Brenda set two glasses and a bottle of pinot grigio on the table.
“Here, earn your meal.” She handed me the wine opener. I poured the usual amount of wine for her, half of that for myself, and followed her into the kitchen. She took a sip then went back to check some carrots and broccoli cooking in her steamer.
“It’s sort of funny,” she said, “I was on the phone with Greg, and the TV was on. We were watching the same channel because they had a special segment regarding the growing popularity of assisted living when a special news report or something came on. And there was Tristan being interviewed, and I said something about him being your boyfriend.”
Was my boyfriend. I swallowed hard and kept quiet. “And Greg said some nice things about you deserving a good man like him and all that. Then I explained about our relationship. One thing led to another, and Greg set up an interview for Tommy who just now called me to say he got hired by Ford. You know, he’ll be trained to sell new cars. That Greg is full of surprises.” She sipped some wine and checked the chicken in the oven. Then she said, “I really like him a lot.”
I went and hugged her.
“Oh, I forgot. So Bob called me, all enthusiastic. He said some young woman working on a cruise ship saw Tristan’s reward offer on social media and recognized Angelique.
“Get this. That conniving criminal was on a four-day Carnival cruise that left from Long Beach, stopped one day on Catalina Island, and then went on to Ensenada. The woman is a sociopathic genius. While everyone was checking flights and trains and country borders, she got herself booked on a leisurely cruise where your documents are hardly checked as you are not actually staying in Mexico. Ensenada is a day trip. Then you get back on the ship and go back to California. Of course she wasn’t planning on coming back. The minute she stepped on Mexican soil the authorities arrested her. She’s awaiting extradition.”
I think I was hyperventilating. OMG! Now the car left at John Wayne Airport made sense. And though she might be a genius, Tristan beat her at her own game. I was so proud of him, I just had to call him and... then I remembered. I gulped down my wine and went to pour some more before checking my phone. I had three texts, but nothing from Tristan.
TWENTY-FIVE
IF ONLY I had a tablet like Scott’s, I could do this in bed instead of sitting here, staring at the computer while my feet got cold.
I had discovered Facebook.
I mean, I knew a little about it—wasn’t a big fan. But now I was hooked. I had learned more about Tristan from this Facebook page set up by his fans, AKA total strangers, than I ever knew. Okay, one fan I recognized—Jessie. How about that? A few of the women posting claimed to know Tristan personally. None of them was from Phoenix.
I couldn’t stop checking every few minutes. I had just learned that he had a beauty mark on the back of his neck. Ah! Some woman who called herself Daisy posted she was his girlfriend at UA—one of many according to Daisy, who stated she was now happily married to husband number two.
Then there was a rather close group of young men and women, with only first names, and they posted from Phoenix, where they had set up a twenty-four-hour Tristan watch. I assumed those were the people he had tried hard to avoid? The influencers.
Except. New photos started to pop up, of an ice cream truck? OMG. Tristan had hired an ice cream truck to come over to where he was staying—Dale Wolf’s house—to serve free ice cream to the group who had actually helped him spread the word about the reward.
Well, that made me feel warm inside. He really was a class act. The beneficiaries of the ice cream seemed to agree. One girl called him, “A modern-day prince.”
I was tempted to sign up with the group. Common sense prevailed, and I walked away from the computer to go to the kitchen and get myself some ice cream.
All that Facebook activity helped me forget my troubles for a few hours but only to miss him even more afterward. The sun had long set by the time I decided to turn off the computer and watch the evening news. When I hit the space-bar, the Facebook page opened back up, and a familiar image caught my eye. This was not a photo; it was a live video—Tristan in his black Land Rover, driving away. From where and to where? I had no clue.
Ten seconds later a flurry of activity... Tristan was on his way to catch a private flight to... France? I missed the part where he thanked all the adoring fans for helping him and he asked the snoopers to please leave their posts and go home as he would be gone for a while.
Someone had followed him to the Scottsdale Airport where Tristan Dumont and his Land Rover parked by a private hangar. I didn’t know when this was recorded, it couldn’t be happening as I watched, right? Then someone else said Tristan Dumont left the vehicle with a valet parking attendant and was seen boarding a small corporate jet. After that came a slew of good wishes, bon voyage, and I don’t know what else.
I’d seen enough. I turned off the computer and sat there, stunned. Tristan, g-o-n-e.
He flew to France. My mind still refused to accept the sad reality. I couldn’t stand it. Sitting up in my bed, my forehead pressed against my knees. Any hope of making right what I had destroyed had left with him in that private jet. I had it coming. Who was I to judge, to tell him how to live his life? Compared to his
