to change the subject so Cindy could chatter, and she could think.
A couple of days. Sylvia’s decree—no papers, no TV.
She’d known, which meant Mai knew, too. And they’d kept it from her. To give her some peace of mind, she thought. A little slice of oblivion before reality grabbed her by the throat again.
So, she’d do the same for them, she decided. She’d maintain the pretense for this last day. If death haunted her, she could, for now, keep the ghosts to herself.
It wasn’t like him, Simon thought as he frowned at the flowers on Fiona’s kitchen table. He didn’t buy flowers.
Well, for his mother every now and again, sure. He wasn’t a philistine. But he didn’t buy flowers for women on impulse, or for no good reason.
Coming home after a couple days—okay, four days—away wasn’t a good reason.
He didn’t know why the hell he’d bought them, or why the hell he’d missed her so much. He’d gotten a lot of work accomplished without her taking up his space and time, hadn’t he? And he’d drafted out more designs because he’d had more time alone, working and living on his own schedule.
His and the dogs’, anyway.
He liked a quiet house. He
Which, like most normal members of his species, meant when there were no more clean socks, towels or dishes.
Not that she asked him to pick up his socks or hang up his wet towels or stick his dishes in the dishwasher. That was her brilliance. She said nothing, so he felt obligated.
He was being trained, he realized. No doubt about it. She was training him as subtly and consistently and effortlessly as she did the dogs.
To please her. Not to disappoint her. To develop habits and routines.
It had to stop.
He should throw the stupid flowers out before she got home.
When the hell was she getting home?
