56
ALREADY HAVING A TYPICAL MONDAY and hoping traffic wouldn’t follow suit, I grabbed my keys and coffee mug and nearly ran into Alex on my way out the front door.
“Claire!” He stepped back. “I thought you were gone.”
“Well, good morning to you, too.” I laughed, enjoying his trademark grin as it grew sheepish.
“Sorry,” he said. “Good morning. What I meant was, your car isn’t out front, so I—”
“No worries. I’m just late leaving. And obviously forgot I parked in the garage last night.”
“Anna Baker Bruce must be keeping you running!”
“She is! But in a good way.”
“Congrats on landing that position. Didn’t I tell you you’d be hosting a Homes of Christmas Past? And guess which house will be most attended?”
“Thanks. And yes, you did. I’m still pinching myself.” I appreciated his kindness—and the sparkle in his eyes. My phone dinged. A text from Stephen:
“Must be good news,” Alex said.
I looked up, suddenly aware I was smiling. “Yes, it’s good. Which reminds me, Bernice and I have something to share with you. Will tomorrow afternoon around five thirty work for you?”
“If this is about whatever you two have been in cahoots on, then count me in.”
My smile deepened. “It is, and we both appreciate your patience.” I’d wanted to show him the journal before now, but sharing it with him before Stephen simply hadn’t felt right.
“By the way,” he continued, “my crew and I will be out of your hair in another week or so. You’ll have your whole house back.”
“Music to my ears!” But even as I said it, I realized I’d miss seeing him. “Come on in. I’ll leave through the kitchen.”
“Any of the crew here yet?”
I sensed an unease about him, similar to the morning Stephen dropped by a couple of weeks ago and saw us chatting at the back door when Bernice was here. I’d seen Alex several times since and hadn’t noticed it. But come to think of it, he never arrived early anymore—or even alone. He was always with at least one of his workers.
“No,” I said, the pieces of the puzzle jarring into place. “You’re the first.”
He nodded, and in that wordless, split-second exchange, I looked into his eyes and read his thoughts, and I knew he read mine. We were alone. Just the two of us. A situation he’d been avoiding. Bernice’s “Be careful, my friend” rang in my head and sent a shiver through me as I realized how quickly a line could be crossed. How innocently, even.
But if I was honest with myself, that line had already blurred with Alex Brennan. I liked him. Very much. Was attracted to him. He was kind, warm, honest, handsome—and lonely. And my marriage was on shaky footing. In that instant, I wondered if this was how it had begun for Stephen and Susan. A friendly, innocent exchange that had turned into something more in the space of a breath.
“Well, you need to get going,” he said, “and I’m going to head upstairs and get to work.”
“For sure.” I put on my best smile. “Have a good day, Alex.”
“You too, Claire.”
I hurried to the car, fighting emotions I could barely identify. I knew only that somewhere deep inside me, a door had firmly closed. And I was strangely sad, even as a part of me knew it had to be that way.
That afternoon, I knocked on the door of the eleventh-floor condo, mentally taxed from a long planning session with Anna and the team and eager to get this meeting with Krista Pearson behind me. Intuition told me the young woman would not follow through with the decorating plans, yet I wanted to honor her connection to Anna Baker Bruce, as suspicious as it was beginning to sound.
Krista opened the door looking considerably different from last time. No bare feet or worn denim cutoffs. A black skirt hugged her every curve, and a thin, white silk blouse with black lace cami showed beneath—more appropriate for a night on the town than a meeting with her interior decorator. But whatever.
“Claire!” She aimed her megawatt smile at me. “Right on time again. Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” I stepped inside, catching the same fragrance I’d smelled last time, only stronger.
We plowed through fabric swatches and paint samples, her choices far more definitive this time, yet still decidedly random. Either she had no taste, which her appearance rendered untrue, or she flat didn’t care. Catching her eyeing her Apple Watch every few minutes, I guessed the latter.
“Now, of these combinations, which are your top three choices?”
She pursed her lips and cocked her head, fingering each fabric again. “I think maybe this one, and . . . oh, I don’t know.”
A knock sounded at the door, and she jumped up.
I suppressed a sigh as she sashayed around the corner.
“Well, hello!” Her tone deepened considerably. “How wonderful to see you again. Come on in!”
“You need to listen to me carefully,” a man said.
But it wasn’t just any man. I knew that voice as well as I knew my own, and my heart sank.
“I’m here with a restraining order, Susan.”
Susan. Reality sucker-punched me in the gut, and the scales fell from my eyes.
“Oh, Stephen,” she continued, “don’t be so dramatic. Come on in and we can talk.”
Heart pounding, I managed to stand and walk around the corner.
Stephen stood in the doorway, his expression stern. Until he saw me.
“Claire?” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“She and I have been getting to know each other.” Susan turned back to me, her smile radiant. “Haven’t we, Claire?”
Stephen glanced at the fabric swatch in my hand, and I could see his wheels turning. “Come with me, Claire,” he said softly.
Hands shaking, I grabbed my purse and bag and considered saying something as I walked past Susan. But I realized that saying nothing, not even looking at her, would say far more.
In the hallway stood another man, a manila envelope in hand. “You two go ahead,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”
As Stephen led me to the elevator, his hand at the small of my back, the man continued, “Susan Johnson, in accordance with Georgia law, you are being served a restraining order which protects my client, Stephen Powell, against stalking, aggravated stalking, or harassment. You, as the averse party, are hereby notified that any intentional violation of this order can result in your immediate arrest.”